LIZ JONES I Feel Im In A Romcom, Hopeful Of My Happy Ending. How Silly Am I?

Well, what can I say? I prepped. A spa day. Hair dye. Pedicure. Tesco order of man food. Wax-free lemon. Tanqueray gin. I washed the wool tank I’ve been sleeping in. I bought a crepe pan (last New Year’s Eve I bought a baking tray to make a chocolate yule log, to no avail, obvs, as I found out he was cheating) because I promised David 1.0 I would make masala dosas. I tried to buy black onion seeds but no supermarket stocked them, so I ordered them on Amazon. I now have enough to run my own Indian corner shop.

I cleaned the glass of the log burner, brought logs in. I hoovered and washed floors and put milk and cream in the Smeg mini fridge in his bedroom, along with ground coffee, special gluten-free biscuits and a bottle of San Pellegrino, though he is proud to say he hasn’t drunk water since 1972.

I filled up the bird feeders. I bought a fern to add green. I went to Zara in York, thinking I might buy him a sweater, but it was awful. Just so much tat: ‘Contains wool.’ So I relented and ordered an N Peal half-zip cashmere sweater for him online, extra large. I put out the bollards used for funerals to reserve him a parking space as he can’t walk far.

I و to و a – تفاصيل مهمة

It’s 30 December. New Year’s Eve eve. He had said he would text with an ETA but by 1pm, nothing, nothing, nothing. He was coming from his friend’s place in Franceso I looked at the Eurotunnel website. A power cut. No service. Perhaps he is stuck, but if so, surely he would have sent a text? At 3pm, I send him a message. ‘Hi Dave. Do you have an ETA? I’ve made dinner. I see the tunnel is closed, was worried you might be delayed. X’

As I write, I’m watchingWhen Harry Met Sallyfor the umpteenth time. The scene where they are in separate beds, talking over the phone on a split screen. Not for the first time I feel I’m in a romcom, hopeful of my happy ending. How silly am I?

Because he sends this. ‘I thought I blocked you. I’m not coming. I was due yesterday. You promised not to include me in your column. You did. I’m done. You can’t be trusted and I don’t need friends.’

I reply. ‘Wow. No, you were due today, as I told you I was in York yesterday. Wouldn’t it have been adult to tell me on Sunday you weren’t coming? What a coward, and how cruel. I bought food, gin, milk, cream, cheese, f**king gluten-free crackers, made dinner, bought a crepe pan, ordered a cashmere sweater. How rude and disrespectful. Grow up. And what’s with sending parcels to my house?’ A package had just turned up at the door, addressed to him: Hoegoa rosemary shampoo. WTF?

He replies. ‘Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Oh s**t, sorry, it is me. I thought it was the 31st today.’ I have his visit organised down to the very last detail. He has no idea what day it is.

I و to و it – تفاصيل مهمة

I think I must hold some sort of world record for being stood up. Two years in a row I bought festive food and cashmere, and two years in a row a man has failed to turn up for New Year’s Eve. Tell you what, I’m done, too. People are fine, aren’t they, as long as you behave exactly how they want. Give, give, give. How does he think I pay for his cashmere and cream?

His last line was telling. ‘I don’t need friends.’ He’s miffed he would have had to sleep in the spare room and, all things considered, he figured the 500-mile round trip wasn’t worth it.

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

• Competitive illness. I do it. Nic told me she has cystitis and has to be prone on the sofa. I replied: ‘When I had cystitis I had to drive 500 miles in one day, go swimming and do a photo shoot dressed as a mermaid.’
• I am devastated that Brigitte Bardot has died. When I went to St Tropez I lobbed a letter with my mobile number, requesting an interview, over the wall of her home, wrapped around a rock. Unbelievably, she called and granted me, a fellow animal lover, the interview.