LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I wait for a post-passion text

I’ve gone mad. I keep watching videos of the Rock Star performing in 1985. I read the comments, which (unlike mine under my column) are all adoring. ‘He is 25 years old in this video,’ swoons one. I watch him unplugged. I worry, as with David, that I am living in the past. There is one note that sends me into raptures. I doubt he can even hit it these days. 

It isn’t good, this sort of adoration. It creates too much pressure. And it never works, being an adoring fan. Me being jostled in row A is going to be excruciatingly embarrassing. I remember spending a night with Michael Hutchence at the Dorchester (the occasion when, as I left, he said, in the manner of every movie star and pop star I have interviewed, ‘Thank you for your support’). I then pitched to a newspaper that I should review the next INXS concert in Glasgow. They gave me a noncommittal yes, without helping out with a ticket or train fare. 

I bought my own ticket, went up to Glasgow, sat in my seat scribbling my review. The girls all around eyed me suspiciously. 

‘Are you a journalist?’ they said when the encore was over and we stood to leave. 

‘Um, yes.’ 

‘Have you met him?’ 

‘Yes!’ 

‘Are you seeing him tonight, do you know where he’s staying?’ 

I had told him I was reviewing that performance for a newspaper, which he seemed pleased about, though he did add, ‘What, marks out of ten in bed?’ But he hadn’t mentioned to come backstage. There were no mobile phones in those days. So I filed out, followed my new female friends slash rivals, and found the stage door. ‘They’ve already gone, covered in blankets!’ some mere child announced sagely. The newspaper never did publish my review, and I never did get paid. You see, I’ve been burned before. 

I can’t tell you what happened after our lunch, his risotto. He told me that’s part of the deal. And do you know what? Having told the world about my peccadillos, my bankruptcy, plastic surgery and every little thing about the three and a half men in my life, I have decided to change the habit of a lifetime and keep the night private. All I can say is that I am brewing cystitis. My body, my column. 

Anyway, now I’m in that awful netherworld where you are waiting for a text. After the vote, equal pay, contraception, and on and on and on, can someone stop partying for a second and introduce a new law? It should say that if you have technically* had sex, shared a bathroom overnight, filled in a joint little card to hang on the door explaining what you want for breakfast (I love filling in these cards; it’s like a letter to Santa), the man has to text reassuringly within 24 hours, or he receives a fixed penalty notice. In fact, I’m going to start a petition. 

I keep looking at my phone. I can’t go into his messages to re-read them, as he will see three dots shimmering, expectantly. I hate this. It’s like waiting for my A-level results all over again.

There was nothing, nothing, nothing. But it’s OK, he’s probably driving, or dead. It’s fine. 

I perform displacement activity. An oily bath, having considered lobbing the wretched passive aggressive phone out of the window. A chin tweeze. A solo walk with Missy Puppy (she loves these special forays on her own. As soon as I say, ‘Solo walk!’ she pumps her tail and stress wees). 

Finally! A few days later, deadline looming, so as I open it I’m thinking, ‘Thank god! I need a cliffhanger!’ I get this: ‘Did I leave my jacket in the bar?’ 

It’s back to the videos.

• Do women know what ‘technically’ means? Do I have to explain? OK, it is when the earth doesn’t move, as you have pre-exam nerves.