LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which the Mystery Man gets in touch

You will be reading this having already ‘done’ Christmas – I imagine you are in a darkened room, with a cold flannel on your forehead. But for me it’s still early December and the washing-up/ overeating/purchasing of emergency gifts/arguments are still to come! The Mystery Man* who texted me, calling me ‘Beautiful’ and saying he hasn’t driven up the A1 for a very long time, hasn’t been back in touch. What a complete and utter b******! Or am I kicking off too soon?

Abbey Lossing at

I’m not sure whether he meant he was going to drive up the A1 on his way to Scotland and needed somewhere to stop off and use the loo, or that he wanted to properly stop off and see me. I have been too scared to ask. I am employing a dignified and aloof silence (until he reads this column, at least). But it’s annoying, as I’m now thinking I might only get a half hour’s notice. The one saving grace is he doesn’t know my exact location.**

The only thing I will say about the Mystery Man is that I think things happen in life when you don’t force them. Good things have happened to me (and there have been a couple!) out
of the blue. Such as when I got off with the Rock Star. He emailed me to say, ‘I hear you’ve gone off me.’ Or when He Who Shall Not Be Named got back in touch with me after 31 years: he texted, without saying who he was, ‘I owe you lunch.’

I am going to put on a little no-make-up make-up every day, just in case. But I am never, ever going to self-wax my own knees or nether regions again. I am going to think of my hairy body as a sort of chastity belt. A lid on my impulse to get in bed with a man just to break the awkward silences. An impenetrable barrier to sleeping with someone way too soon. Yes.

You are, of course, already in deep thought about your New Year resolutions, as well as whether you can be bothered to get the Hoover out. I am here to tell you that, having consumed pretty much every self-help book out there over the years, and even consumed the ones that have consumed all the other ones, such as the wonderful Help Me! by Marianne Power, just one piece of advice sticks out. And it is from a book called 12 Rules For Life by Jordan B Peterson: stop doing things that are bad for you.

That’s it. You see? An entire industry compressed into one sentence. So I am going to stop…

  1. Thinking about David.
  2. Drinking before 6pm and on a weeknight.
  3. Checking my inboxes every five seconds.
  4. Being scared.

I would also add that I’m going to treat myself in the manner in which I treat my collies: with kindness, good food, fresh air, love, rest and gratitude they exist. I must remember not to fondle my own ears.

Oh! The Mystery Man has just sent a text, at the exact moment I was about to press ‘send’ on this column. Sadly, it is probably the least romantic text ever.

‘What junction are you off?’

I mean, seriously. I am not even going to dignify that with a reply.

Happy New Year everybody! 2021 is going to be our year!

* It is definitely, definitely, definitely not He Who Shall Not Be Named, aka David.

** Once, the Rock Star turned up unexpectedly in his vintage Mercedes, and I was completely ill prepared. I had food down my sweater, which is what tends to happen when you move to the middle of a national park, and quickly had to ask Mini Puppy to ‘Lick my jumper! Mini!!’ She looked surprised but did as she was asked. No wonder I love her with every fibre of my being.