Where the hell have you been?’‘Please don’t swear. I’ve been moving house.’‘I know that, but why haven’t you answered your phone? I’ve been pulling my hair out!’‘That must be hard with a buzz cut.’‘It’s not funny. You never not answer your emails at least! I’ve been thinking the worst. That your car was wrapped around some tree. Or you’d fallen asleep in an oily bath and drowned.’
I find people being worried about me a bit annoying. An offer of help and assistance in advance would have been useful. Fussing over whether or not I managed to move the menagerie by myself smacks of too little, too late.
‘I’m doing a gig in your area. Well, not too far. About an hour.’
I swear that is what he said. Not, how did Lizzie travel? Did she rub her tail? Is Benji asthmatic? Is Sweetie OK? How is Susie coping with wearing a collar? Can Jess manage the stone stairs? Does Michael still have an allergy? You managed to get broadband yet? You know, normal things. Not immediately telling me where I can drive to in order to stand nursing a glass of cheap wine on a sticky floor while he runs through his back catalogue. But I kept all of the above musings to myself, at least temporarily.
‘That’s interesting. Where is that? How big is the venue?’
‘I’m doing a gig in your area,’ he said. ‘I can leave tickets on the door’He told me. ‘I can leave a couple of tickets on the door for you.’
I hate this. Who exactly does he expect me to bring along? My ancient mum in a wheelchair? A collie wearing ear protectors? Nicola? This is the nub of the problem. He is so half hearted. He is always hedging his bets, asking me to come along to something, but still pretending he doesn’t care, and telling me to bring a friend, like a beard. So it is a date. But not a date.
Women, on the other hand, can never hedge our bets. Not when we have actual hedges growing in our armpits. I’m in no fit state to be seen, which is the main reason I have let him brew without contact. What with moving house, I haven’t had time to book my pre-man MOT. For the first time in my life I have actual cracks in the soles of my feet. The cracks are painful, too. I have such visible roots regrowth, I’ve started to wear a woolly hat, like Benny in Crossroads. True female emancipation is the man in your life not having your address, so being unable to surprise you with an impromptu visit while you are sprouting hairs on your chin, and haven’t had time to book a teeth steam clean.
‘Tell me your postcode.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not ready for you yet. I have too much to do. I don’t want you turning up and demanding biscuits and Match of the Day.’
‘Is that what you think I’m like?’
‘Yes. Demanding. You are only invited if you bring a hamper, a tool box and a tool belt, which I expect you to wear with nothing else. I only want useful people in my life, not drains on my energy.’
After half an hour of him teasing me, I gave in and reluctantly gave him my postcode for his sat nav. I had to wait while he typed it into the AA route planner. He can be a bit granddad-ish when he is using the internet. ‘You are an hour and a half from my house in XXXX! You can come and see me in the studio! It’s an amazing view. We can spend Hogmanay together!’
‘I haven’t got time to play Yoko Ono. I have Lizzie to hack.’
‘OK. I will come to you. This weekend. Is that enough time for you to get harvested? I’ll bring food, and DVDs. It’ll be really warm and romantic.’
‘Can you bring logs?’
‘Already in the boot. And I’m bringing a piece of bread, and a piece of coal.’
‘If you tell anyone where I live I will have to kill you.’
‘Understood.’
More... Liz Jones: In which I move house Liz Jones: In which I confront him Liz Jones: In which I snoop on my ex