LIZ JONES’S DIARY In which I have ab­so­lutely noth­ing in com­mon with David

Irish Daily Mail - YOU - - LIZ JONES’S DIARY -

SO. I’M IN BED WITH DAVID. It’s a Fri­day night, and we have just watched News­night. Me: ‘I think Emily Maitlis was a bit harsh when she in­ter­viewed Stormy Daniels.’

Him: a puz­zled look, as though I have just asked him to name the new de­signer at Dior. Or ex­plain quan­tum physics. He looked a bit fright­ened, too, of say­ing the wrong thing. Which he then did. ‘Who in God’s name is Emily Maitlis?’ Se­ri­ously. How can he not know who Emily Maitlis is? Even if he had no idea be­fore, he’s just been sit­ting in front of the TV watch­ing her grill Pres­i­dent Trump’s some­time com­pan­ion. I was too tired to say any of this. In­stead, I just said, ‘It’s like hav­ing a con­ver­sa­tion with a potato.’

All of which makes me won­der: is it pos­si­ble to be in a re­la­tion­ship with a man if you have ab­so­lutely noth­ing in com­mon?

We have no mu­tual friends. We have no shared in­ter­ests: I love the cin­ema, while I think the last film David saw was Jaws. I have thou­sands of books. I think he owns one – a Dan Brown-ish thriller, which he left, un­read, by the pool in the South of France; he thinks Kate Mosse is a su­per­model. He failed to recog­nise Brad Pitt in a line-up. I hike for miles ev­ery day; the other night, he in­sisted on driv­ing to a vegetarian restau­rant, even though it’s a five-minute walk. I also don’t think he’s su­per keen on my col­lies – he sees them as love ri­vals.

Ah, you might counter, but do I share any of his in­ter­ests? No. Be­cause he doesn’t have any, be­yond watch­ing For­mula 1 and The Big Bang The­ory. Oh, and me. He could prob­a­bly pass an exam in me. Whereas I thought he once worked as a post­man up North. Which he didn’t.

But men can’t win re­ally, can they, with us Mod­ern Misses? Show too lit­tle in­ter­est in what we do – viz when, a cou­ple of years in, he re­vealed at a din­ner party he had no idea I wrote for a news­pa­per as well as this mag­a­zine – and we bar them from the bed­room. But show too much – while try­ing to sort his iPad, I no­ticed he was on page 84 of a thread about me on Dig­i­tal Spy – and we ac­cuse them of be­ing a sad stalker with no life of their own.

It’s strange, isn’t it, how we date peo­ple we would never have as friends? Also, it’s odd how our friends feel per­fectly at lib­erty to crit­i­cise the man in our life, whereas if you were to say to them, ‘My God, your child’s ugly/stupid/mono­syl­labic!’ you’d be os­tracised for life. My friends are split on David. Ni­cola hates him. When she found out, via my col­umn as I hadn’t dared tell her, that I am see­ing him again, she went bal­lis­tic. An­other friend told me straight: ‘He’s not clever enough for you.’

But older women are not as stri­dent as younger ones (I in­clude my­self in the lat­ter group). I was tak­ing my best friend Sue’s mum, who’s in her 80s, out for the day and she asked me how it’s go­ing with David. I told her I’m not sure. The ball is in my court, which is a nov­elty for some­one who has al­ways re­pelled men. I told her I fell in love with him at first sight: at a May ball, 1983, when he was bob­bing around on his toes in a DJ. That has never hap­pened since. My hus­band had to grow on me and even then I wasn’t con­vinced, al­though he is the only man I’ve ever met (bar my gay ex-best friend) able to make me laugh. Af­ter it was on the BBC news that my house had been shot at, and I’d re­ceived lots of ‘Poor you, are you OK?’ emails, I met him for din­ner at Manna. He saun­tered in, cow­boy fash­ion, imag­i­nary pis­tols blaz­ing from each hip. He wasn’t an en­abler, ei­ther – his pet name for me, a re­cov­er­ing anorexic, was Chubby.

Noth­ing about me and David makes sense. His pet name for me is Sweetie, an ep­i­thet I found out (by go­ing back on his Face­book for years) is the one he gives all his women. I told him I pre­fer Dar­ling, or Gor­geous. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let me write that down.’

You see? We women are now so con­trol­ling we edit the names they call us in bed, but com­plain when they fail to take con­trol. No won­der he still can’t cli­max dur­ing sex…

You see? I told you I re­pel men.


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