LIZ JONES: We all knew it was coming – I’m only surprised it took me this long to send him packing. This was the final straw

You knew it couldn’t last. I imagine you had taken out bets on how long it would be before He was ejected.

It was week two, and late at night. I noticed Mini crouch for a wee in the hallway (the steroids mean she drinks a lot of water). While I ran to fetch the mop, I asked him to just take her out on her harness into the churchyard, to stop her treading on a wet floor. Instead of picking up her thick dog bed by the front door, he just shoved it across with his foot (he never once took off his worn slippers, even trailing mud into my office), which meant Mini had to mountaineer.

‘She needs a level surface!’ I could see her back paw was going to be trapped as he opened the door. ‘Be gentle!’

He then said, ‘Oh, f*** off!’

It turned out he couldn’t bend to pick up a dog bed. His stomach would press on his remaining 20 per cent of lung.

The next day, I returned from looking after my horses and Nic’s (she is still off sick with her shoulder and cannot drive; putting a warm rug on a horse would be impossible), and when I got back, with my artisan French flour cobblestone loaf and pea, borlotti-bean and herb salad from The Angel’s Share bakery in Richmond, he was hiding in his room. I noticed in the fridge a Co-op salad consisting of a bit of iceberg lettuce, a slice of cucumber and a round of tomato; it appears Uber now delivers from the 1970s. He eventually came down.

‘I’m sorry about the awful dinner,’ he said. He had made some sort of hotpot, with revolting slime beneath potato, followed by a burnt tarte tatin with pastry so hard you couldn’t cut it with a knife.

He had also, kindly, ordered a device for Nic to attach to her steering wheel, which would, he said, help her to drive and get back to work sooner. She had tried it, but it didn’t help with her mobility or pain, so the day before I had given it back to him in order to return it and get his money back. Did you know that the prospect of returning an item to Amazon is too much for most men to cope with?

He had stormed off, saying, ‘F***ing useless women!’

I told him he didn’t just have to apologise for the worst meal of my life (this is someone who goes on about tempering chocolate, and moans constantly about the bluntness of my Conran Shop knives), but for being rough with my 19-year-old dying collie. And if we are going to talk about being useless, he can’t even climb stairs. And why does he roll his eyes and huff when I can’t hear him, when it’s the fault of his unruly, overgrown moustache (I can’t see his mouth to lip read) and missing teeth?

While he climbed K2 to pack, I shoved all his gluten-free, ultra-processed biscuits, bread and cakes, not to mention Mars Bars and ready sliced cheese (!), into his bag for life (what man has a bag for life? Does Daniel Craig keep his stuffed in a drawer for later?) and he left. Absolutely everything made him angry, while I’m the one with the dog, the love of my life, who is soon to leave this world. 

After he (again, kindly, notwithstanding the fact his car broke down) took Nic’s mum to the hospital with her broken arm, Nic sent him a delivery of Lola’s gluten-free cupcakes as a small thank you (I’ve never seen so much packaging, but still). He didn’t even crack a smile, but merely looked crestfallen, annoyed although he then proceeded to eat one without a plate, spreading crumbs. I had been so proud to show off my house, but he didn’t notice anything.

‘Do you like the chandelier in my bedroom?’

‘I haven’t been in your bedroom.’

‘Yes, you have, when you went to almost fetch the Hoover.’

‘Oh, yeah, I didn’t look up.’

Gaahjajajajah shshshshshaaa!!!!

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

• When I went to clean his en suite, I noticed the new bar of soap was still in its wrapper.
• While staying with me, he insisted I order him a Spanish acoustic guitar from Ebay. Is a baby grand piano not sufficient?
• I’ve bought a new washing machine with extra-large drum from John Lewis for Mini’s dog beds: £97 a month, with huge levels of interest. It’s very expensive to be poor.