LIZ JONES’S DIARY
In which I finally crack
ITHOUGHT THIS WEEK I would earn my wage and write a column about how marvellous cardboard boxes are when you flatten them. Or how about my thoughts on Donald Trump? Or what about a column on how I’m now playing my vinyl records and reading real books instead of downloading content on to my iPhone? (I’m not; I gave my not inconsiderable vinyl collection to Oxfam many, many moons ago; my books are in storage.)
Haaahahaha. Not really! Instead, I’m writing the sentence you knew was coming a very, very long time ago: I have finally gone completely mad. I was in bed last night, reading, and I could suddenly hear a very loud buzzing. I looked out of the window for a passing helicopter. I checked the fire alarms. I took the duvet off and shook my towels, in case it was a giant bee. I put one ear to Mini, to see if it was her snoring. (Snoring was slightly more likely than a giant bee, but I still checked Mini last.) Nothing. I got back into bed. I clamped my hands over my ears and discovered the buzzing was just as loud. My tinnitus, which is normally a dull hum, like distant traffic, under a tinkling, like breaking glass, is now accompanied by the sound of a giant bee. It’s inescapable. Exhausting. This is why hearing aids don’t work on me: the noise is inside my head.
But there is a second reason I am certifiably bonkers. I emailed David (you know the one; the man who stole my cat) and told him that if he is still planning to stop off on his way to Inverness, be aware we have deep snow and thick fog, and that I wouldn’t be in the Dales anyway if he was passing, as I have to attend the premiere of Fifty Shades Darker in Leicester Square. That sounds glamorous, doesn’t it? The reality is I will teeter in my one remaining pair of Louboutin heels and a thin Gucci dress from taxi to red carpet, have a pack of photographers baying at me to ‘Get out the waaaaaay!’, be told to move along and find my seat by several burly security men the size of haystacks with walkie talkies, then sit, alone, like a sad pervert, in my seat for about an hour until the stars turn up. I will see the rapidly retreating back of Jamie Dornan as he exits by a side door when the lights go down – the stars never stay for the movie; they’ve seen it so many times before – and then teeter out again two hours later, feeling very unhappy about my nipples (after their relocation during breast reduction surgery, they have stretched into an oval shape and still have darning needle holes all the way round, so they resemble colanders) and even more convinced that David really should have learned a few extra moves. I told him in no uncertain terms I only have one ticket. ‘Hope you enjoy the film and that they have beef-caked it up for you. Would you like to stay here?’
That wasn’t the result I was after. I just wanted him to be jealous. I was ill that night with a crashing migraine, so I emailed him the next day: ‘Yes, possibly.’
Him: ‘Is that, yes, possibly you’d like to stay, or possibly they will have beefed it up?’
Later. Him: ‘Actually, if you are going to stay with me, I don’t want it to be in my flat, too miserable. Can we book The Hospital Club, my treat?’
But that would be one bed. One bathroom. When I said he could stay with me on his way up to Scotland, I was absolutely clear he would be in the spare room.
I replied: ‘No, don’t book a hotel. The newspaper will find me somewhere.’
Him. ‘If you don’t have time to meet up this time, I will understand. I do have to go up to Scotland soon anyway, snow or not.’
He really is unputoffable. I really am a nutcase.
I’m writing the sentence you knew was coming a very long time ago