Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Nirpal Dhaliwal - Watch Part Nine.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight.
The Lizpal Joniwal soap opera goes on. And on...
In LizJonesWorld, we discover that Nirpal has been screwing around again. And that every day he finds new ways to make Liz's life hell.
In which I stab him with a pen and make him cry ; Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 15, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 138
After I had read the email from Daphne arranging to meet in New York, and he had told me he just wanted to apologise to her for dumping her in the way he had, I still didn't believe him. I screamed at him and punched him on the leg. I tried to hit him with one of his awful trainers, and I stabbed him with a pen. He tried to hold my wrists and I threatened to call the police. I told him that he had betrayed me, had schemed against me, had known full well that if he contacted her again I would throw him out. 'I am not going,' he said. 'We can work through this.' I asked him how he could contact her when I had taken him back at Christmas, we had just moved into the new house and my mum was sick. He had promised he would never contact her again but he did, in the most duplicitous way.
We fought and he cried. He got down on his knees, tears whooshing out of his eyes, his lashes all spiky and stuck together, and begged me not to throw him out. 'I love you, I need you,' he sobbed. I told him that if he loved me he wouldn't scheme against me, and that I had no reason to have him in my life.
I told him I was sick to death of his evil looks and his silences, and that I had told my mum when she was staying with us that I couldn't stand him any longer. I was so angry that at about 1am I phoned his mother. She was drowsy and could hear from my voice something was wrong, but she still tried to wish me happy birthday. I gave him the phone and made him tell her what he had done. It got to 4am and I was so exhausted that I wanted to go to sleep. And so we slept.
The next morning I made him log on to his secret email account (Emine had warned me that he would just get craftier and set up another email account, but I had told her he would never do that). There they were, about ten emails from Daphne. She mostly wrote about trying to get a new job, how she hasn't been well, about her new boyfriend, whom she is thinking of moving in with.
They discussed meeting in London. She told him she would have to ask her boyfriend first; she asked if he had told his wife that they were back in contact and he admitted he hadn't. His emails to her made me want to vomit.
'It was so great to hear your voice' he wrote. In another he sounded all concerned about her job, her health. One said, 'I know I talk a lot of rubbish but I get kinda nervous around you.' 'How old are you?' I spat at him. 'Twelve?' She mentioned thinking about having children.
'Did you talk about having a baby with her?' 'Only in a very flip way. I told her if we had a kid together it would be very cute.' He had once said exactly the same thing to me.
So, I told him, you were scheming to get back with her. You lied, again, last night.
'I was thinking about it, I suppose,' he said.
'Didn't you realise how I'd feel if you betrayed me again? That the person I loved most hated me and wanted to harm me?' He didn't have an explanation.
He just said he had been an idiot. He told me that he would change, that we could go into counselling (when have I heard this before?), that he would die without me. He even told me that when he had gone to see Daphne in London just before Christmas, she had been with her friend Emma, and that he had tried to find out her friend's phone number so that he could cheat with her behind Daphne's back.
I told him I had given him three opportunities to leave me and be with her.
That I don't need him, that I am perfectly happy with just my work and my cats. That he walks around our gorgeous house as if he is in a concentration camp. I told him that no sane, reasonable woman with any self-respect would ever have him. I told him I no longer love him nor even like him. I told him that Daphne is welcome to him.
Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 22, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 98
I decided to hack into his secret email accountto read every word he and Daphne had sent each other
I find out he thinks about Daphne every single day So, two days later, I flew to New York for the fashion shows. He called me as soon as I got into the taxi to the airport, and we were still talking when I stood in line to check in. He told me that Daphne didn't mean anything to him, then or now. That he had been a jerk.
That he wanted to change.
I got to my room at the Soho Grand feeling about 100 years old, and logged on to see if he had emailed me. He hadn't. He phoned the next morning, though, and again begged me for forgiveness. I even started to think I had overreacted; after all, he hadn't actually met up with her. We started to talk about going to India, as planned, in four weeks' time. That day, I booked a Brazilian and leg wax, hair tint, pedicure and triple oxygen facial so that I would look my best when I flew home. Will I never learn?
Anyway, on Monday night, after a long day at the shows, I logged on to my computer. I suppose I was bored because my Frasier box sets wouldn't work on the hotel room's DVD player. I decided to hack into his secret email account to read every word he and Daphne had sent each other it wasn't hard, his password was Daphne. Here is the first one he sent her Dear Daphne, How are you? I've wanted to ask you that for so long. I hope you're well and that things are going great for you. You have no idea how much I've missed you.
You must think I'm an a***hole and you'd be right. I am so sorry for cutting things off between us the way I did in December. But my life was so confused and things were so f**ked up that I didn't know how else to deal with the situation. That's not much of an excuse, I know. I am still with Liz. Life is going well right now, but I think about you pretty much every day, and whenever I do I get sad. I've been hoping I'd forget, but I haven't. So I guess I had to get in touch. I know you might not reply, but I really hope you do. Please let me know how you're doing. And forgive me. nx Dear Nirpal, It is really good to hear from you. And I am not upset with you.
I get it, I understand you had to break off contact in fact I think it was the only thing you could have done to get yourself back again. You seemed very confused and not content with yourself at a time when you really should be happyand I always thought that you needed to at least give your relationship with Liz a real try not run away from it all. I was in London not long ago and stayed with Emma, whom you met.
When we went for a walk, we popped into a bookstore and I saw your book on sale, and I was so proud of you. I thought about you and was very sad that I couldn't just call you to say hi and congratulations so I am happy that you got in touch now. All is good at this enda lot of things have happened over the past six months. I met someone who is moving in with me but I am having doubts about him and am wondering if this is really it. He's a great, great guy British actually and loves me a lot, but I don't seem to be able to let him in. Maybe with time. Then I have been feeling out of sorts healthwise, which is strange for me; it meant not working out as much any more. I have no reason to be unhappy in any way, yet something seems to be amiss. Take good care Nirpal, big hug, Daphne.
There are some more vomit-inducing emails, and she tells him she is about to come to London, so he sends this Dear Daphne, Would you have time to sneak off and have a coffee with me while you're in London? nx To be continued
LIZ JONES'S DIARY In which he continues to call me 'my old mum' ; Even though he is supposed to be on his best behaviour, he is still intensely annoying
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 5, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 114
...To be honest, even though he is supposed to be on his best behaviour, he has still, over the past seven days, managed to be intensely annoying. He still tries to belittle me, and calls me 'my old mum'. He keeps grabbing my tummy and saying, 'You won't find that on Nicole Richie,' which is mildly amusing the first couple of times, but at about the 50th wears a little thin. At the same time, it is hard and pathetic to admit it but there is a large part of me that worries about what will happen if he does leave. I will pad about my perfect house wiping paw prints off the cat flap, with only reruns of Sex and the City for company. My friends all tell me I will meet someone else but I know I won't. The other week, at a colleague's leaving party, a man I had always found attractive started talking to me. Later, Kerry came over excitedly and told me she was sure he was flirting with me. 'He so wasn't,' I told her. 'He said, "Come on, Liz, when were you born the 60s or the 50s?"' 'Oh dear,' she said sadly. 'But that doesn't mean you should stay with Nirps.
He doesn't make you happy, and he never has. He will cheat on you again. And then you will look up and it will be too late.'
Liz Jones's diary ; In which we 'celebrate' our wedding anniversary: I think I am partly responsible for creating such a monster baby, who behaves like a giant flatmate rather than a supportive husband
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 12, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 106
My main topic for discussion this week: is it worth staying married to my husband just because he is a very reliable cat sitter?
Well, tomorrow is our fourth wedding anniversary. Most people look back on their married lives with fondness, but can you blame me for thinking that the past four years have been something of an endurance test, with little joy or respite?
Perhaps we just bring out the worst in each other I am sure he doesn't tell Daphne that she is chubby, or that he thinks of her as his second mum.
I think I am partly responsible for creating such a monster baby, who behaves like a giant flatmate rather than a caring, loving, supportive, helpful-in-the-kitchen husband.
But we are still, miraculously, together. Don't ask me how, or why. I do genuinely believe that my husband loves me, but I don't think he is capable of making me happy, or me him for that matter. And although I know I would be better off on my own, there is something inside me that is quite enjoying having 'man trouble'. I've never had man trouble before, or torrid affairs, or one night stands. My whole life, until I met my husband, when I was already hovering perilously close to 40, had been an emotional desert, filled only with work and weird cleaning rituals and much loved pets.
Who else in the Western world has only slept with four men? And I only did it with two of those men a handful of times. I think I only slept with the Osama Bin Laden lookalike a grand total of twice. What is wrong with me? Why does nobody love me or desire me?
Why, still, when I move us into a Georgian minimalist heaven, with a sports car parked right outside and a plasma TV on the wall and a lovely wardrobe with his and hers sides and gorgeous handprinted wallpaper from Timorous Beasties winding its way up the stairs and four gorgeous fur babies, does he still want to cheat on me?
Why? Why? I haven't let myself go. I still separate my eyelashes with a pin and condition my hair every day with Kiehl's Coconut Hair Conditioner. I pay for everything. I drive. I am interesting. I am funny. I am not young, though, and I suppose there is nothing I can do about that.
By the way, I had an awful time at the fashion shows in Paris. For a start, the lift had mirrors, which meant I caught sight of myself at least twice a day. Argh! I was so depressed at the sight of my face the huge crevasses that run down from each side of my nose, the circles under my eyes that no amount of Touche Eclat can disguise, the regrowth at my scalp because I have not been within striking distance of my colourist. Staying young and dewy is so much hard work. I am sure Daphne never feels the need to wear makeup. I am sure she lets him see her with her top off. Oh God. What is to become of us?
Tomorrow, we are off to India for two weeks for a walking holiday in the Himalayas. I am not looking forward to it. I hate walking. I don't like holidays because a) I worry about the cats, and b) I live in fear of not being able to pay the bill at checkout time (believe me, this has happened on more than one occasion; the cheque to pay for our wedding didn't bounce only because NatWest took pity on me). This holiday is meant to be about us just being together, with no phones, no emails, no work, no Daphne, no telly, no box sets of Frasier. I am anxious not only about my bikini line sprouting unexpectedly, but also that we will have nothing to say to each other. Wish me luck.
