LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which I long for London

LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I long for London

Why are men so monosyllabic? And jealous?

I texted David 1.0. I said I’m in the land of indecision. I can’t decide on dinner, let alone a car. And I can’t make up my mind whether to buy up here in the Dales, or a flat in London.

At first he was helpful. ‘If the cottage you are renting next to the horses is secure, then moving in the same locale makes no sense to me. London is your spiritual home. London trumps all as an investment. And I might get to see more of you. But then so would the Scot.’

I am trying not to make another mistake, yet the green-eyed monster rears its ugly head. Just be helpful!

My problem is this. If I move from the cottage, it’s hard to look after the horses. I walk round to see them six, seven times a day, and that is with employing an assistant (Nic) full time. I would have to put the dogs in the car, but…

A) I don’t own one. I can’t decide which car to buy.

B) Teddy is big and refuses to get in a car. Once, he sat in the driver’s seat while I was getting petrol and wouldn’t move, so I had to go back into the petrol station and buy him a sausage roll. And I’m vegan.

I feel normal there. Clean, at least. But who will look after the horses?

If I buy a flat in London, I can’t take my dogs. I took Missy to London once, for an interview on BBC Radio. As we entered Broadcasting House, she was almost decapitated by a revolving door. 

Which means that as well as employing Nic, I have to hire a dog sitter at over £50 a night just to sleep with them. I also hate having anyone in my cottage, as I have severe OCD. 

I worry they will put water on my work surface.

I feel trapped by the horses and the dogs. On my mini Mini break in Devon next week, I can only take Mini, as Missy and Teddy are too difficult.

Which, again, will mean employing two people to look after them.

I sat down with Nic at my kitchen table to write a list of pros and cons. The first thing Nic wrote down was, ‘It’s London.’ 

London came out overwhelmingly on top. I will feel normal. Clean, at least. I can see my friends. I can do a day’s work and not face a 500-mile round trip. It’s home.


  • I phoned a car dealer. ‘I can’t see how big the bootis on your website.’ ‘We don’t put pictures of the boots online. No one does. We have one in the showroom you can look at.’ ‘I’m busy. Will it fit three collies?’ ‘I’ve no idea.’
  • My marble worktop. I’ve been told by the store I mustn’t get water on it. It’s a kitchen! Also the wood above the dishwasher fell off. ‘Perhaps because of the warmth?’ the designer told me. But you designed it! 
  • Email from the Post Office. ‘Help us understand you better.’ F*** off!
  • I’ve had no hot water for two weeks. And it’s not even my house!

I find a flat in Pimlico with a balcony. It includes all the furniture, which is great, because I don’t have any. My desk is still in storage as it’s too big for the cottage.

You see. The thing is this: I am not the problem. OK, I might be enlisted on a 30-session course of EMDR therapy, which helps people recover from trauma.

I might be shy and nervous. But I am where I am because others have preyed on me. A few weeks ago I saw a psychiatrist, who reduced me to tears. 

He said I am a beautiful person and am doing a beautiful thing by rescuing dogs and horses. 

That I am talented. I’m so angry and bitter that I am where I am because none of it was my fault.

I’m exactly like my mum.

I would turn up at her house with artisan bread, fresh peas, flowers, and at the end of my visit she would thrust it all back into my hands. ‘You take it, dear.’ Whenever I get anything, I want to give it away. 

I’m already thinking, if I get the Pimlico flat, maybe I could rescue David?

Anyway, I ask him to view it with me. All I get in response is, ‘OK.’ Not, ‘Great! Shall I book a table for dinner after?’ 

Instead, he tells me he has seen the movie based on Philip Green. 

I tell him I always made sure, front row, I never had my photo taken with him. And that I have seen Oppenheimer.

Him: ‘Any good?’

Me: ‘It’s long. Like your d**k.’

He texts back: ‘Forward!’ I think we are back on.

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