The hotel staff think I am on my honeymoon.
I landed in Antalya, Turkey, and was driven to my hotel. I was expecting a room with a sea view, but what I got was a swim-to-the-door villa. I was shown the principal bedroom and—ta dah!—the bed was covered in rose petals, red balloons, and swans made out of towels. An open bottle of champagne sat on the bedside table.
It was a bit like the scene in the first *Sex and the City* film, when Carrie arrives at the resort in Mexico having been jilted at the altar, and the girls hurriedly scoop up the rose petals and the amaryllis on the giant bed.
It turns out the hotel had got wind that it was my birthday. B*****d Wikipedia.
That night, I had dinner alone. The waitress came over with a cake decorated with exploding sparklers. I felt like Diana, sitting in front of the Taj Mahal.
In bed that night, with 99 red balloons for company, I was watching *The Ballad of Wallis Island*—my film of the year: so witty, so heartbreaking, with a lovely house—when I received a text. It was from David 1.0.
“Happy birthday. Have a great day. Please give Mini a hug from me. I do miss her. X”
Blimey, I thought he had died. Reading between the lines, I think he misses me.
Me: How kind, thank you. She is very frail these days. I am in Turkey!
I sent him a photo of my honeymoon bed, telling him I had a swim-to-the-door villa all to myself.
He replied: “Sounds lonely, sorry lovely autocorrect.”
Me: It is lonely, but my villa is amazing!
Him: Sorry, I couldn’t resist the lonely/lovely gag.
I thought it was funny and creative, if a little mean. It does look fantastic, though I hate sculptured towels. “Don’t get your Louboutins wet when going for dinner.” Hmmm. Why would anyone be mean on someone’s birthday? Just post a card with a collie on it. And don’t criticise my shoes.
The next morning—my birthday, Boxing Day—I sent him a photo of my Essie Ballet Slipper toes in the sand. I have a private cabana on the beach. I have no idea which sea it is.
My ex-husband told me my feet are my best part.
“I’m not jealous,” he writes.
Me: No?
He shares an in-joke, from when I had misheard him.
He obviously thinks about me. We are definitely flirting, like Missy with Teddy when she pumps her little tail and dances on her paws.
Me: One of the benefits of dating a deaf person is the hilarious non sequiturs.
It’s true, it was funny.
He then says he has a big decision to make.
Is it about me? What is it?
“I have been invited to two parties tonight. There was a time I’d do both.”
Ah.
By day two, I am starting to relax and stop looking at my phone every five seconds, wondering if I am in trouble. On my birthday, Boxing Day, on holibob, I look at my data and it turns out I have been checking messages and reading the papers for just six hours and 50 minutes.
I only took this vacation because it was a gift. I hadn’t wanted to leave Mini. Nic is staying in my house, looking after her.
On Sunday, Nic tells me Mini has a runny tummy. Again. She is so sensitive; all she can eat is plain chicken and fish. The vet said to stop her antibiotics, which I had railed against.
This always happens. Whenever I try to have a nice time, something bad crops up.
When I was doing my A levels, I called my mum to say I would be going to a disco with Ali, the Persian boy I fancied at Southend Tech. Mum sobbed down the pay phone. My granddad had been knocked off his bicycle and killed. I had to rush home.
Nic tells me not to worry, but of course, I do.
Mini is the only good thing to come out of leaving London. She is my soulmate. The love of my life.
I wonder if I can get an earlier flight back.
—
**JONES MOANS: WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK**
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-15125357/LJ.html?ns_mchannel=rss&ns_campaign=1490&ito=1490