In which he makes me cry on our romantic break
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 26, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 154
After walking for five days through the pine forests of northern India, we arrived at our cabin in the mountains. The trek had been arduous I had read somewhere that muscles are supposed to have memory, but mine seemed to have forgotten their mid-80s aerobics classes. Also, what with my huge dark glasses and walking stick, my husband said it was like being on holiday with Roy Orbison not quite the look I was trying to achieve. Ah well. At last I was able to lie on a proper bed and look at the view of the Himalayas and the millions of stars and the crescent moon peeking over K2.
'Isn't this the most beautiful place on earth?' I asked him. I noticed he was wearing his wet nappy face, and I remembered that earlier in the day he had refused to hold my hand or help me to cross a stream. 'You obviously hate walking,' he said. 'You're not remotely interested in India. Whenever the guide tried to explain something, you looked blank. I've been on holiday in India with other people who didn't speak a word of Hindi and they were much more fun to be with than you are.' I was so shocked I could barely speak.
'Yes, I know that you have been in India with someone who was far more fun to be with than me,' I said, referring to Daphne. 'Why did you insist we still go on this holiday? Why didn't you just leave on my birthday when I asked you to? You were the one who wanted to work through this. I knew you would do this to me. You have ruined my holiday.' I told him I hate the way he is always judging me, and that nothing I do ever seems good enough. To be honest, I had found the first few days bewildering I had seen a baby just left on a hot pavement in Delhi, and an old blind woman begging in a market and yet he hadn't tried to reassure me with a hug, or to share the experience with me. He had just chatted to the guide in Hindi, and when I asked what they were saying he ignored me. I was always lagging behind, and so by the time I caught up I had missed what the guide was saying. I am slightly deaf and need to look at people's faces when they speak to me. You would think after four years of marriage my husband would know this by now, but apparently not. I sobbed and sobbed. All I wanted was to be home with my pussies, in a hot, oily bath...
So, there we have it. If only Liz had a spine then Nirpal would be in trouble. He, for his part, acknowledges that he'd been unfaithful,
I've cheated again, but this time I'm sorry ; CITY LIVES
Evening Standard (London); Oct 11, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 39
SIENNA Miller was on the record last weekend saying "monogamy is overrated".
That might be so, but it's nowhere near as overrated as infidelity. I've poked fun at monogamy, but now I've found out the hard way that cheating is useless and self-destructive.
I was busted (again) by my wife not long ago, when she read an email from a lady I was arranging a liaison with. I'd been a sneaky underhanded mutt and set up a secret email account for my shenanigans.
However, the lady in question had decided to cc this particular message to my regular email account, which my wife can see.
She quite rightly hit the roof.
Having used up all my excuses the last time I was caught out, and having promised not to be unfaithful again, there was nothing to do but face the music.
I hung my head and admitted that I'm a selfish, stupid jerk. Confronted by the wholly undeserved pain I was causing my wife, I had to face up to what an idiot I am. My wife was devastated and I literally had to beg for forgiveness, which I don't think I'll ever get. For the first time, I recognised the complete shabbiness of my behaviour.
I'd been a conniving, deceitful adolescent, who ' d given everyone the runaround: my wife, the other woman and, as a consequence, her boyfriend, too. Like a teenager, I paid more attention to getting my kicks than I did to the inevitable fallout.
Kingsley Amis regarded leaving his wife as an act of violence, towards both himself and her.
Infidelity is the same. It causes so much pain all round that it has to be considered a form of self-harm and aggression. It's a mindless act of vandalism. Rather than being adult and intelligent and talking to my wife about our issues, I cut myself off from her.
As my wife, she had a right to know what was going through my mind in order to know where she stood with me. Yet I never told her, and sneaked off behind her back instead. Even when people fall in love in with someone other than their partner (which I didn't), their other half deserves to know the situation rather than be messed around.
When previously I maintained that men are biologically prone to infidelity, it was just self-justifying guff.
If I can resist the masculine urge to punch a guy I have a problem with, why can't I resist the urge to pursue a woman who comes onto me? It's the same testosterone-driven thing.
Cheating, like fighting, provides a childish egotistical thrill of conquest. I was a sucker for wanting it.
Today is my fourth wedding anniversary. I know I haven't been the best husband in the world, but I can't have been the worst either. My wife's smart enough to have got shot of me long ago if I really were nothing but a worthless dirt-bag. I don't know if she and I will go the distance, but I do love her. However long we last, I'm determined to act like a grownup for the duration.
However, a month later and Nirpal is back to show who's boss in the battle of the sexes:
Marital spat that made a fool of me ; CITY LIVES
Evening Standard (London); Nov 15, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 37
I ROWED with the missus last night. We were in the bar of the Electric Cinema, and she was gushing about Zadie Smith, having bonded with her during the movie we'd just seen (Woody Allen's Manhattan). I was already in a foul mood, having suffered a ghastly film about nerdy New York saps making boring conversation, and she was prattling on in the way that women do when they think they've made yet another new best friend.
