Diary – 5 April 2008

My dinner parties are an exercise in patience. People used to tell me how much money they’d made buying in Islington when they did. ‘Good for you,’ I’d say, hating them just a little. I’ve noticed that recently my friends have stopped telling me how much equity they’d managed to suck out and try to change the subject whenever I bring house prices up — which I do with increasing pleasure and regularity.

The other day I woke up to shouting. ‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’ Her voice was shrill with hurt, anger and profound disappointment. ‘What good is saying sorry? You’re not sorry. Not as sorry as I am.’ Sara, my fiancée, is normally a kind and forgiving person. I wondered who had so grievously wronged her. Had she been disinherited? Fired? Was I to blame? Normally I assume I’m in the wrong unless there is evidence to the contrary — it’s safer that way.