Monday, August 21, 2006
Nirpal Dhaliwal- Watch Part Five. Ooh Miss Jones Special.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four.
It takes two people to make a marriage, so what's his wife been up to.
In which I am airbrushed to absolutely no avail ; Liz Jones's Diary - Despite the fact that I have been married for three years, I still treat every night like a first date, which is exhausting
Daily Mail (London); Jul 30, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 74
Hmm. So, last Saturday night, I went into the bedroom wearing only my Hanro boy pants and matching vest. He was already in bed, reading. You have to bear in mind that during the day I had endured a full leg wax and Brazilian bikini wax (it is slightly surreal being asked where I am going on holiday by the lovely young therapist while both feet are in the air, my arms clasped behind my knees, and she delves around in the place where any normal person would be wearing knickers), followed by a leg cleanse, which means they are exfoliated and brushed with sticks and then wrapped in hot towels.
In the afternoon, back home, I had a rose otto oil bath (the damask petals were harvested in Nepal; I think that's quite important) and then, still damp, massaged in a copious amount of Ren body oil; worked something I think is usually meant for horses' hooves into my toenails, before spraying myself from head to toe with Airbrush in a Can fake tan. My roots had been retouched the day before by Louise Galvin at her salon in the West End the look we have been trying to achieve is 'virgin hair', ie, that doesn't look dyed.
(Every hairdresser I have ever met always says to me accusingly, 'You haven't been dyeing it yourself at home, have you?' In much the same way every beauty therapist always chirrups, 'The hairs are awfully short. You haven't been shaving, have you?' I always deny both accusations vigorously.) Anyway, suffice to say I was honed, oiled, bronzed, and freakishly hairless.
I stepped out of my boy pants. I climbed into bed. My husband did not even look up.
It has been 18 days since we last had sex. Now, lots of women might say crossly, Why don't you initiate it for a change? What red- blooded male would be able to resist?
But, beyond the aforementioned preparations to make myself alluring and dewy, I don't think I could ever be that forward. I have never believed that I am attractive to men (I have accumulated lots of evidence to support this thesis; oh, if only I had more space) and so, despite the fact that I have been married for three years, four in October, I still treat every night like a first date, which is exhausting, and frequently a complete waste of time.
And so, this morning, I asked my husband if he still fancies me.
'Umm.'
'What do you mean, umm? Do you have to think about it?' 'I have to say, you are really sweet.'
'Sweet! Sweet! That's a horrid thing to say. And what do you mean, "I have to say" Does that mean that, despite everything, against all the odds, I am sweet?'
'Oh, I don't know,' he said, looking as exhausted as if he had been down a mine all day. 'I think we have a spiritual connection, we must have, otherwise what on earth is keeping us together?'
'Well,' I said indignantly. 'My beauty, kindness, patience, the fact you love me'
'OK, that too,' he said unconvincingly. 'I also think that, in a past life, I was your son.'
So. We don't have sex because he thinks I'm his mummy.
Emine came round today (my husband had gone missing for three hours, his phone switched off. I can't believe I am married and still get 'Sorry, the number you are calling is not available') and over a glass of wine in the garden I told her all of the above, adding that, in his defence, he has been trying to be nice by emptying the dishwasher.
'Do you think he is being nice because he is seeing someone else?' she asked me bluntly. 'Maybe that's why he doesn't have sex with you. You know I think he's clever and good looking and funny, but he is still so immature. He doesn't know what he wants. He still has all these fantasies he wants to act out. I really think you should chuck him out for a while to fend for himself.
He has to spring away on a rubber band and feel the attraction, remember.'
'But I'm worried he won't come back!' I wailed.
Ewwww. Much wrongness.
'So, you had the best sex of your life while you were in India?' I said calmly. 'You preferred having sex with those women to having sex with me' ; Liz Jones's diary: In which I discover a loaded email
The Mail on Sunday (London); Aug 13, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 74
I found this in one of his emails: 'Male sexuality isn't emotional; in fact, emotionality is a turnoff for guys. Some of the best sex I've had has been completely meaningless Women still think a man's fidelity is proof of his love for them, when it's nothing of the sort. It's not love that makes a man faithful but a lack of opportunities to cheat and the fear of getting caught.
Once he's over those two hurdles, he's away! Monogamy is very difficult for men, and neither my friends nor I have managed it. Women need to be more honest about their own sexuality, too.