She kept bugging me to go and say hello to Zadie, who wanted to meet me even though I keep writing about how lame she is. I couldn't be bothered. But the wife kept banging on, and I eventually told her to shut up.
She got all stroppy about it. I couldn't be bothered with that either so walked out on her. Sitting in the car, I figured it was too bastardly to drive off alone (seeing as it's her car) and sent her a text saying I was waiting outside.
I've gone soft. A while back I'd have left, picked up some pals and gone drinking, leaving her to fret about my whereabouts.
"Damn, how has she made me so weak, so unmanned?"
I waited over half an hour, with no sign of her. I then drove home to find she'd sneakily taken a cab back and had bolted me out of the house. I was left standing in the cold, ruing my mistake in giving her some consideration.
When making gestures of defiance, you have to nail a woman hard.
Kindness is weakness.
"I must not be kind, kindness is the dick-killer, kindness is the tiny death that brings moral oblivion."
I generally don't argue with women.
I think we've come full circle to where NDW started...
It's a wholly undignified thing for a man to do.
Whereas cheating on someone you've made a commitment to is the very pinacle of dignity.
It only proves he's let her get under his skin and affect his state of mind. There's nothing a woman loves more than knowing she's inside a guy's head, where she can then start making his decisions for him.
The basic difference between the sexes is that while women are mad, men are stupid. For us to bring the little intelligence we have to bear, it's vital that we retain our composure. I generally maintain a benign indifference to my wife's attempts to argue.
I've even plugged my ears and continued reading while she's screamed at me for "destroying her life" as she likes to put it.
Those wacky women and their funny little concerns about having their feelings of self-worth erased.
Smart guys keep their cool, quietly totting up the grievances they have with a woman and balancing the scorecard at an opportune moment. A girl I was once seeing finally got too annoying for me while we were walking through a shopping mall. I let her walk on ahead, then ducked down a side street and out of her life forever.
A lot of men I've known have a similar attitude. They grin and bear their partner's irritating ways, while getting their own back by screwing around on the sly. Women who congratulate themselves for finding a man who's patient with their neuroticism and neediness should be warned: inside the quiet, stoic facade, he's smiling about the girl whose salad he tossed out on Saturday night.
Rowing is a waste of time. Nothing ever gets solved by it. I'm still miffed with myself for getting riled up at the Electric. Losing my rag, and then feeling guilty about it, only gave my wife the chance to make a fool of me.
Silence is golden but women just don't get that
Evening Standard (London); Nov 29, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 37
A FEMALE psychiatrist has proved that women talk three times as much as men. Dr Louann Brizendine's book, The Female Mind, states that women's brains have far more cells devoted to talking, and that the act of speaking triggers a hormonal rush that gives them a chemical high.
Science has finally confirmed what men have always known: women get off on the sound of their own voice.
A lot of women will say the disparity in words spoken exists only because women have to say everything at least three times before a man takes any notice of it. There's some truth in that. I have a friend who deliberately delays the completion of a domestic task - eg paying a bill - by 24 hours whenever his girlfriend commands him to do it.
Wilfully ignoring the edicts of women not only helps a man maintain his self-respect, it compels the woman to perform the duties herself.
And after all, that's what women are for, right?
Biology is also definitely behind it. Every woman I've spent significant time with - my wife, mother, girlfriends and acquaintances - has shown a physical inability to stay quiet. Women maintain an extraordinary running commentary on their lives.
Every banal activity comes with a soundtrack of asides and observations.
When my wife cleans the kitchen, she has to tell whoever's unfortunate enough to be around the exact state of every shelf in the fridge, and describes her meetings with friends with exhausting "he said, she said" monologues, recounting every uninteresting detail. But she's no different to any woman.
Women are only shy retiring wallflowers until you start going steady with them. Then they talk your brain to sleep.
Does the inane chatter get on our nerves? Luckily, we have developed the ability to tune it out. Dr Brizendine says that testosterone reduces the part of the brain that deals with hearing. This enables men to go deaf, even when women are presenting the most logical arguments. I often go into this mode, particularly when I'm being told what a lazy, cheating scumbag I am.
My wife understands that I no longer respond to verbal instructions or warnings, and instead emails me her demands, and hands me detailed, annotated shopping lists that I subsequently leave at home.
Gay men are the only guys who can really listen to women. I don't know if it's being gay that enables this, or whether it's actually hearing what women have to say that makes them decide to be gay. Any honest gay man will tell you about the inordinate-bitching that women indulge in, and the late-night calls and endless never- resolved whining they subject him to.
Women complain about men's inability to join in chitchat, but men know that reticence is their most powerful weapon in the battle of the sexes. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, women cannot bear a silence.
When their pathological need for conversation is met with impassive male indifference, it drives them wild. A taciturn man will turn a woman's head into a cauldron of anxiety. Not knowing what her man is thinking, she will imagine every worst-case scenario and endeavour to keep him happy.
The more a woman talks, the more she lets men know how much of a sucker she really is for the silent treatment.
The Liz'n'Nirps show. I hope The League of Gentlemen are reading and taking notes.
The Lizpal Joniwal soap opera goes on. And on...
