LIZ JONES’S DIARY

In which I forget my date with David

ON TUESDAY, I was so busy writing and turning the injured horse out for the first time in three months – I constructed a fly net around the wound, which is now tiny, to keep flies at bay, and she was lightly sedated; she still went completely nuts as she has been in for three months, the entire sodding summer – that I completely forgot to tell David I was no longer coming to London for a work party. ‘Hi, Gorgeous,’ he wrote. ‘Are you OK? Are you still coming to mine tonight, and are we still going to that party tomorrow, dinner after, as promised?’

Oh dear. I couldn’t tell him the truth: that there is no way I can see him, or go to a party, without being waxed and dyed and generally renovated. I told him I was still writing up an interview, and that ‘you never know in my job, the paper might divert me somewhere’.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’d got in your special fizzy water and coffee beans.’

And what do you know? Later on that afternoon, I got an email saying I had to drive to Elstree for a story the next day. I forwarded it to David as proof. The reason? When I’d been unable to take him to the wrap party for Celebrity Big Brother, he had thrown a strop and accused me of taking along another man. So I’d had to send him the email telling me there was no room for guests, that it was cast and crew only.

David is slightly less paranoid these days, and sort of understands that I can never plan my life more than half a day ahead. I abandoned him on the EU referendum night, as I had four hours’ notice to drive to Ayrshire for a story. I had to get up at 2am to catch a plane to Sweden to meet Abba. I often wonder, as I hare to Newcastle airport, or Heathrow or, like today, Elstree, praying the Sat Nav Lady knows where she’s going, that I will have enough fuel and not conk out on the hard shoulder, how people with children do this job. Do they abandon the toddler in the middle of breakfast? Who would get the child dinner? I never have any milk in my fridge, or bread in the bread bin. My washing often hangs on the line, getting dry, getting wet, and getting dry again.

David, on the other hand, is now fully retired. I’m actually dating a pensioner. When I emailed him to say how busy I was on August Bank Holiday Monday, he told me he had just taken a nap, and hadn’t even realised it was a public holiday. ‘Each day just melts into the next.’ He really needs a girlfriend who is retired as well, so they can sit in his garden* drinking and smoking, not a super-busy powerhouse with ambition seeping from every open pore. I drove home from the yard to get ready for the next day. I noticed a small brown object in the middle of the road (my route home, from Richmond to Muker, was just shown on BBC4, if you want to look it up on iPlayer: All Aboard! The Country Bus). I pulled over and ran back to investigate. As I did so, several 4x4s drove straight over it. I shook my fist at the drivers, who gaped at me, and so I yelled, ‘Do you have a brass-rubbing emergency to get home to?!’ and went to pick it up. It was a tiny hedgehog, still alive. I traipsed with the tiny prickly baby, who kept poking me with a long nose, until I was far enough away from the road to release him. I hate people.

So, having told David I’ve been diverted to Elstree, he wrote this sad little note: ‘At least that’s near London. Will I see you after? I don’t mind how late it is. I just need to see you.’

I think he’s bored. *I use this word loosely, as it is a triangle of impacted soil, with a couple of smouldering tree stumps.

He needs a girlfriend who is retired as well. Not a super-busy powerhouse