LIZ JONES’S DIARY

In which a packet of crisps tips me over the edge

ITWAS N OT a good day on Sunday. I had a meltdown in the Co-op. I had finished the horses, and decided I would make a stir-fry for dinner. I parked the car* containing the two puppies, and chose broccoli, peas, mushrooms. I started the hunt for tofu. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to a member of staff. ‘Where do you hide your tofu?’ ‘Um, we don’t sell it.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Head office.’

So, thwarted, I decided to buy a packet of crisps instead. I looked for Tyrrells ready salted. There were none. I got to the checkout. ‘Why do you not have tofu?’ I asked her. ‘Why are there hunks of dead cow and dead lamb, but no tofu? Why are there no plain crisps, only barbecue flavour and dead pig flavour? You are discriminating against me.’ ‘Do you want a carrier bag?’ was all she said. ‘Yes please.’ She went to reach for a bag, and licked her fingers on the way. ‘ Ewww!’ I said. ‘Can you please not lick your fingers before you touch my bag and my food?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Have you got a reward card?’

So I lost it. ‘This is the worst shop I have been into in the entire universe!’ I shouted. ‘Why can’t we get a Waitrose in Richmond, North Yorkshire?! Why did I ever leave London?!’

I flounced out, to the amazed faces and open mouths of my fellow shoppers. I got in the car. I went to secure my seat belt, but found thin air. It was in tatters on the floor. ‘Gracie!’ I exclaimed accusingly, and she came on to the front seat to squirm merrily at me. She had also chewed her new red lead, which I’d made the mistake of leaving attached: it was now six inches long, and made her look as though she were wearing a jaunty tie.

I’d had to make a difficult call to my sister that morning. I had taken my phone to sit by the ruins of Easby Abbey, on a tree, and I told her that if they take my house in two weeks’ time, they will take hers, too. I told her everything that has led to this: having to sell up in Somerset at the depths of the financial crash so I could get a loan to buy her a house, renting for a year, doing Big Brother, emerging to find I’d been sacked, giving up my London flat, agent, car, life insurance, contents insurance, cleaner, gardener. Working so hard I have fallen asleep at the wheel three times. My house plummeting in value due to the difficult farmer next door. The meeting with HMRC where they had my columns in front of them, queried how I could afford to stay at the Plaza Athénée**, and told me I couldn’t afford to get married***.

I told her I’ve sold everything: my Wang jacket, a Temperley slip dress, Louboutin sparkly shoes, Tod’s clutch, my desk, my Bang & Olufsen TV, Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, the spare alloys from my Mercedes: no use to me now, though I had thought of balancing them upright, sitting in the middle of them, pretending I still have a nice car. I’ve even got my boiler up for sale, as I can’t afford Flogas to feed it: it’s on for £1,000, though I was charged £4,500 to have it installed; no takers. I have just decided to sell my Vogues: every single issue since April 1978. I soon won’t have anywhere to put them, anyway. Hang on, I’m just doing a scratchcard. Oooh. Oh. No. Nearly! I’ve just looked at my current account balance: £2.19. The tiny figure is next to a banner on the Barclays website that says: ‘Build a bank account to suit your lifestyle.’ Hahahahahaha.

I’m calling my psychic Teresa. I can’t hear her, as I get even more deaf when I’m stressed. So I email her: ‘Dear Teresa. I have no one else to turn to. I am at crisis point and desperate. I need advice, as I am about to go under. Thanks. Liz. x’

I am now sitting here, unable to breathe, waiting for her reply. * Under-£1,000 old banger which has broken down three times. ** It was a freebie and also work. *** I know a young woman who ran over someone and killed him. She is still driving around North Yorkshire like a maniac. I haven’t killed anyone. Neither have I ever fiddled a tax return or an expense claim.

‘This is the worst shop in the entire universe!’ I shouted