In LizJonesWorld, we discover that Nirpal has been screwing around again. And that every day he finds new ways to make Liz's life hell.
In which I stab him with a pen and make him cry ; Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 15, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 138
After I had read the email from Daphne arranging to meet in New York, and he had told me he just wanted to apologise to her for dumping her in the way he had, I still didn't believe him. I screamed at him and punched him on the leg. I tried to hit him with one of his awful trainers, and I stabbed him with a pen. He tried to hold my wrists and I threatened to call the police. I told him that he had betrayed me, had schemed against me, had known full well that if he contacted her again I would throw him out. 'I am not going,' he said. 'We can work through this.' I asked him how he could contact her when I had taken him back at Christmas, we had just moved into the new house and my mum was sick. He had promised he would never contact her again but he did, in the most duplicitous way.
We fought and he cried. He got down on his knees, tears whooshing out of his eyes, his lashes all spiky and stuck together, and begged me not to throw him out. 'I love you, I need you,' he sobbed. I told him that if he loved me he wouldn't scheme against me, and that I had no reason to have him in my life.
I told him I was sick to death of his evil looks and his silences, and that I had told my mum when she was staying with us that I couldn't stand him any longer. I was so angry that at about 1am I phoned his mother. She was drowsy and could hear from my voice something was wrong, but she still tried to wish me happy birthday. I gave him the phone and made him tell her what he had done. It got to 4am and I was so exhausted that I wanted to go to sleep. And so we slept.
The next morning I made him log on to his secret email account (Emine had warned me that he would just get craftier and set up another email account, but I had told her he would never do that). There they were, about ten emails from Daphne. She mostly wrote about trying to get a new job, how she hasn't been well, about her new boyfriend, whom she is thinking of moving in with.
They discussed meeting in London. She told him she would have to ask her boyfriend first; she asked if he had told his wife that they were back in contact and he admitted he hadn't. His emails to her made me want to vomit.
'It was so great to hear your voice' he wrote. In another he sounded all concerned about her job, her health. One said, 'I know I talk a lot of rubbish but I get kinda nervous around you.' 'How old are you?' I spat at him. 'Twelve?' She mentioned thinking about having children.
'Did you talk about having a baby with her?' 'Only in a very flip way. I told her if we had a kid together it would be very cute.' He had once said exactly the same thing to me.
So, I told him, you were scheming to get back with her. You lied, again, last night.
'I was thinking about it, I suppose,' he said.
'Didn't you realise how I'd feel if you betrayed me again? That the person I loved most hated me and wanted to harm me?' He didn't have an explanation.
He just said he had been an idiot. He told me that he would change, that we could go into counselling (when have I heard this before?), that he would die without me. He even told me that when he had gone to see Daphne in London just before Christmas, she had been with her friend Emma, and that he had tried to find out her friend's phone number so that he could cheat with her behind Daphne's back.
I told him I had given him three opportunities to leave me and be with her.
That I don't need him, that I am perfectly happy with just my work and my cats. That he walks around our gorgeous house as if he is in a concentration camp. I told him that no sane, reasonable woman with any self-respect would ever have him. I told him I no longer love him nor even like him. I told him that Daphne is welcome to him.
Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 22, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 98
I decided to hack into his secret email accountto read every word he and Daphne had sent each other
I find out he thinks about Daphne every single day So, two days later, I flew to New York for the fashion shows. He called me as soon as I got into the taxi to the airport, and we were still talking when I stood in line to check in. He told me that Daphne didn't mean anything to him, then or now. That he had been a jerk.
That he wanted to change.
I got to my room at the Soho Grand feeling about 100 years old, and logged on to see if he had emailed me. He hadn't. He phoned the next morning, though, and again begged me for forgiveness. I even started to think I had overreacted; after all, he hadn't actually met up with her. We started to talk about going to India, as planned, in four weeks' time. That day, I booked a Brazilian and leg wax, hair tint, pedicure and triple oxygen facial so that I would look my best when I flew home. Will I never learn?
Anyway, on Monday night, after a long day at the shows, I logged on to my computer. I suppose I was bored because my Frasier box sets wouldn't work on the hotel room's DVD player. I decided to hack into his secret email account to read every word he and Daphne had sent each other it wasn't hard, his password was Daphne. Here is the first one he sent her Dear Daphne, How are you? I've wanted to ask you that for so long. I hope you're well and that things are going great for you. You have no idea how much I've missed you.
You must think I'm an a***hole and you'd be right. I am so sorry for cutting things off between us the way I did in December. But my life was so confused and things were so f**ked up that I didn't know how else to deal with the situation. That's not much of an excuse, I know. I am still with Liz. Life is going well right now, but I think about you pretty much every day, and whenever I do I get sad. I've been hoping I'd forget, but I haven't. So I guess I had to get in touch. I know you might not reply, but I really hope you do. Please let me know how you're doing. And forgive me. nx Dear Nirpal, It is really good to hear from you. And I am not upset with you.
I get it, I understand you had to break off contact in fact I think it was the only thing you could have done to get yourself back again. You seemed very confused and not content with yourself at a time when you really should be happyand I always thought that you needed to at least give your relationship with Liz a real try not run away from it all. I was in London not long ago and stayed with Emma, whom you met.
