LIZ JONES His text upset me. Why do men think its acceptable to lie?

I’ve been ruminating over how to reply to David 1.0’s rude text about not visiting for the weekend. In case it isn’t seared into your brain as deeply as it is into mine, here’s a quick recap, like at the beginning of Slow Horses.

‘Oh right, I suppose I should have said: thinking about it, despite wanting to see Mini again and recharging my car battery with a long trip, I think I’ll give it a miss. I’ll leave you to abuse yourself to (sic) the fading memory of a failed second-hand car salesman. X.’

We are not in a relationship, so why is he harping on about Neil? Again. I was clear David 1.0 would be sleeping in the spare room. In fact, ahead of his visit, I had rewashed the bedlinen and ironed it. He must have read something in this column, saying that if Neil got in touch, I would find it very, very hard not to see him again (I was tipsy at River Café). David 1.0 is doubtless deeply hurt (I told him I was seeing someone else the moment it happened, even though we were no longer together). But you don’t win a woman’s heart or respect by whining and being rude. It just makes us think, ‘Go away! F**k off! Bring something to the table, make me laugh, suggest something, send a Wild At Heart bouquet!’

I cancelled my Tesco order of man food. The poor man in the store must have been expecting it, was doubtless poised by his shelves. Back goes the gin. Back goes the unwaxed lemon. Back goes the bleeding gluten-free bread. Back go the eggs.

His text upset me, though. If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything. Just text, ‘I’m really sorry, I won’t be able to make it.’

I almost replied (but I stopped myself): ‘He is not a failed second-hand car salesman. He sold brand-new luxury cars.’

I almost replied: ‘But we aren’t in a couple. I don’t ask if you’re back with Yoga Granny.’ He was seeing her when he got together with me; on our first date, she texted him to say, ‘How is the She Devil?’ He claimed Yoga Granny was sleeping on the floor of his grotty flat merely to help with utility bills, but she later messaged me to say that wasn’t true. Why do men think it’s acceptable to lie?

And I am not ‘abusing’ myself.

I went into a relationship with a completely open, welcoming heart. I thought my luck had changed. That one human in the world, just one, was not going to make me pay for dinner, drinks, the mini bar, the hotel room. That I might just once have a perfect birthday, with a thoughtful gift.

I am annoyed, too, as my prep table* arrived this morning. I was worried it wouldn’t fit through the kitchen door, but it did. It’s beautiful: a Carrara marble work surface, deep drawers, brass handles and a brass rail now holding a Daylesford tea towel that will never, ever be sullied. Problem is, no one but me will see it. (Although I did send a photo to my friend Andrea, who replied, ‘You will have to learn to cook and not keep jumpers in the oven like Carrie Bradshaw.’) I won’t be preparing vegan dinner while a man sits on my DeVol green metal and oiled oak stool shucking corn, as we chat and laugh. It’s just me, on my own.

But then David 2.0 WhatsApps me (I hate WhatsApp: it lurks on my phone like a malevolent time bomb of faux friendly demands). He has a lot to answer for. It was he who introduced me to Neil: ‘He’s a decent guy,’ he’d said. David 2.0 says he will be ‘in my area’ at the end of the month, so would love to come and see what I have done to the house.

I plan my only message to David 1.0 will be this. A selfie of me leaning against a rearing horse. And I don’t mean Swirly or Pocket. David 2.0 drives a Ferrari.

Put that in your anorexic roll-up and smoke it, you cadaverous… I won’t print the appropriate, alliterative noun.

*It’s not a breakfast bar

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

• I get lots of letters these days from men who live in care homes. The addresses are so sad: ‘Room 208, Floor 3…’ and they all sound so lonely. This isn’t a moan that this is now my dating pool. Just that I do know men miss out on finding someone to love, for myriad reasons. I always write back to them.
• Kale.