LIZ JONES: Women are always talking about the menopause, but I think older men suffer more

I finally got my classic Range Rover back on Friday, after almost three weeks. I was told the bill came to £26,000 but, as it’s still under warranty, they charged me nothing. For the first time in my life, I’m ahead!

I texted David. When I was searching for a car, I kept sending him choices for his advice. He’s a bit like having a dad. To paraphrase Paul McCartney, ‘If he’s beside me, I know I need never care.’

I also told him Pissy Missy has acute heart failure.

He replied: ‘Good news. About the car, not Missy.’

And then he sent a photo. I was shocked to my core. Because there he was, in a hospital gown, oxygen mask clamped over his face, electrodes stuck to his almost-bare chest, something attached to a finger. I don’t think I have ever seen him more vulnerable.

‘What happened? Is it the breathing?’

‘Short story. Malignant bowel cancer. On the other hand, morphine on demand, so all’s good. Turns out cancer trumps COPD.’

So typical of David. Always the joker. At a dinner with the editor of the Daily Mail, he calmly retrieved an ecstasy tablet from his pocket and examined it by candlelight. He never takes anything seriously.

I replied exactly as he had done to me when I told him Mini Puppy was critical, receiving end-of-life care: ‘How can I help?’

‘I’m drinking much San Pellegrino, so you are already helping.’ I always made him buy it for me. I don’t do tap water or anything too fizzy.

‘Do you have your iPad? The new season of Slow Horses has started.’

Who knows the right thing to say when faced with such tragedy?

‘I have the iPad; again, thanks to you.’

Turns out he felt unwell and was forced to miss his grandson’s first birthday. After months of tests, a colonoscopy revealed a tumour blocking his bowel. He had a stoma fitted a few days ago. They are still deciding what to do about the tumour. ‘You are now up to speed. I am OK with the situation. I hope you are as happy as you will allow yourself to be.’

David is the boy next door in Brixton I fell in love with at first sight at a summer ball, the year Thriller was released. He was 31, with a teeny ponytail (short hair at the front for work, long at the back for partying), wearing a tuxedo, a permanent fag in his extravagant mouth. We’ve been engaged twice but never went through with getting married: we’ve both spent too many years on our own to change.

He told me the name of the hospital in south London, and his ward: I looked it up and it says it is ‘short-stay surgery’, three words I’m clinging on to. I imagine he’s flirting with the nurses.

Why is every man I know suffering from cancer? David 2.0. Even Neil told me he had prostate cancer when he was 50. Women are always talking about their health, the menopause, but I often think older men suffer more: they are not used to being manhandled, exposed, weak, helpless.

‘When will they operate, discharge you? Are you well enough for a visit? Do you need toiletries, snacks, books?’

‘It would be lovely to see you. X’

‘You can’t go back to your flat. Your son has enough on his plate with a toddler, but you can’t be on your own. Why don’t I pick you up when you are discharged, and you can have the first floor of my house? The bathroom is on the same level; I can bring the mini fridge and kettle down from the top floor. I can sleep up there now I don’t have to be on call for Mini Puppy, while Pissy Missy can keep you company. I can bring you food. It will be like being waited on by Manuel for the rest of your life…’

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

I can’t moan, really, can I? Also, on Friday, I’d been unable to sleep, waiting for a scary email. Now I realise my problems are small, surmountable. Health is the only thing that matters.