LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which I prep for my date with P – YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones LIZ JONES’ S DIARY In which I prep for my date with P By You Magazine - September 6, 2020 I don’t know what is making me more nervous: the prospect of unveiling my Maria Schneider bush to the beauty therapist – at least she won’t be able to say the perennial, ‘Hmm. Well. The hairs are a little bit short’ – or my lunch with P. He texted the night before my spa day that ‘I just want to say I haven’t looked forward to anything, or seeing a woman, as much as this for a very long time. If only you saw yourself as I see you. I like everything about you. It’s fascinating how even people who seem to have it all can have issues*. Any man would be lucky to be in your company. x’ Abbey Lossing at handsomefrank.com He also apologised for a few rather forward texts over the weekend. Shall I keep them private? No, why break the habit of a lifetime? Here they are: ‘I will examine your nether regions at close quarters’ and ‘Let me be the judge of the cauliflower couscous’ (I had talked about what I currently look like naked on my podcast). I mean, seriously! I’m from Chelmsford! I kept my T-shirt on and was known to unscrew lightbulbs whenever my husband looked like he wanted sex! He then told me he was having dinner with a friend in Doncaster but couldn’t stop thinking about me. And that ‘I’ve bought you something. It’s not a bag – that would be like trying to buy a dress for a woman, too risky. Maybe we can go to my Bond Street store and choose something together.’ I hope it’s not a keyring. Oh dear. I discover I am a common prostitute, after all. I’m in the hairdresser’s chair. It’s like coming home. I’m in a mask so look even more like Michael Jackson; I should seriously learn to moonwalk. The lovely young hairdresser tells me she has been on furlough, but they didn’t factor in tips, and she has a two-year-old. Next, I am waxed. Thank the Lord. The hair is so long, it should really be baled. Isn’t it telling my maternal grandmother was a chambermaid, and two generations later here I am, having my actual chamber tended to by a woman in a visor. But it is so nice to be back in a spa, my natural habitat. I wonder how women with live-in boyfriends or husbands have coped. Did they have sex while hairy, with feet like hooves? Ooh, a foot massage. It is so lovely just to be touched. I text my friend in Belfast. She’s a cancer survivor, and a few weeks ago was sacked via email after being in the job for five years. ‘Hi! I’m in a spa!’ Crass? Moi? But she’s thrilled. ‘Hurrah! Do you have a hair left on your body?Does it feel strange?’ (It does. I can actually feel the Gulf Stream through my tracky bottoms.) I tell her my date is tomorrow. All of the above is not because I am going to have sex. I just like the reassurance that comes with knowing my nostrils have been waxed. To be honest, I don’t think I can face breaking in a new man. All the directions, graphs, pie charts. The fact he gets to see you without make-up. This new one sounds, on text anyway, like a real ladies’ man. He’s never been married; probably too busy trying to dock his yacht. He sent me a photo of him by some beach, an arm slung around his ex, a leggy blonde in a bikini. If he thinks he’s ever going to see me in a bikini, he’s going to be disappointed. What’s wrong with a nice cardigan? I might be beach body ready, but that is for me, not him. But my Belfast friend, despite everything, is ever the optimist, which is what I love about her. ‘Woohoo! I hope he appreciates the effort. You should marry this one.’ *Um. Er. He really hasn’t been following this column, has he? Channelling Chandler from Friends, could he BE any more wrong? 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