Liz Jones apos;s Diary: In Which I Reach Boiling Point

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I don't understand why my life is so full of conflict.
Before I left , I don't remember having an argument with anyone.
Yes, OK, up all night when I found emails from my husband's German mistress on my laptop.
But I didn't really care; he wasn't the love of my life.
Yes, a gardener who complained I'd written a column mentioning he was a Buddhist. But nothing else. It was a seamless glide through life.
I would finish work at lunchtime on a Friday, stroll to buy flowers from the florist by the church on Upper Street in Islington, order a Thai from round the corner of my lovely square, walk two minutes to pick it up plumbing codes and standards pdf that was it. 
I don't understand why my life is so full of conflict.

Before I left London, I don't remember having an argument with anyone
A lie-in on Saturday. Lunch at The Drapers Arms on Sunday. A vanilla cupcake and an artisan loaf from Ottolenghi. Sorted.
Now, every day is a pitched battle.
I am up at dawn to sort the horses as Nic is chronically unwell. 
I must drive hundreds of miles as the Dales aren't near anywhere. I spent five hours driving on Wednesday, to and from a vet dentist in Harrogate, and I don't even own a car!
There is constant noise from people mowing and strimming.

The pressure of having to earn money. I had a breakdown the other day.
A meeting with my accountant. He told me that, after 40 years at the ‘top', I have £800 in my business account. Nic was on the phone to him, and I was screaming in the background, ‘But I'm f*****g 64!
I haven't had a day off since 2003!'
Even my relationships, and a mooted mini-break, are fraught. I just texted David 1.0 to say, ‘Perhaps we should meet for dinner before going on holiday to Sicily?' I haven't clapped eyes on him since last October.
I had told him I look quite different.

I can't tell you how or why, as I have been threatened by a legal letter (more conflict, which has been going on for five long months when all I did was sit in a chair). 
I can't tell you how annoyed I am.
Demands, demands. I am sick of it  He has just replied: ‘I'm not sure about meeting for dinner first.
I quite like the idea of just going away. Do you think I would be put off because of you looking different [this is someone who has lost his front teeth and cannot walk to the departure gate]? But I could be persuaded.

This holiday, tell me please, are we staying on a boat? When do we go?'
Gahahahahhha!!!!
I cannot tell you how annoyed I am right now. On a cellular level. Demands, demands, demands. I am sick of it.
In Somerset, people covered my car with bad eggs and shot at me.
In the Dales, the farmer next door erected a For Sale sign in my garden and wrote the word ‘Witch' on my barn in red paint. 
An official receiver accused me of going to Paris on a mini-break when it was work, and said my kitchen was ‘very small'.
I was sacked for appearing on a TV programme.

Trolls attack me every day and run forums discussing me; Meghan, trust me - I know how it feels.
My landlady, who asked me to ‘put a hose on the garden' during a drought; I used to own a 56-acre farm. Even my plumber, who put a bill on my kitchen table when I wasn't home (trespassing?
burglary?), and said the F word in front of my collies, is now ghosting me after the new boiler he installed has broken for the fourth time.
Conflict, conflict, conflict.
My downfall is entirely the work of other people.

My sister, of whom I have heard neither hide nor hair since the day I was made bankrupt. My ex-husband. Neighbours. Bosses. Workmen.
I was very upset the other day, when Nic told me she had been to the birthday party of our vet.
I was NFI, of course.
I'm just the workhorse who pays for things. Enough, enough, enough.