LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I receive a VIP invitation
- Latest Wimbledon 2023 news, including schedule, travel updates and results
‘Do you want to watch a match on Centre Court?’
Me: ‘I am watching it now, thank you. Some Eastern European woman with a jaunty ponytail. Reminds me of being bullied at Brentwood County High.’
Him: ‘No. I’m inviting you to Wimbledon. I’m VIPing it.’
Oh dear god. Do not ever tell me you are ‘VIPing it’. The very sentence makes my already small ovaries shrink and die.
At first, I think he is trying to be nice, cheer me up, given my story in the Daily Mail where I met up with my ex-husband after 15 years, which broke the internet* as well as my heart.
My ex-husband wrote that I am a ‘disappointment’ in the flesh, not that there is much flesh, given my addiction to Carrie Bradshaw who is, according to him, ‘cadaverous’ and has the face of a wonky vegetable even Lidl** can’t shift.
Oh dear god. Do not ever tell me you are ‘VIPing it’. The very sentence makes my already small ovaries shrink and die
People keep worrying about my mental health, what with me having met my ex for a work assignment, but I keep giggling at the fact he clocked my platinum and diamond engagement ring and said, ‘Who are you marrying? No, forget it, I’ll google it.’ Oh, the one joy of fame. Never having to explain.
Anyway, me again: ‘What day? I am very busy and important.’
Him: ‘Men’s finals.’
Ooh.
But, as always in Lizzie’s life, there is an up and then there is a down. A sodding jellyfish heaves into view, shimmering menacingly. Ow! Ow! Ow!
Me: ‘Haven’t you got a girlfriend?’ Remember the clumsy message he sent after Gracie died? ‘My girlfriend lost a dog as a child, so knows how you must be feeling.’
Him: ‘It’s a big gang. I have one slot left.’
I am now a slot. OK, so I am to sit in huge The Row sunnies, and have members of the public, viewers, my ex-husband, David 1.0 see me on BBC1 and think
I don’t have a job. I think going to watch the tennis is laziness.
I’m not Sue Barker or Cliff Richard.
Me: ‘I’ve just been to a spa, and they told me I can only go out in the sun between 8am and 9am.’
‘Or what?’
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
- People, usually men, who say that I’m a ‘confessional’ writer. I’m not. I’m a writer. They never say this about men. If a man writes about his divorce or cancer, he’s ‘brave’
- Rich columnists who tell readers they must take their biggest pot, heavy chopping board, fish slice, roasting tray and lemon zester to a holiday let. JUST BOOK A HOTEL!!!!
‘I age prematurely – well, not that prematurely, given my ex-husband thinks I’m obsessed with being older than he is. Which I’m not. At least I can fit through doors.’
Him: ‘Wow. You sound bitter.’
Me: ‘I’m not, actually. I just wish my high school, instead of teaching me about truncated spurs and Brazil nuts, had told me to never, ever marry down, that I must never, ever let people use me as a cashpoint.’
Him: ‘I’ve had that too. People see someone who is a success, and they never think about the work it took to get you there. The sleepless nights, the fear, the exhaustion from driving the length and breadth of Britain in a tiny van. That’s why I like tennis. The athletes have practised day and night since they were toddlers. Their every move is analysed. They succeed only if they work hard and have talent. Remember that. The haters are just jealous.’
I’m reminded of an email exchange with a reader in Canada about me meeting up with my ex-husband: ‘The level of rage would have concerned me too. From a psychological point of view, it shows he’s had all that bile building up in him for a very, very long time. The verbal violence seems like the explosion of years of resentment and self-loathing.’
And just like that… with two missives from people who love me and care about me, I felt a bit better. And I said yes please.
*David 1.0 is pretending he hasn’t read the Daily Mail, or seen the tweets, where I was trending at number four. Do you know how hard it is to trend at number four? The only topics ahead of me were Wimbledon, football (some bloke called Pogba) and the Conservatives.
**I do actually now shop in Lidl. The experience is reminiscent of when I worked the till in a Pound Shop for a feature in the Daily Mail. ‘How much is that?’ ‘A pound.’ ‘No! Seriously? And how much is that?’
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