I've had unprotected sex with women who were being unfaithful themselves' Blimey. I padded down to the kitchen to confront him. 'So, you had the best sex of your life while you were in India?' I said calmly. 'You preferred having sex with those women to having sex with me.' (He no longer bothers to ask, by the way, how I know these things; it is a given that I still check his wallet, mobile phone and emails.) He had the cheek to smile. 'No. I said I have had some of the best sex I've ever had with women I barely knew.' I harrumphed. 'And you had unprotected sex with women who were also being unfaithful!' 'That was you, you daft moo,' he shouted good- naturedly back.
Ah. Well, OK, I did have unprotected sex with him on our first date, the day after I'd had sex (the halcyon period in my life that has gone down in history as 'the weekend I double parked') with my then 'boyfriend' (I use the term lightly; what boyfriend would have something better to do on Millennium Eve?) Kevin, the Osama Bin Laden lookalike with an aversion to spending more than Pounds 7.50 on a romantic dinner. But, as I primly pointed out, 'We might have done it on our first date, but I knew that you were going to be my husband.'
We then, inevitably, got into a discussion about how little he still does around the house, and how badly we communicate. For example, I had moaned to him a couple of weeks ago that I'd imagined, when we both started to work from home, that we'd have coffee together in the morning and chat.
'But you always sit in the garden, and it's cold!' he moaned, despite the fact it was still 75 degrees outside; he finds it very funny and retro that I still think in imperial. 'All I want to do in the morning is read the papers online and drink my instant coffee and be quiet.' He is probably breathing a huge sigh of relief at the news that I am off to Chicago today for work (he later sends a text to a male friend: 'Have the house to myself tonight. Fancy coming round for dinner?'). I am worried about leaving him in sole charge of the new house (he has no clue where anything is or how anything works), so I start telling him some useful points he should look out for. 'You must call Susie for her breakfast in a loud, high-pitched voice, otherwise she won't hear you. Give her gravy for dinner as a change from prawns. Leave a bowl of biscuits on the wall. Snoopy is feeling a bit bony, so he needs to have lunch as well. Don't shut the window on the stairs, because Susie likes to use that one. Don't pick up or annoy Sweetie.
I know Squeaky is on a diet, but give her a tiny amount of what everyone else is having so she doesn't feel left out. Feed the fish and the water snail. Change the bed.
Put the rubbish out.' Is it any wonder that sex with a stranger, even a plain, boring, dwarfish one, suddenly seems so tempting?
It takes two people to make a marriage, so what's his wife been up to.
In which I am airbrushed to absolutely no avail ; Liz Jones's Diary - Despite the fact that I have been married for three years, I still treat every night like a first date, which is exhausting
Daily Mail (London); Jul 30, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 74
Hmm. So, last Saturday night, I went into the bedroom wearing only my Hanro boy pants and matching vest. He was already in bed, reading. You have to bear in mind that during the day I had endured a full leg wax and Brazilian bikini wax (it is slightly surreal being asked where I am going on holiday by the lovely young therapist while both feet are in the air, my arms clasped behind my knees, and she delves around in the place where any normal person would be wearing knickers), followed by a leg cleanse, which means they are exfoliated and brushed with sticks and then wrapped in hot towels.
In the afternoon, back home, I had a rose otto oil bath (the damask petals were harvested in Nepal; I think that's quite important) and then, still damp, massaged in a copious amount of Ren body oil; worked something I think is usually meant for horses' hooves into my toenails, before spraying myself from head to toe with Airbrush in a Can fake tan. My roots had been retouched the day before by Louise Galvin at her salon in the West End the look we have been trying to achieve is 'virgin hair', ie, that doesn't look dyed.
(Every hairdresser I have ever met always says to me accusingly, 'You haven't been dyeing it yourself at home, have you?' In much the same way every beauty therapist always chirrups, 'The hairs are awfully short. You haven't been shaving, have you?' I always deny both accusations vigorously.) Anyway, suffice to say I was honed, oiled, bronzed, and freakishly hairless.
I stepped out of my boy pants. I climbed into bed. My husband did not even look up.
It has been 18 days since we last had sex. Now, lots of women might say crossly, Why don't you initiate it for a change? What red- blooded male would be able to resist?
But, beyond the aforementioned preparations to make myself alluring and dewy, I don't think I could ever be that forward. I have never believed that I am attractive to men (I have accumulated lots of evidence to support this thesis; oh, if only I had more space) and so, despite the fact that I have been married for three years, four in October, I still treat every night like a first date, which is exhausting, and frequently a complete waste of time.
And so, this morning, I asked my husband if he still fancies me.
'Umm.'
'What do you mean, umm? Do you have to think about it?' 'I have to say, you are really sweet.'
