Liz Jones's Diary: In which I decide I want my ex back - 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 decide I want my ex back By You Magazine - March 21, 2021 Let’s look at the old scoreboard, shall we? Since becoming single, I have been pursued by: P – he who threw a strop when I wrote he gave me a ‘coin purse’. The man who messaged me on Twitter, but turned out to live in a bad barn conversion with reddish window frames. The not insane man who suggested lunch and had heard of Emily Maitlis, but then ghosted me as I mentioned on my podcast he looks like Bruce Willis. He’s never going to survive the rough and tumble of life with Lizzie, is he? The rich and famous ex. He hasn’t, truth be told, really pursued me, other than saying he would drop off an organic food box. Which never arrived. Abbey Lossing And that’s it. I can’t be bothered to break in a new man – no shoes in the house; use a coaster at all times; if you really have to ask a dog to do something, do so in a singsong, upbeat tone of voice; don’t expect to see me naked; don’t splash in the bathroom; don’t put your holdall on the bed; don’t upset the duvet; don’t have a G&T without a slice of lemon as I bought an unwaxed one specially; don’t switch on a central light; don’t keep moving your arms; don’t read my column or listen to my podcast. I could go on – so I have decided I want my ex back, the famous one, even if he’s no longer that rich. I have no idea if he’s single, but to be honest if my husband or boyfriend offered to drop off a Daylesford hamper at the home of his ex, and had been looking at a satellite view of her home on Google Maps, I’d rip off his head and confiscate his laptop – so he’s bound to be single soon. So I sent him a friendly text. ‘Hi. What, in an ideal world, would you like to do next?’ I then sent him a photo of my new sofa. It was a struggle to get it in my sitting room – doors had to be removed – but it’s lovely; I also bought a raffia wall hanging that I think was made by people in South Africa. I didn’t manage to take a photo of the sofa without three collies on it but sent it anyway. He ignored the question, and commented on the sofa. ‘Looks comfy. No room for me, I see.’ That last comment was tantamount to him unhooking my bra. I was slightly put out he failed to admire my wall hanging; I sometimes think most men are blind. Except when it comes to snooping for their own ends, such as, hours after a texted photo of my lunch en plein air, texting angrily, ‘You didn’t say you were not alone for your fettucine!’ having spied a fraction of a beer glass in a remote corner. Or, when you text to say you’re backstage at the Sheffield Arena and can’t talk, you are sent: ‘Who are you backstage with? The Rock Star? I feel sick!’ When in fact you are there to see the Lipizzaners of the Spanish Riding School and have just been licked. I texted again. You might think I’m being very confident and forward, but the truth is, I have a column to file. ‘Again. How to proceed?’ Nothing yesterday. This morning? Nothing, nothing. Ah. I see dots shimmering… Ooh, ah. Now they’ve stopped. Still nothing. I really don’t understand those Californian b******s, inventing things to make my life more difficult. Oh, for the days when I rushed home to my flat in Old Street in case a little red light was flashing on the answerphone. If it refused to blink, you could console yourself that the object of your affection had died. I’m angry now, that passive-aggressive prat. I text, ‘You know the crucifix you bought me in New York? It’s not gold, but is gold-plated, as the gold has rubbed off.’ Dots… So now he’s replying. ‘It was a cross. It’s only a crucifix if Jesus is on it.’ He replied to mansplain. 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