LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which even my iPhone doesn’t recognise me

Men are such strange creatures, aren’t they? As changeable as the weather.

I’d suggested to David we go to see Bohemian Rhapsody on Monday night. He had been enthusiastic, said he would look at the website and come up with a plan.

And then, on Sunday, I texted him to say I’d meet him in Camden. This seemed simpler and easier to me. And that we could get something to eat.

Then I got this: ‘Well, early film starts at five, later film at eight. Which is too late for dinner. Sounds too complicated. Maybe do it another time?’

Oh. OK. Which is what I texted back: ‘OK.’ Never accuse me of being needy. Then I added, ‘But I have Sweetie’s medicine to give you.’

‘Just stick it in the post.’

It was just as well, in the end, as the day before I had been to a medi spa in Putney to have the dark sun damage on my face zapped with a laser. It hurt much more than usual. The doctor told me I might have some swelling, but when I woke the next day, even my new iPhone, which uses face recognition, refused to turn on. I could barely see, my eyes were so puffed up. It comes to something when even your phone no longer recognises you. I am reminded of when my mum, in her 40s, had all her teeth out, and when she got home her face was so sunken, her speech so muffled, our labrador Pompey started to bark and put his hackles up.

Bee Murphy

Anyway, then my new friend Caroline texted me. ‘Hi Liz. Are you OK?’

I always hate it when people ask me that. Do they know something I don’t? Now what?

‘Yes, why?’

‘Just I know you have been getting a lot of flak about rehoming your cats.’

‘Have I?’

‘Yes. The comments below your column.’

Ah. I’m afraid I don’t read them, as I am trying to rebuild my life and don’t want to be plummeted into a downward spiral. But it’s funny how bad news still manages to seep under the door.

I pointed out I only rehomed them as Gracie had turned into a cat killer, neither of the properties I rent allows cats, and that they are safe and warm and looked after. This new friend annoyed me, too, by adding to her doom-laden missive: ‘Life for us single women is not easy!’

I’m not single! I had sex barely four weeks ago! I’m therefore probably less single than most married people.

Anyway, not wanting to be lumped with the single ladies, I texted David, who is better than nothing, surely. ‘I got the Sonos working wirelessly!’ I tell him. ‘Yay!’

‘I take it the Sonos text was not meant for me.’

‘Yes it was. The Sonos speaker.’

He replied, ‘Yes. I remember buying it for you.’

Oh, for God’s sake. He’s mad, he makes no sense. Why point out he bought it? What now?

Anyway, today I refused to hang around for a man, so I went to see Bohemian Rhapsody with my friend Meena. We cried buckets all the way through. I told her while I doubt she was even alive for Live Aid, that I actually saw Queen play at the Kursaal ballroom on the Southend seafront; they were supporting Mott The Hoople. It was 1 December 1973.

I went to the concert with my sister; we both wore afghans: hers was white; mine, her hand-me-down, was brown with gold embroidery. Little did I know way back then that my sister and I would be estranged today. I don’t tell Meena this as she was already in tears; instead, I say little did I know way back then I would be exchanging emails with Brian May himself today.

‘No!’ she says, truly impressed. ‘OMG! Show me! Is he the rock star you had an affair with?’

‘Noooooo! Brian May just emails me about badgers.’

‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Come on, tell me who it was.’ So I tell her. She is genuinely impressed.

‘The rumour is that he has the biggest penis in rock music.’

I tell her the rumour is completely true; I really should have taken a photo or a plaster cast. And also that he’s invited me to his New Year party. Purely as a friend.

‘But what about David?’

‘He’ll probably turn me down and say, “Why, what’s changed?”’