'Sweet! Sweet! That's a horrid thing to say. And what do you mean, "I have to say" Does that mean that, despite everything, against all the odds, I am sweet?'
'Oh, I don't know,' he said, looking as exhausted as if he had been down a mine all day. 'I think we have a spiritual connection, we must have, otherwise what on earth is keeping us together?'
'Well,' I said indignantly. 'My beauty, kindness, patience, the fact you love me'
'OK, that too,' he said unconvincingly. 'I also think that, in a past life, I was your son.'
So. We don't have sex because he thinks I'm his mummy.
Emine came round today (my husband had gone missing for three hours, his phone switched off. I can't believe I am married and still get 'Sorry, the number you are calling is not available') and over a glass of wine in the garden I told her all of the above, adding that, in his defence, he has been trying to be nice by emptying the dishwasher.
'Do you think he is being nice because he is seeing someone else?' she asked me bluntly. 'Maybe that's why he doesn't have sex with you. You know I think he's clever and good looking and funny, but he is still so immature. He doesn't know what he wants. He still has all these fantasies he wants to act out. I really think you should chuck him out for a while to fend for himself.
He has to spring away on a rubber band and feel the attraction, remember.'
'But I'm worried he won't come back!' I wailed.
Ewwww. Much wrongness.
'So, you had the best sex of your life while you were in India?' I said calmly. 'You preferred having sex with those women to having sex with me' ; Liz Jones's diary: In which I discover a loaded email
The Mail on Sunday (London); Aug 13, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 74
I found this in one of his emails: 'Male sexuality isn't emotional; in fact, emotionality is a turnoff for guys. Some of the best sex I've had has been completely meaningless Women still think a man's fidelity is proof of his love for them, when it's nothing of the sort. It's not love that makes a man faithful but a lack of opportunities to cheat and the fear of getting caught.
Once he's over those two hurdles, he's away! Monogamy is very difficult for men, and neither my friends nor I have managed it. Women need to be more honest about their own sexuality, too.
I've had unprotected sex with women who were being unfaithful themselves' Blimey. I padded down to the kitchen to confront him. 'So, you had the best sex of your life while you were in India?' I said calmly. 'You preferred having sex with those women to having sex with me.' (He no longer bothers to ask, by the way, how I know these things; it is a given that I still check his wallet, mobile phone and emails.) He had the cheek to smile. 'No. I said I have had some of the best sex I've ever had with women I barely knew.' I harrumphed. 'And you had unprotected sex with women who were also being unfaithful!' 'That was you, you daft moo,' he shouted good- naturedly back.
Ah. Well, OK, I did have unprotected sex with him on our first date, the day after I'd had sex (the halcyon period in my life that has gone down in history as 'the weekend I double parked') with my then 'boyfriend' (I use the term lightly; what boyfriend would have something better to do on Millennium Eve?) Kevin, the Osama Bin Laden lookalike with an aversion to spending more than Pounds 7.50 on a romantic dinner. But, as I primly pointed out, 'We might have done it on our first date, but I knew that you were going to be my husband.'
We then, inevitably, got into a discussion about how little he still does around the house, and how badly we communicate. For example, I had moaned to him a couple of weeks ago that I'd imagined, when we both started to work from home, that we'd have coffee together in the morning and chat.
'But you always sit in the garden, and it's cold!' he moaned, despite the fact it was still 75 degrees outside; he finds it very funny and retro that I still think in imperial. 'All I want to do in the morning is read the papers online and drink my instant coffee and be quiet.' He is probably breathing a huge sigh of relief at the news that I am off to Chicago today for work (he later sends a text to a male friend: 'Have the house to myself tonight. Fancy coming round for dinner?'). I am worried about leaving him in sole charge of the new house (he has no clue where anything is or how anything works), so I start telling him some useful points he should look out for. 'You must call Susie for her breakfast in a loud, high-pitched voice, otherwise she won't hear you. Give her gravy for dinner as a change from prawns. Leave a bowl of biscuits on the wall. Snoopy is feeling a bit bony, so he needs to have lunch as well. Don't shut the window on the stairs, because Susie likes to use that one. Don't pick up or annoy Sweetie.
I know Squeaky is on a diet, but give her a tiny amount of what everyone else is having so she doesn't feel left out. Feed the fish and the water snail. Change the bed.
Put the rubbish out.' Is it any wonder that sex with a stranger, even a plain, boring, dwarfish one, suddenly seems so tempting?
Labels: journalists, Liz Jones, Nirpal Dhaliwal
