LIZ JONES: In which I asked him to marry me… (2024)

Oh dear. I don’t know why I did this, rashly, the evening of 29 February. Leap Day. I took a leap. Maybe because I have a completion date on the vicarage looming and I need help, someone to share it with, and who is willing to change light bulbs*, heave boxes and dog-sit. Cook.

I sent this. To David 1.0.

‘Will you marry me?’ That was it. Brief and to the point.

Then I fell asleep and forgot all about it. This morning, I check my emails, the news headlines, and lastly my personal messages. Oh dear. There is a flurry, like unseasonal snow, from David.

His texts are as rare as a snow leopard. What’s going on? Is he again going to complain about my column? Or my last text, telling him he has to do more to have me in his life than sit in a chair watching The Chase and smoking?

I put off opening his texts until Friday afternoon.

OK, I’m going in… I read his reply. Then read it again. I break into a huge, unexpected grin. I literally cannot stop my face from creating wrinkles.

‘Hi. I’ve only just seen this. I don’t know the rules connected to this situation, the woman asking the man. But I am sure I am allowed to respond as soon as I am asked, even if it is the next day. It is, after all, 1 March, St David’s Day. ‘Yes. Of course I will marry you. You know I love you with all my heart. XXXXXXX’

Oh my god! I wasn’t expecting that, or my reaction to his unabashed, no-holds-barred yes. I’m so brave! I have never, ever asked a man out, or phoned him first. Or sent two texts in a row. Or been completely naked, ever.

It seems impossible, after all we have been through

It’s like an episode of Married at First Sight, except we have known each other for 40 years. I already have the engagement ring from the last time he proposed, a couple of Christmases ago; lucky, really, as Nic has not long put it on Ebay to fund my house-purchase deposit. If I tell her to delist it, she will become suspicious.

Then he texts: ‘I don’t want to have to give you 12 pairs of gloves. I’d only get the size or the colour wrong.’ Tradition dictates that if a proposal is rejected, the man gifts gloves so the woman can hide her embarrassment.

Suddenly, I am transformed into a throwback to the 1950s.

I start looking at wedding venues, though there is barely anyone left to invite: they have either died or fallen out with me. I must apologise to my best friend Isobel, who still isn’t speaking to me after I recounted our abortive trip to Totnes. I start browsing wedding dresses. I wore a tuxedo for my first wedding: I was so unsure of my femininity, my body, my right to even look like a bride.

I am so much more confident in my desirability now than I was 20 years ago: having someone who says he loves me is a huge part of that. Honeymoon destinations: I’ve already emailed him to say he’s paying for this bit. Oh my god! If someone had told the shy, acne-covered me back in 1983 that one day we would get married, I would never, ever have believed them. It seems impossible, after all we have been through. Other spouses, other countries.

Reams and reams of me abusing him in print. I actually, and please do not fall over backwards, have a spring in my step. It is spring. I am counting the days until I move into my new house, a gorgeous vicarage with huge windows, a stone staircase, original fireplaces.

Of course, he cannot move in until after his cat dies, but, in the meantime, we will be like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow, minus the awful child-abuse accusations.

I can get him made over,surely. Moulded. Send him to Turkey for new teeth. Force him to exercise by covering my walls with Paint & Paper Library heritage colours. I wonder if he can plumb.

Poor, poor David. He has no idea what he’s letting himself in for…

*I bumped into my electrician, Kevan, in the bank and he has agreed to mend my spotlights, so the pressure on David to perform is off, slightly. In one respect.

Jones moans....what Liz loathes this week

  • The hairdresser’s mirror. I mistakenly looked up on Wednesday. I looked like Prince Philip, very near the end.
  • The Barclays branch in Richmond, North Yorkshire, is to close this year, meaning a two-hour round trip for local businesses depositing cash and for older residents who don’t bank online. What will become of the building? Another godawful holiday let, no doubt

Contact liz at and find her @lizjonesgoddess

LIZ JONES: In which I asked him to marry me… (2024)
Top Articles
Latest Posts
Article information

Author: Gov. Deandrea McKenzie

Last Updated:

Views: 6648

Rating: 4.6 / 5 (46 voted)

Reviews: 93% of readers found this page helpful

Author information

Name: Gov. Deandrea McKenzie

Birthday: 2001-01-17

Address: Suite 769 2454 Marsha Coves, Debbieton, MS 95002

Phone: +813077629322

Job: Real-Estate Executive

Hobby: Archery, Metal detecting, Kitesurfing, Genealogy, Kitesurfing, Calligraphy, Roller skating

Introduction: My name is Gov. Deandrea McKenzie, I am a spotless, clean, glamorous, sparkling, adventurous, nice, brainy person who loves writing and wants to share my knowledge and understanding with you.