When we went for a walk, we popped into a bookstore and I saw your book on sale, and I was so proud of you. I thought about you and was very sad that I couldn't just call you to say hi and congratulations so I am happy that you got in touch now. All is good at this enda lot of things have happened over the past six months. I met someone who is moving in with me but I am having doubts about him and am wondering if this is really it. He's a great, great guy British actually and loves me a lot, but I don't seem to be able to let him in. Maybe with time. Then I have been feeling out of sorts healthwise, which is strange for me; it meant not working out as much any more. I have no reason to be unhappy in any way, yet something seems to be amiss. Take good care Nirpal, big hug, Daphne.
There are some more vomit-inducing emails, and she tells him she is about to come to London, so he sends this Dear Daphne, Would you have time to sneak off and have a coffee with me while you're in London? nx To be continued
LIZ JONES'S DIARY In which he continues to call me 'my old mum' ; Even though he is supposed to be on his best behaviour, he is still intensely annoying
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 5, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 114
...To be honest, even though he is supposed to be on his best behaviour, he has still, over the past seven days, managed to be intensely annoying. He still tries to belittle me, and calls me 'my old mum'. He keeps grabbing my tummy and saying, 'You won't find that on Nicole Richie,' which is mildly amusing the first couple of times, but at about the 50th wears a little thin. At the same time, it is hard and pathetic to admit it but there is a large part of me that worries about what will happen if he does leave. I will pad about my perfect house wiping paw prints off the cat flap, with only reruns of Sex and the City for company. My friends all tell me I will meet someone else but I know I won't. The other week, at a colleague's leaving party, a man I had always found attractive started talking to me. Later, Kerry came over excitedly and told me she was sure he was flirting with me. 'He so wasn't,' I told her. 'He said, "Come on, Liz, when were you born the 60s or the 50s?"' 'Oh dear,' she said sadly. 'But that doesn't mean you should stay with Nirps.
He doesn't make you happy, and he never has. He will cheat on you again. And then you will look up and it will be too late.'
Liz Jones's diary ; In which we 'celebrate' our wedding anniversary: I think I am partly responsible for creating such a monster baby, who behaves like a giant flatmate rather than a supportive husband
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 12, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 106
My main topic for discussion this week: is it worth staying married to my husband just because he is a very reliable cat sitter?
Well, tomorrow is our fourth wedding anniversary. Most people look back on their married lives with fondness, but can you blame me for thinking that the past four years have been something of an endurance test, with little joy or respite?
Perhaps we just bring out the worst in each other I am sure he doesn't tell Daphne that she is chubby, or that he thinks of her as his second mum.
I think I am partly responsible for creating such a monster baby, who behaves like a giant flatmate rather than a caring, loving, supportive, helpful-in-the-kitchen husband.
But we are still, miraculously, together. Don't ask me how, or why. I do genuinely believe that my husband loves me, but I don't think he is capable of making me happy, or me him for that matter. And although I know I would be better off on my own, there is something inside me that is quite enjoying having 'man trouble'. I've never had man trouble before, or torrid affairs, or one night stands. My whole life, until I met my husband, when I was already hovering perilously close to 40, had been an emotional desert, filled only with work and weird cleaning rituals and much loved pets.
Who else in the Western world has only slept with four men? And I only did it with two of those men a handful of times. I think I only slept with the Osama Bin Laden lookalike a grand total of twice. What is wrong with me? Why does nobody love me or desire me?
Why, still, when I move us into a Georgian minimalist heaven, with a sports car parked right outside and a plasma TV on the wall and a lovely wardrobe with his and hers sides and gorgeous handprinted wallpaper from Timorous Beasties winding its way up the stairs and four gorgeous fur babies, does he still want to cheat on me?
Why? Why? I haven't let myself go. I still separate my eyelashes with a pin and condition my hair every day with Kiehl's Coconut Hair Conditioner. I pay for everything. I drive. I am interesting. I am funny. I am not young, though, and I suppose there is nothing I can do about that.
By the way, I had an awful time at the fashion shows in Paris. For a start, the lift had mirrors, which meant I caught sight of myself at least twice a day. Argh! I was so depressed at the sight of my face the huge crevasses that run down from each side of my nose, the circles under my eyes that no amount of Touche Eclat can disguise, the regrowth at my scalp because I have not been within striking distance of my colourist. Staying young and dewy is so much hard work. I am sure Daphne never feels the need to wear makeup. I am sure she lets him see her with her top off. Oh God. What is to become of us?
Tomorrow, we are off to India for two weeks for a walking holiday in the Himalayas. I am not looking forward to it. I hate walking. I don't like holidays because a) I worry about the cats, and b) I live in fear of not being able to pay the bill at checkout time (believe me, this has happened on more than one occasion; the cheque to pay for our wedding didn't bounce only because NatWest took pity on me). This holiday is meant to be about us just being together, with no phones, no emails, no work, no Daphne, no telly, no box sets of Frasier. I am anxious not only about my bikini line sprouting unexpectedly, but also that we will have nothing to say to each other. Wish me luck.
