LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I’m faced with a choice

My friend in Belfast texts to say she has just bought a miniature human bed from Ikea for her cat (she includes a photo) and to ask, ‘How is it going with David or P? Or both? I think you should pick one of them according to what your celebrity moniker would be (Brangelina, TomKat, etc). With David, your celebrity couple name would be Livid (Liz and David) or Dizzy (David and Lizzy). With P, it would be Piz.

Abbey Lossing at

‘Based on that, I’d go with David. Based on whose family owns a luxury brand, I’d totally go for P.’

I tell her I’ve gone from being in a potential Love Square (D, P and Quality Nige) to potentially being single. Again. That I had invited David for the weekend, mainly to show off my new kitchen and flagstone floor, but came to my senses when he admitted he had done nothing on my Things David Must Change list. So I cancelled the Man Things from Waitrose, and put him off, citing the fact my Carrara marble worktop hasn’t arrived yet. I’m certain there is an exhausted person in a warehouse somewhere, sighing as he or she puts the Tanqueray and butter back on the shelf, muttering, ‘Oh dear, what has David done now?’

And that I am indeed Livid, literally, because David seems to have got worse than he was before by warning me that if we did get back together, he ‘can’t really afford a relationship’.

‘To be honest, they both sound useless,’ my friend writes. ‘I wouldn’t mind a poor boyfriend if they were creative in other ways. And I don’t just mean in bed. If he cooked and cleaned. Walked the dog. Did DIY in a tidy way. To be poor and lazy is the worst of both worlds. Why do even the most underachieving men think they can coast and be loved for it?

If they were women, they’d be trying to be witty, supportive, fashionable, attractive, able to pay their way. It’s a shame about P, too, as I wanted you to be looked after and wealthily happy. And, oh, so that I could come to a society wedding.’ (It would have been a society wedding, too. At least page 57 of Hello!)

Wanting help I send her a Polaroid (remember those?) of David. He’s posed in a baggy T-shirt and navy shorts against a balcony, overlooking the Med. Then I send one of Quality Nige, stolen from his website.

‘Wow. David looks good. Tall. Good profile. The ponytail is appalling but at least he has hair. Nige? Top quality totty.’

I didn’t mention that the David photo is from the late 80s: he was an art director for a luxury brand, and the Polaroid is from when he was standing in for the male model to ensure the lighting was perfect. While Nige’s portrait is recent. But looking at David’s photo now, I know why I was so in love with him all those years ago: moody and dangerous. Although he told me the other week his looks and sex appeal ‘were more a curse than a blessing’.

So. I’m in the land of indecision. To be honest, part of my thinking about David is I’m sick of the fallout from my column. Each week, he emails to complain. The stress each Sunday, waiting for his ire to drop, is off the scale: I’m sure I have stomach ulcers. You might say, ‘Well, turn your phone off,’ but I work every Sunday. When David behaves for a change and gets a good review, such as he’s the best sex I ever had*, I don’t hear a single peep.

And then I decide. I type, my hands shaking.

‘Sorry, David. Despite the single-wick candle, it’s over. I never want to see you again.’

And I press send.

*Not a huge amount of competition, to be fair. Trevor always wanted me to say ‘thank you’ afterwards. My husband tended to run out of steam. I only had sex with Kevin the Osama Bin Laden lookalike twice. And the Rock Star, well… let’s just say he was the male equivalent of Mariah Carey: high maintenance.