LIZ JONES'S DIARY: Why does David disagree with everything I say?

It was all going so well. David bought me a new vacuum cleaner. Great. Brownie point. He started work on the window repairs. He disappeared to buy wood, a saw, everything he needed. He took out the windows in the main bedroom, fitted new cord. Lovely. Progress.

The next day, the weights got stuck behind the panelling. He lost his temper when I jumped as he dragged my dead mum’s recently restored bergère chair across the floor for something to saw wood on, told me to, ‘Oh, shut up.’ He admitted defeat, saying, ‘You will have to get someone in.’

I now have a great big hole where the window once was.

I called someone, who said they couldn’t even start work until October at the earliest. (I later got a quote for the work: not far short of ten grand to refurbish every window.)

But when David admitted defeat, I didn’t complain. I just said, ‘Well, at least you tried.’ Next, he disappeared with my broken Miele vacuum to get it fixed. Hours later, ashen, he returned. ‘It was miles away, and then it was shut.’

I said, ‘What a waste of time, you should have asked me where it was. Called them first.’

Him: ‘It’s my time to waste.’

Me: ‘I can’t stand chaos.’

I decided that on Sunday we should just sit in the garden, go for lunch. I got up at 6am to get the horses in out of the sun as Nic was in Scarborough for the weekend. Came home at 11am, he was still asleep, his iPad blaring Radio 4 into his ear; he hadn’t been able to get his John McEnroe headband earphones to work. Lunch was fine, in a local pub.

I kept updating him on items I’d bid for on Ebay – a cast-iron bath, a vintage French dining table – but he didn’t offer to perhaps help out. Though he did say, ‘How about I bring my fridge?’ when I already have my brand-new pink Smeg. He told me he had ordered a two grand electric bike: ‘It will be my mobility scooter.’

‘Try to make yourself even more attractive, why don’t you,’ I said, half in jest.

I began to notice that every time I made a comment, he said the opposite.

Me: ‘Why do they raze the hedges and wildflowers when birds are nesting, bees pollinating?’

Him: ‘No, no, it looks neater, it’s only a strip.’

‘Do you think you can at least get the bathroom window to open?’

Him: ‘No, no, I prefer a warm bathroom.’

‘Can you guard Mini and her dinner, as Teddy will steal it, and he mustn’t eat her tablet.’

Him: ‘No, no, he won’t.’

We stayed for a pub quiz. Every time he got a question right, he looked triumphant. In the car, he couldn’t breathe, had to suck on an inhaler; he’d been sucking on a vape all day. We got home, watched the final of Britain’s Got Talent. I remarked I found the pyrotechnics behind the winning singer a distraction, too much. ‘No, no, they weren’t, I was focused on her.’ I’m sorry, but that did it.

‘Do you know you have a habit of disagreeing with everything I say?’

‘No, no, I don’t.’ Gaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

He started shouting in front of my collies. I added, ‘And you have a very short fuse, you fly off the handle. Telling me to shut up!’

He’d had a shouting match with a woman walking past the new house on the day I moved in. ‘She started it!’

‘Couldn’t you have ignored her? You knew what a milestone it was, moving-in day, how hard I’d planned and organised, and you spoiled it for me. I won’t be shouted at in my own house.’

‘Ah, I wondered when you would start saying that. Thing is with me, I might swear and throw things, but then it’s done, it’s over.’

Me: ‘I think your anger stems from feeling inadequate. You’re ashamed. And why don’t you cut your toenails?’ Honestly. Surely a mark of respect to a partner is to look after your own body.

‘I don’t think I can reach.’

I went up to bed and he started packing. ‘You are not driving back to London after several gluten-free pints.’ (He still has his cat and his flat.)

‘I won’t be joining you,

I won’t be living with you. I’m sleeping downstairs.’

The next day, I woke up and he was gone.

Jones's moans...what Liz loathes this week

Oh. There’s more. I made him return my house keys during our argument. ‘I only lost your keys that time because you took me to a sleazy dive.’ He was referring to the time I interviewed Peter Stringfellow for work.

Ah, so now him losing my keys is my fault.

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess