Liz Jones’s Diary: In which I view a not-so-des res

I went to view a house on Friday. Elderly couple, downsizing.

The man showed me round. Then his wife asked, ‘Are you still working?’ Whaaaa?????

I’ve just had Botox! I was wearing a Prada jacket! (Old. Sample sale. Whatever.)

‘Yes, thank you. I’m a top journalist.’

‘What magazine?’ the woman asked.

‘Fleet Street.’

I didn’t say, ‘God, these rugs everywhere. And the blue stair carpet? Ghastly. All the heavy brown furniture – do you not have any taste? And what’s with the pottery welcome duck?’

That shut them up but, honestly, what a rude thing to say. Do people have no filter?

I didn’t say, ‘God, these rugs everywhere. And the blue stair carpet? Ghastly. All the heavy brown furniture – do you not have any taste? And what’s with the pottery welcome duck?’

I hate viewing houses when it’s the owner showing me round. They are always so in love with their homes to the point of delusion. 

I saw one the other day, opposite a mini Morrisons, with a hot tub in the garden. ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said, thinking I could drown David in it at some point – of which more later. 

Then the woman said, ‘The people next door have access to the courtyard to put their bins out.’

What’s with the pottery welcome duck? Do you not have any taste? 

‘But what if you were naked in the hot tub, having sex?’ Unlikely, but bear with.

‘It is what it is,’ she said.

It is what it is??!!

Seven hundred grand to be opposite a petrol station, with a nosy neighbour walking past you not having sex but more likely arguing in the hot tub.

People are mad.

Anyway, a text sprung up on my laptop. From David. I only saw the first line: ‘If you didn’t want to go on holiday to Sicily with me, why…’

Delete, delete, delete. If he doesn’t know the score by now, he never will. Then he sent another text, saying he has sent some bone broth for Mini, who still won’t eat. 

She is having a biopsy on a lump next week. So, I softened towards him a bit, but not enough to pack a suitcase.

No. Instead, I decided to arrange a mini break in Totnes for my friend, to repay her for lending me her car and to celebrate her birthday.

It’s a lovely apartment opposite an organic pub called The Bull Inn, with a terrace for dining, as my friend won’t eat indoors*. 

Breakfast is included, as well as a catered vegan barbecue. Even the mattresses are organic. 

The owner used to run the organic pub in Islington, and I dined there every Friday evening after work (my husband wasn’t allowed to cook as the cleaner had just been). 

Do you see how lovely my life was, once? I plan to take Mini Puppy. I can only afford three nights.

‘It’s a long way to go for just three nights,’ my friend said. ‘Can I book this for after?’ And she sent me a link to somewhere called Soar Mill Cove.

I do have a job, you know!

I replied, ‘The junior suite is as much as the apartment.’ The implication being, ‘But not as organic.’

Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week 

‘Do you have to have a suite, madam?’

Me: ‘I’m very high end.’ I am.

Her: ‘Can’t we just get rooms that open on to the garden? It’s just a stroll to a beautiful cove.’

I went away with this friend a couple of summers ago to a place she chose in the Lake District, which I still refer to as the ‘hotel of death’. Stained carpet. Awful heavy furniture. Inedible food.

Wasps. Still £1,500 for three nights. ‘No one’s ever complained before,’ the young woman on reception said when I checked out. As if that helped.

And then I get a text. Oooh. Ooohhh! It is from the Rock Star.

‘So sorry to read about Gracie. Such a sweet dog, even if she was always on my pillow. My girlfriend doted on a dog as a child, and knows how you will be feeling.’

Well, much better now, thanks!

Can life get any worse?

*She is afraid of catching Covid