In which I have an epiphany about men

It’s not me, it’s men. It was the final straw. Sat Nav man stood me up. My ex ex turned up and swiftly criticised my new, longer hair. There I was, in a designer dress, painful heels, an even more painful thong, and I realised, as I asked for the bill, that this would be the last time I will ever pay a man to keep me company. They are not worthy. I am interesting. I’m funny. I have millions of anecdotes about a career spent going to the Oscars, Westminster and royal weddings. I have passions. I’m well read. I have nice feet. Who can Sat Nav man – who, let’s be frank, led me on – possibly have lined up in the wings to replace me? Keira bleeding Knightley?

I can see now, as though scales have fallen from my eyes, that being fabulous just means men are intimidated. What did the ex ex have to say when he slipped into the hot seat? ‘I’ve been sleeping and smoking, mostly.’

Riveting! The most earth-shattering fact though is this: they don’t even think they have to impress us! The ex ex criticised my hair when his was lank and uncombed. Why did I put up with these idiots? Think of all the awful things they’ve done over the years when I’ve always been nice! And available for sex!

Smashed my Abigail Ahern porcelain chandelier, and not only didn’t replace it, but didn’t pick up the pieces.

Scuffed the chrome rims on my Mercedes.

Broke one of my set of knives cutting rosemary. Use scissors!

Burnt the work surface at my

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Clerkenwell flat with a pan containing over-reduced chilli, having not long before warned me about tea lights.

Lost the door keys to my Primrose Hill flat, meaning I spent £400 replacing them.

Called the top glossy I was editor-in-chief of ‘that rag’.

Forgot to book a transfer to Heathrow, meaning I had to park in the short-stay car park, costing hundreds.

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Drove my new Mercedes so fast he got a speeding ticket and I also could have been killed.

Said a gluten-free lasagne I’d spent all day making was ‘claggy’. Reversed my car into a wall. When I revealed I’d got a dog, my ex-husband said, ‘You need a more interactive pet.’ I already had five cats! Don’t abuse my cats!

Said I didn’t always look beautiful on Celebrity Big Brother. It was the lighting!

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After a night of sex at the Dorchester, said, as he closed the door behind me, ‘Thank you for your support.’

Cheated on me when I’d bought him a car and put his name on the deeds of a perfect Georgian townhouse. Oh, and had just given him an Apple laptop he whined was ‘too small’. To which I replied, ‘Maybe your fingers are too fat’. He also wore a new cashmere sweater I’d given him to meet his mistress for a date!

Called me a ‘f***ing old hag’. I think this parting comment from my ex-husband precipitated my face-lift.

When I said, ‘Oh, I’m shortlisted as columnist of the year and podcast of the year at the press Oscars’, he said, ‘I was nominated for an award once.’

Didn’t once leave a tip for the cleaner at the luxury hotels we’ve stayed in, all paid for by me.

On a walking holiday in India, given I once played netball and went to an all-girls high school, I was the bourgeois white b **** oppressing the locals by asking for espresso in the morning (I’d brought my own beans and pot).

You see? There could easily be a sequel to this column. The men in my life have just not been good enough. Not even close. That’s it. I’m starting a new chapter, with a new attitude. I’d rather be alone than told, when announcing I’m taking piano lessons: ‘You should pick that up quickly, given you’re a typist.’ Gah !!!!

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They are not worthy. I have passions. I am interesting. I have nice feet

Liz’s first novel 8½ Stone will be published by Filament on 14 July*