LIZ JONES: David has been diagnosed with terminal cancer

I sent David the text – the one telling him that he can’t return to his flat. He must not be on his own while dealing with cancer. That he could have my whole first floor and I would bring him meals. ‘Two soups!’ The Julie Walters sketch is just one of hundreds of memories of us laughing. We didn’t always argue.

No reply. A couple of days later, after a five-hour journey (by public transport – buses and trains!) I arrived at King’s College Hospital in Denmark Hill, south London. It’s huge, washed by a tsunami of the walking wounded hobbling or being pushed, its long corridors reminiscent of The Shining. At one point I had two gowned surgeons guiding me (‘Left or right? Can you remove your mask?’), while I visited two other patients by mistake.

Finally, I found his cubicle. His tiny eyes lit up when he saw me. He was sitting on his bed in a checked robe, socks on his feet, which was somehow poignant, rendering him boyish. I bent for a kiss hello, knocking the numerous tubes and stands and machines, the strange bags of fluid, dangling. I’d brought him toiletries, a latte. He told me his news.

‘It’s terminal. They can’t operate.’

‘That sounds a bit defeatist.’

‘They don’t even know if the tumour blocking my colon is the primary one. It has spread. They have given me three months. They don’t think I will see in the new year.’

‘Doctors always exaggerate. Have you told your family?’

It turns out he has a WhatsApp group with the name ‘David’s colon’.

‘My son knows. I haven’t told anyone else yet. I am OK with the situation. I don’t want to be like my mum, live to 102.’

‘Have you thought about what I said? About having my first floor? Me being Manuel?’

And then he said something that made my eyes spring tears. ‘It’s a dream come true to spend my last days with you. But only if you can bear it. I will need carers each day.’

‘But I can do everything.’

I hate strangers traipsing in and out; I had enough of that with my mum. ‘You saw how I was with Mini Puppy.’

‘No. I don’t want you changing stoma bags.’

I told him I wouldn’t want to Ranulph Fiennes him. That as I’m in Yorkshire, it will be hard for friends and family to visit. His sisters are in Inverness, his son busy with a toddler. I asked him to make sure he talks it over with them first. He told me he is now someone who has a social worker. His son is sorting out his flat, his car. It’s as though he just walked out of his life in the clothes he was wearing, never to return. It’s strange, but he seemed softer, to have lost the sharp edges.

I’d arranged to meet a friend at the new St Clement hotel, so after an hour or so I stood up, unplugging my phone from the wall: ‘Oh god, I hope I haven’t switched off your life support! Gahahahah!’

When I got to the bar, the contrast couldn’t have been more stark: skinny young women drinking cocktails, a glass of champagne costing £22, noise and laughter and glamour. Barely a few miles and minutes apart. I looked at my phone and he had texted. As I say, he’s softer, gentler, more open: ‘Liz. It was so good to see you. And thank you for the offer. I will talk to everyone. You know I have always loved you.’

I replied, undiplomatically enclosing a photo of the huge lobby with its roaring log fire and coffee table books, ‘It was love at first sight for me. And, well, “Ditto”, as Demi Moore would say.’

He didn’t reply. I had to travel to Gatwick at 8am the next morning to catch a flight for work. When I landed, I saw I’d missed a call. I didn’t recognise the number and, because I’m scared of my phone, I didn’t call back until I got home at 11pm.

‘Hello. You have reached King’s College Hospital. You cannot reply to this number.’

Why is the hospital calling me? Why has he not texted?

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

• I’m watching Strictly, thinking, ‘Who are these people?’ I was ringside a few years back to report on the show only to find the audience were plied with alcohol, and told to clap loudly or else!
• I’m included in a 60th birthday party WhatsApp. It’s in November, but I will have fallen out with everyone by the end of this month… The demands! The questions! Just turn up and get drunk!