In which he makes me cry on our romantic break
The Mail on Sunday (London); Nov 26, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 154
After walking for five days through the pine forests of northern India, we arrived at our cabin in the mountains. The trek had been arduous I had read somewhere that muscles are supposed to have memory, but mine seemed to have forgotten their mid-80s aerobics classes. Also, what with my huge dark glasses and walking stick, my husband said it was like being on holiday with Roy Orbison not quite the look I was trying to achieve. Ah well. At last I was able to lie on a proper bed and look at the view of the Himalayas and the millions of stars and the crescent moon peeking over K2.
'Isn't this the most beautiful place on earth?' I asked him. I noticed he was wearing his wet nappy face, and I remembered that earlier in the day he had refused to hold my hand or help me to cross a stream. 'You obviously hate walking,' he said. 'You're not remotely interested in India. Whenever the guide tried to explain something, you looked blank. I've been on holiday in India with other people who didn't speak a word of Hindi and they were much more fun to be with than you are.' I was so shocked I could barely speak.
'Yes, I know that you have been in India with someone who was far more fun to be with than me,' I said, referring to Daphne. 'Why did you insist we still go on this holiday? Why didn't you just leave on my birthday when I asked you to? You were the one who wanted to work through this. I knew you would do this to me. You have ruined my holiday.' I told him I hate the way he is always judging me, and that nothing I do ever seems good enough. To be honest, I had found the first few days bewildering I had seen a baby just left on a hot pavement in Delhi, and an old blind woman begging in a market and yet he hadn't tried to reassure me with a hug, or to share the experience with me. He had just chatted to the guide in Hindi, and when I asked what they were saying he ignored me. I was always lagging behind, and so by the time I caught up I had missed what the guide was saying. I am slightly deaf and need to look at people's faces when they speak to me. You would think after four years of marriage my husband would know this by now, but apparently not. I sobbed and sobbed. All I wanted was to be home with my pussies, in a hot, oily bath...
So, there we have it. If only Liz had a spine then Nirpal would be in trouble. He, for his part, acknowledges that he'd been unfaithful,
I've cheated again, but this time I'm sorry ; CITY LIVES
Evening Standard (London); Oct 11, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 39
SIENNA Miller was on the record last weekend saying "monogamy is overrated".
That might be so, but it's nowhere near as overrated as infidelity. I've poked fun at monogamy, but now I've found out the hard way that cheating is useless and self-destructive.
I was busted (again) by my wife not long ago, when she read an email from a lady I was arranging a liaison with. I'd been a sneaky underhanded mutt and set up a secret email account for my shenanigans.
However, the lady in question had decided to cc this particular message to my regular email account, which my wife can see.
She quite rightly hit the roof.
Having used up all my excuses the last time I was caught out, and having promised not to be unfaithful again, there was nothing to do but face the music.
I hung my head and admitted that I'm a selfish, stupid jerk. Confronted by the wholly undeserved pain I was causing my wife, I had to face up to what an idiot I am. My wife was devastated and I literally had to beg for forgiveness, which I don't think I'll ever get. For the first time, I recognised the complete shabbiness of my behaviour.
I'd been a conniving, deceitful adolescent, who ' d given everyone the runaround: my wife, the other woman and, as a consequence, her boyfriend, too. Like a teenager, I paid more attention to getting my kicks than I did to the inevitable fallout.
Kingsley Amis regarded leaving his wife as an act of violence, towards both himself and her.
Infidelity is the same. It causes so much pain all round that it has to be considered a form of self-harm and aggression. It's a mindless act of vandalism. Rather than being adult and intelligent and talking to my wife about our issues, I cut myself off from her.
As my wife, she had a right to know what was going through my mind in order to know where she stood with me. Yet I never told her, and sneaked off behind her back instead. Even when people fall in love in with someone other than their partner (which I didn't), their other half deserves to know the situation rather than be messed around.
When previously I maintained that men are biologically prone to infidelity, it was just self-justifying guff.
If I can resist the masculine urge to punch a guy I have a problem with, why can't I resist the urge to pursue a woman who comes onto me? It's the same testosterone-driven thing.
Cheating, like fighting, provides a childish egotistical thrill of conquest. I was a sucker for wanting it.
Today is my fourth wedding anniversary. I know I haven't been the best husband in the world, but I can't have been the worst either. My wife's smart enough to have got shot of me long ago if I really were nothing but a worthless dirt-bag. I don't know if she and I will go the distance, but I do love her. However long we last, I'm determined to act like a grownup for the duration.
However, a month later and Nirpal is back to show who's boss in the battle of the sexes:
Marital spat that made a fool of me ; CITY LIVES
Evening Standard (London); Nov 15, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 37
I ROWED with the missus last night. We were in the bar of the Electric Cinema, and she was gushing about Zadie Smith, having bonded with her during the movie we'd just seen (Woody Allen's Manhattan). I was already in a foul mood, having suffered a ghastly film about nerdy New York saps making boring conversation, and she was prattling on in the way that women do when they think they've made yet another new best friend.
