LIZ JONES'S DIARY: This is my most shocking confession... I am a 65-year-old anorexic. I want to enjoy food, but this is why it repulses me

It was such a boost, so many cards from readers, wishing me luck in my new home.

 ‘Great future ahead!’ wrote Patricia. And this from Barbara: ‘As a long-standing member of your fan club, I hope your neighbours soon realise they have a beautiful, generously warm and kind-hearted, lovely lady to befriend and make welcome.’ And a card from a 90-year-old former teacher containing a £10 note, with the instruction to buy myself white flowers. (I returned the money, but kept the warm sentiment. I’ve just foraged some wild garlic for free.)

I was feeling hugely buoyed, not least by the young Uber Eats delivery driver, who insisted I fetch my passport before he handed over my bottle of champagne.

But there’s always one… ‘Dear Liz, I have read your column every week since it started, but I am worried about you… you look awful, like someone at the end of her days! Soon to be buried among those headstones surrounding your house… Women must have a bit of meat on their bones to look younger. Give yourself time to breathe. Be happy in a less opulent way. Just muddle along. I hope you see sense.’

I couldn’t make out the signature, but I’m guessing the author is a man.

We forget the plaudits (well, almost; I have the Evening Standard’s review of my collection of columns, stating I am a ‘better writer than Helen Fielding’, framed on my bathroom wall) but always hold on to the negative reviews: we smart with the re-remembering. 

The time uber-literary-agent Jonny Geller told me my novel based on Emily Wilding Davison was ‘poorly executed’. A review in The Sunday Times (I was actually a member of staff – no loyalty!) that called my Prince biography ‘muddled’. Or Private Eye, saying my memoir about the fashion world and moving to Exmoor was ‘A bit thin, Lizzy!’

But I have to admit the mean man who says I look terminal might have a point.

And so I am here to reveal something deeply shameful, and shocking: my name is Liz, and I am a 65-year-old anorexic.

I have had periods of eating normally since I first went on a diet, aged 11. When I say ‘normally’, I mean a whole banana, not half. A few crisps. I don’t not eat to be thin, which was the case when I was younger; I don’t eat because I can’t. I want to enjoy food – I’m addicted to MasterChef, like a nun watching porn – but to me food tastes of nothing. 

I gag when forcing myself to eat a few mouthfuls of my signature dish: cauliflower balti. People assume anorexics have immense willpower, a core of steel that means they are never tempted, but in my case this isn’t true: food repulses me.

I know I have osteoporosis in my spine, but I no longer care. I was given a suitcase of supplements by the clinic in Switzerland that diagnosed my malnutrition but I’m finding them hard to swallow.

I don’t eat because I’m stressed, and I’m more stressed without the nutrients I need for my brain. I’ve just been to my favourite pub for Sunday lunch: nut roast and vegetables; I’m told I need eight portions of veg a day. I couldn’t eat it. I’m going to have to start composting my leftovers.

The owner of my house left his huge composter, containing only dry twigs. The outbuildings are full of rubbish: an old oil tank (my house now has an air-source heat pump), empty bottles, broken furniture, plastic sacks. I might have taken on more than I can chew (especially now I don’t eat). 

Once the mortgage is paid I have £500 left over each month. Doing my sums before completion, I had mistakenly factored in David. I’m reminded of a friend who told me she once dated a man just so that he would remove a block of solidified concrete from beside her front door. I was this close to becoming a common prostitute.

I contacted my lender, asking if I could change to interest only. ‘We don’t offer interest-only loans,’ I was told. ‘But you can opt to do that for six months, without affecting your credit score.’

So that’s what I’ve done. I either have to write a bestseller or find a solvent man. I think the former is slightly more likely…

 Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week

• Since her cancer op, Mini Puppy won’t touch dog food. Only human food. I cooked her some cod from Lidl. Halfway through hand feeding her (I know; she won’t eat from a bowl) I noticed tiny pin bones, even though the packet clearly stated boneless. We’re now haring to the vet…
• Please replace Alison Hammond on For the Love of Dogs. She’s too loud to be around traumatised animals.

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess