LIZ JONES'S DIARY: 'If it wasn't for your fingerprints on my thighs, I would think I imagined last night,' I text him By Liz Jones For You Magazine Published: 03:01 EDT, 21 September 2024 | Updated: 03:01 EDT, 21 September 2024 e-mail View comments My house is currently like that scene in the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera, when a cabin is filled to bursting with room service, plumbers, maids, Groucho, Harpo, Chico and more before they all tumble out when Margaret Dumont opens the door. Today the sash window restorer, kitchen fitter, plumber and carpenter are all vying for space. My office, its huge window overlooking the river, is finally finished.
I now have shelves and have been able to unpack my boxes of books. Each one has a memory. My pony books.
Hundreds of books on fashion. Orange and green Penguins. Anything along the lines of Abnormal by Michel Foucault and Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth were clearly left behind by my ex-husband, like so many annoying skin cells.
I’d normally be stressed by the dust everywhere, but because I’m in love with the German nothing else seems to matter. I realise even my mistakes have led me to this point. Several times a day I put my head in my hands, squealing, incredulous that someone so handsome is even interested in me.
And I have, sadly, been re-watching Marcus Wareing Simply Provence, just to feel closer to his doppelgänger. In the week after our dinner in Soho, I texted saucily, ‘If it weren’t for your fingerp.