She kept bugging me to go and say hello to Zadie, who wanted to meet me even though I keep writing about how lame she is. I couldn't be bothered. But the wife kept banging on, and I eventually told her to shut up.
She got all stroppy about it. I couldn't be bothered with that either so walked out on her. Sitting in the car, I figured it was too bastardly to drive off alone (seeing as it's her car) and sent her a text saying I was waiting outside.
I've gone soft. A while back I'd have left, picked up some pals and gone drinking, leaving her to fret about my whereabouts.
"Damn, how has she made me so weak, so unmanned?"
I waited over half an hour, with no sign of her. I then drove home to find she'd sneakily taken a cab back and had bolted me out of the house. I was left standing in the cold, ruing my mistake in giving her some consideration.
When making gestures of defiance, you have to nail a woman hard.
Kindness is weakness.
"I must not be kind, kindness is the dick-killer, kindness is the tiny death that brings moral oblivion."
I generally don't argue with women.
I think we've come full circle to where NDW started...
It's a wholly undignified thing for a man to do.
Whereas cheating on someone you've made a commitment to is the very pinacle of dignity.
It only proves he's let her get under his skin and affect his state of mind. There's nothing a woman loves more than knowing she's inside a guy's head, where she can then start making his decisions for him.
The basic difference between the sexes is that while women are mad, men are stupid. For us to bring the little intelligence we have to bear, it's vital that we retain our composure. I generally maintain a benign indifference to my wife's attempts to argue.
I've even plugged my ears and continued reading while she's screamed at me for "destroying her life" as she likes to put it.
Those wacky women and their funny little concerns about having their feelings of self-worth erased.
Smart guys keep their cool, quietly totting up the grievances they have with a woman and balancing the scorecard at an opportune moment. A girl I was once seeing finally got too annoying for me while we were walking through a shopping mall. I let her walk on ahead, then ducked down a side street and out of her life forever.
A lot of men I've known have a similar attitude. They grin and bear their partner's irritating ways, while getting their own back by screwing around on the sly. Women who congratulate themselves for finding a man who's patient with their neuroticism and neediness should be warned: inside the quiet, stoic facade, he's smiling about the girl whose salad he tossed out on Saturday night.
Rowing is a waste of time. Nothing ever gets solved by it. I'm still miffed with myself for getting riled up at the Electric. Losing my rag, and then feeling guilty about it, only gave my wife the chance to make a fool of me.
Silence is golden but women just don't get that
Evening Standard (London); Nov 29, 2006; NIRPAL DHALIWAL; p. 37
A FEMALE psychiatrist has proved that women talk three times as much as men. Dr Louann Brizendine's book, The Female Mind, states that women's brains have far more cells devoted to talking, and that the act of speaking triggers a hormonal rush that gives them a chemical high.
Science has finally confirmed what men have always known: women get off on the sound of their own voice.
A lot of women will say the disparity in words spoken exists only because women have to say everything at least three times before a man takes any notice of it. There's some truth in that. I have a friend who deliberately delays the completion of a domestic task - eg paying a bill - by 24 hours whenever his girlfriend commands him to do it.
Wilfully ignoring the edicts of women not only helps a man maintain his self-respect, it compels the woman to perform the duties herself.
And after all, that's what women are for, right?
Biology is also definitely behind it. Every woman I've spent significant time with - my wife, mother, girlfriends and acquaintances - has shown a physical inability to stay quiet. Women maintain an extraordinary running commentary on their lives.
Every banal activity comes with a soundtrack of asides and observations.
When my wife cleans the kitchen, she has to tell whoever's unfortunate enough to be around the exact state of every shelf in the fridge, and describes her meetings with friends with exhausting "he said, she said" monologues, recounting every uninteresting detail. But she's no different to any woman.
Women are only shy retiring wallflowers until you start going steady with them. Then they talk your brain to sleep.
Does the inane chatter get on our nerves? Luckily, we have developed the ability to tune it out. Dr Brizendine says that testosterone reduces the part of the brain that deals with hearing. This enables men to go deaf, even when women are presenting the most logical arguments. I often go into this mode, particularly when I'm being told what a lazy, cheating scumbag I am.
My wife understands that I no longer respond to verbal instructions or warnings, and instead emails me her demands, and hands me detailed, annotated shopping lists that I subsequently leave at home.
Gay men are the only guys who can really listen to women. I don't know if it's being gay that enables this, or whether it's actually hearing what women have to say that makes them decide to be gay. Any honest gay man will tell you about the inordinate-bitching that women indulge in, and the late-night calls and endless never- resolved whining they subject him to.
Women complain about men's inability to join in chitchat, but men know that reticence is their most powerful weapon in the battle of the sexes. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, women cannot bear a silence.
When their pathological need for conversation is met with impassive male indifference, it drives them wild. A taciturn man will turn a woman's head into a cauldron of anxiety. Not knowing what her man is thinking, she will imagine every worst-case scenario and endeavour to keep him happy.
The more a woman talks, the more she lets men know how much of a sucker she really is for the silent treatment.
The Liz'n'Nirps show. I hope The League of Gentlemen are reading and taking notes.
Labels: journalists, Liz Jones, Nirpal Dhaliwal
