Liz Jones The funeral part two - 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 The funeral part two By Liz Jones - September 11, 2022 I didn’t want to keep checking my phone* for an apology from the Rock Star on the long drive home, so I put it in my boot. I’d already been stopped once by the police; twice in one day would doubtless flag me up on some central computer. I didn’t dare speed. I finally got back home and relieved the dog sitter. Someone had been sick in a corridor; I hoped it wasn’t a human. My handmade Welsh blanket had been chewed. Teddy my new rescue collie had weed on my Vipp kitchen bin. All of this, despite the back door being wide open and constant company. I got changed, removed my make-up, and only then did I check my phone. It’s the same when I’ve bought a lottery ticket: I wait weeks before I check to see if I have won. I can enjoy a brief spell of hope, browse Rightmove. Tom Peake at Meiklejohn Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This is why I hate self-help books. They always proclaim you should refuse to be a victim. That you should not allow people to treat you badly. All I did was turn up at the funeral with a bouquet of yellow roses. I didn’t even know the deceased. I hadn’t realised his friends and family would object to me being unvaccinated, make me stand at the back of the chapel near an open door. The road was so noisy I missed most of the hymns. The only person who chatted to me was an undertaker, who told me most of the people he buries have died after being vaccinated. I was just going to bed with Monty Don on iPlayer when car lights washed across my bedroom ceiling. Four collies sat up straight, ears pricked. I froze Monty mid propagating and peered out of the window overlooking the courtyard. It was the Rock Star’s car. My poor, oppressed brain’s first thought was not, ‘Well, he can get lost, he was rude,’ but instead, ‘I’ve taken my make-up off!’ I’d done eight, nine hours on a hot car seat, been too depressed to have a bath. I considered giving myself a quick hose. I quickly put my hearing aids back in. I could hear knocking, but there was no sign of him. I realised he was banging on the wrong door. Imagine opening your door late at night to find a pop star on the step. My neighbour will think he’s in an episode of Noel’s House Party. I ushered him inside. He was wearing shorts. Four tongues, none of them mine, licked his knees. ‘Why did you say I wasn’t wanted, then follow me home?’ ‘I don’t know. It’s the West London gang. They hate you, the paper you write for.’ ‘Listen, a left-wing newspaper published a foie gras recipe not many moons ago. I spotted ham on the buffet at the wake. You can’t be left-wing and eat pigs. It’s been proven pigs are more intelligent than your grandchildren.’ You see? Uninvited conflict in my tiny hallway. I was desperate to find out if the new potatoes were ready and learn how to plant up a windowbox that gets no sun. The virtual world is so much nicer than the real one. ‘I was on my way north anyway,’ he said, opening my pink Smeg fridge. He made no comment on my lovely kitchen. He went upstairs to my bedroom. Oh no. Hang on! Too late! ‘Why is there a glass of wine by your bed?’ You see, we think men won’t notice if our knees are hairy or our nail polish chipped, but they do: they store it up as ammunition later. Too blind to read a menu, they still remark, in bed, ‘Your nostrils need waxing.’ Thank God my iPad had gone to sleep, otherwise he’d think I’m even more uncool than he does already. ‘You’ve driven me to it.’ *My average screen time just on my phone (not writing books on my laptop or browsing on my iPad or reading every daily newspaper in physical form plus foreign websites and unherd.com in a bid to be more intelligent) is four hours and 26 minutes per day! Jones Moans… What Liz Loathes This Week My phone. The passive aggressive b******. Changing my duvet cover. The LNER website. A return ticket may be cheaper. Well, will it or won’t it? See it. Say it. Sorted. Bugger off! The DPD delivery man: ‘Is your dog vicious?’ Me: ‘Are you a sex pest?’ Let’s not always hurry to judgement. 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