LIZ JONES'S DIARY: This is my most deeply shameful and shocking confession...

Since her cancer op, Mini Puppy won’t touch dog food. Only human food. I cooked her some cod from Lidl. Halfway through hand feeding her (I know; she won’t eat from a bowl) I noticed tiny pin bones, even though the packet clearly stated boneless. We’re now haring to the vet…Please replace Alison Hammond on For the Love of Dogs. She’s too loud to be around traumatised animals.

It was such a boost, so many cards from readers, wishing me luck in my new home.

‘Great future ahead!’ wrote Patricia. And this from Barbara: ‘As a long-standing member of your fan club, I hope your neighbours soon realise they have a beautiful, generously warm and kind-hearted, lovely lady to befriend and make welcome.’ And a card from a 90-year-old former teacher containing a £10 note, with the instruction to buy myself white flowers. (I returned the money, but kept the warm sentiment. I’ve just foraged some wild garlic for free.)

I was feeling hugely buoyed, not least by the young Uber Eats delivery driver, who insisted I fetch my passport before he handed over my bottle of champagne.

But there’s always one… ‘Dear Liz, I have read your column every week since it started, but I am worried about you… you look awful, like someone at the end of her days! Soon to be buried among those headstones surrounding your house… Women must have a bit of meat on their bones to look younger. Give yourself time to breathe. Be happy in a less opulent way. Just muddle along. I hope you see sense.’

I couldn’t make out the signature, but I’m guessing the author is a man.

We forget the plaudits (well, almost; I have the Evening Standard’s review of my collection of columns, stating I am a ‘better writer than Helen Fielding’, framed on my bathroom wall) but always hold on to the negative reviews: we smart with the re-remembering.

The time uber-literary-agent Jonny Geller told me my novel based on Emily Wilding Davison was ‘poorly executed’. A review in The Sunday Times (I was actually a member of staff – no loyalty!) that called my Prince biography ‘muddled’. Or Private Eye, saying my memoir about the fashion world and moving to Exmoor was ‘A bit thin, Lizzy!’

But I have to admit the mean man who says I look terminal might have a point.

And so I am here to reveal something deeply shameful, and shocking: my name is Liz, and I am a 65-year-old anorexic.

I have had periods of eating normally since I first went on a diet, aged 11. When I say ‘normally’, I mean a whole banana, not half. A few crisps. I don’t not eat to be thin, which was the case when I was younger; I don’t eat because I can’t. I want to enjoy food – I’m addicted to MasterChef, like a nun watching porn – but to me food tastes of nothing.

I gag when forcing myself to eat a few mouthfuls of my signature dish: cauliflower balti. People assume anorexics have immense willpower, a core of steel that means they are never tempted, but in my case this isn’t true: food repulses me.

I know I have osteoporosis in my spine, but I no longer care. I was given a suitcase of supplements by the clinic in Switzerland that diagnosed my malnutrition but I’m finding them hard to swallow.

I don’t eat because I’m stressed, and I’m more stressed without the nutrients I need for my brain. I’ve just been to my favourite pub for Sunday lunch: nut roast and vegetables; I’m told I need eight portions of veg a day. I couldn’t eat it. I’m going to have to start composting my leftovers.

The owner of my house left his huge composter, containing only dry twigs. The outbuildings are full of rubbish: an old oil tank (my house now has an air-source heat pump), empty bottles, broken furniture, plastic sacks. I might have taken on more than I can chew (especially now I don’t eat).

Once the mortgage is paid I have £500 left over each month. Doing my sums before completion, I had mistakenly factored in David. I’m reminded of a friend who told me she once dated a man just so that he would remove a block of solidified concrete from beside her front door. I was this close to becoming a common prostitute.

I contacted my lender, asking if I could change to interest only. ‘We don’t offer interest-only loans,’ I was told. ‘But you can opt to do that for six months, without affecting your credit score.’

So that’s what I’ve done. I either have to write a bestseller or find a solvent man. I think the former is slightly more likely…

Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week

• Since her cancer op, Mini Puppy won’t touch dog food. Only human food. I cooked her some cod from Lidl. Halfway through hand feeding her (I know; she won’t eat from a bowl) I noticed tiny pin bones, even though the packet clearly stated boneless. We’re now haring to the vet…
• Please replace Alison Hammond on For the Love of Dogs. She’s too loud to be around traumatised animals.

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess