Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

< *Spontaneous crying, starts hysterically scratching head.* Not . . . nits!!!>

There was a brief pause then texting noise.

Dazzled by Roxster’s cheerful gallantry, I texted back.

THE ART OF CONCENTRATION

Friday 19 April 2013

134lbs, calories 3482 (bad), number of times checked for nits on Roxster 3, number of nits found on Roxster 0, number of insects found in Roxster’s food 27, number of insects found in house plague 85 (bad), texts to Roxster 2, texts from Roxster 0, mass emails from class parents 36, minutes spent checking emails 62, minutes spent obsessing about Roxster 360, minutes spent deciding to prepare for film meeting 20, minutes spent preparing for film meeting 0.

10.30 a.m. Right. Am really going to get down to work on presentation of my script, which is an updating of the famous Norwegian tragedy Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, only set in Queen’s Park. Studied Hedda Gabbler for my English Literature finals at Bangor University, which unfortunately resulted in a Third. But maybe all that is about to be put right!

10.32 a.m. Imperative to concentrate.

11 a.m. Just made coffee and ate remains of children’s breakfast, then started mooning about remembering things from Roxster visit last night: appearance of Roxter at 11.15 p.m., gorgeous in jeans and a dark sweater, eyes sparkling, grinning, holding a Waitrose shepherd’s pie, two cans of baked beans and a Jamaican ginger cake.

Mmmm. The way his face looks when he’s on top of me, the stubble on the beautiful jawline, the slight gap in his front teeth, which you can only see from below, those beefy naked shoulders. Waking up sleepily in the middle of the night to feel Roxster kissing me very gently, my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, my lips, feeling his hard-on pressing against my thigh. Oh God, he is so beautiful and such a great kisser, and such a great . . . Mmm, mmm. Right, must think about the feminist, pre- and anti-feminist, themes in . . . Oh God, though. It is so delicious, it makes me so happy, like I’m in a bubble of happiness. Right, must get on.

11.15 a.m. Suddenly burst out laughing, remembering overblown mid-sex conversation last night.

‘Oh, oh, oh, you’re so hard.’

‘Hard because I want you, baby.’

‘So hard . . .’

‘You make me hard, baby.’

Then, for some reason, I got carried away and gasped, ‘You make ME hard.’

‘What?’ said Roxster, bursting out laughing. We both collapsed in giggles and then we had to start all over again.

Typically, in his cheerful manner, Roxster seemed unworried by the nits, though we both agreed that in order to have Responsible Sex, we must nit-comb each other first. Roxster was so funny, combing my hair, pretending to find and eat the nits, whilst intermittently kissing the back of my neck. When it was my turn to nit-comb Roxster, however, did not want to draw attention to my age by putting on reading glasses, so ended up studiously nit-combing his gorgeous thick hair, without being able to see anything at all. Fortunately Roxster seemed too keen to get it over with and into the bedroom for him to notice my blindness. And was probably fine because of his testosterone. But surely it is not normal to be too vain to put on your reading glasses to nit-comb your toy boy?

11.45 a.m. Right. My script! You see, Hedda Gabbler is really very relevant to the modern woman because it is about the perils of trying to live through men. Why hasn’t Roxster texted me yet? Hope it is not because of the insect incident.

Roxster and I were able, unusually, to have breakfast together today, as Chloe the nanny was taking them to school. Chloe, who has been working for me since just after it happened, is like the improved version of me: younger, thinner, taller, nicer, better at looking after the children, and with an age-appropriate life partner called Graham. Nevertheless, consider it better that Roxster does not meet either Chloe or the children at this stage, so he hides in the bedroom until they have all gone off to school.

Roxster was just happily tucking into his first bowl of muesli, when he spat his mouthful out onto the table. Obviously am used to this sort of thing, though not, admittedly, from Roxster. But then he held out the bowl. The muesli was jumping with tiny insects, flailing and drowning in the milk.

‘Are they nits?’ I said aghast.

‘No,’ he said darkly, ‘weevils.’

Unfortunately my response was to start giggling.

‘Have you any idea what it’s like to put a spoonful of insects in your mouth?’ he said. ‘I could have died. And, more importantly, so could they.’

Then, just as he was tipping the bowl into the correct food recycling bin, he cried, ‘Ants!’ There was a neat line of ants coming from the basement door to the food recycling bin. When he tried to move back the curtain to get rid of them, a small cloud of moths fluttered out.

‘Aaargh! It’s like the Nine Plagues of Egypt in here!’ he said.

And even though he laughed, and gave me a very sexy kiss in the hall, he did not say anything about impending weekend and I have a feeling something is wrong – even if only the combined insult to his three great loves: insects, food and recycling.

Noon. Gaah! Is noon already and have not prepared any of my Thoughts.

12.05 p.m. Still Roxster has not texted. Maybe I should text him? Clearly, in textbook terms, the gentleman should text the lady first after intercourse, but perhaps the whole socio-etiquettical system breaks down when an insect plague is involved.

12.10 p.m. Right. Hedda Gabbler.

12.15 p.m. Just texted:

12.20 p.m. Right. Excellent. Hedda Gabbler. Roxster has not replied.

12.30 p.m. Roxster has still not replied. This is not like Roxster.

Maybe will check emails. Sometimes Roxster switches electronic mediums just to show off.

Inbox is overrun not only by Ocado, ASOS, Snappy Snaps, Cotswold Holiday Cottages, links to amusing YouTube clips, offers of Mexican viagra, save the dates for Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party, but also rash of parent mass emails over Atticus’s missing shoes.

Sender:

Nicolette Martinez

Subject:

Atticus’s shoes

Atticus came home wearing Luigi’s shoe but his other shoe is also not his nor is it labelled. I would appreciate the return of both of Atticus’s shoes, both of which were clearly labelled.

12.35 p.m. Decided to join in group exchange to show solidarity and take mind off work.

Sender:

Bridget Billymum

Subject:

Re: Atticus’s shoes

Just to clarify – did Atticus and Luigi go home from swimming just wearing one shoe each?

12.40 p.m. Hee hee, have triggered funny mass email response: jokes about children coming home with no trousers, knickers, etc.

Sender:

Bridget Billymum

Subject:

Billy’s ear

Billy came home from football last night wearing only one ear. Does anyone have Billy’s other ear? It was VERY clearly labelled and I would appreciate its prompt return.

12.45 p.m. Tee hee.

Sender:

Nicolette Martinez

Subject:

Re: Billy’s ear

Some parents appear to think that the boys taking care of their own property and the parents clearly labelling it is a matter for amusement. It is actually important for their development as self-reliant individuals. Perhaps if it was their child’s shoes which were missing they would take a different view.

12.50 p.m. Oh no, oh no. Have offended Class Mother and probably horrified everyone else as well. Will send direct mass apology.

Sender:

Bridget Billymum

Subject:

Atticus’s shoes, Billy’s ears, etc.

I’m sorry, Nicorette. I was trying to write and bored and just joking. Am very bad.

12.55 p.m. Gaaah!

Sender:

Nicolette Martinez

Subject:

Bridget Jones

Bridget – Possibly the misspelling of my name was a Freudian slip. I think we all know you struggle with the occasional smoking lapse. If it was intentional it was hurtful and rude. Perhaps we need to talk all this through with the head of Pastoral Care.

NicoLette

Shit! I called her Nicorette! Look. Don’t dig yourself in further. Just leave it now and concentrate!

1.47 p.m. This is ridiculous! I’m just COMPLETELY blocked.

1.48 p.m. All the class mothers hate me and Roxster has not replied.

1.52 p.m. Slumped at kitchen table.

1.53 p.m. Look. No going over to the dark side. Grazina the Cleaner will be here any second and she can’t see me like this. Will leave a note re insect plague and go to Starbucks.

2.16 p.m. In Starbucks now with ham-and-cheese panini. Right.

3.16 p.m. Huge gaggles of posh mothers with prams have taken cafe over, talking really loudly about their husbands.

3.17 p.m. Is so noisy in here. Hate people who talk on their phones in cafes – ooh, phone, maybe Roxster!

3.30p.m. Was Jude, clearly in meeting, whispering furtively, ‘Bridget. Vile Richard has totally fallen for Isabella.’

‘Who’s Isabella?’ I whispered urgently back.

‘The girl we made up on PlentyofFish. Vile Richard’s fixed to have a date with her tomorrow.’

‘But she isn’t real.’

‘Exactly. She’s me. He’s arranged to meet me, I mean her, at the Shadow Lounge and she’s going to stand him up.’

‘Brilliant,’ I whispered, as Jude said bossily, ‘So just put a stop order of two million yen at a hundred and twenty-five and wait for the quarterly profits.’ Then whispered, ‘And simultaneously, the guy I met on DatingSingleDoctors is meeting me – the actual me – two blocks away at the Soho Hotel.’

‘Great!’ I said, confusedly.

‘I know, right? Gottogobye.’

Hope the man from DatingSingleDoctors doesn’t turn out to be made up by Vile Richard.

3.40 p.m. Roxster still has not texted. Cannot concentrate. Am going home.

4 p.m. Got home to find terrifyingly pungent old-lady smell. Grazina had diligently followed my scribbled instructions, thrown all the food away, cleaned and sprayed everything and put mothballs in and behind any conceivable entry or exit to all floorboards, walls, doors or items of furniture. Will take me all weekend, and possibly rest of life, to find and destroy all mothballs. No moth could live through this or, crucially, toy boy. But that is, presumably, irrelevant, as STILL NO TEXT.

4.15 p.m. Gaah! There is bang, clatter and voices of everyone coming home. Is Friday night, is time for Chloe to leave and have not prepared my Thoughts.

4.16 p.m. How could Roxster not respond? Even though my last text was a question. Or was it? Will just check my last text again.

Lurched in dismay. There was not only a question, an ending of text with a question, but an undeniably presumptuous presumption that I would see Roxster again.

6 p.m. Went downstairs, attempting to conceal meltdown from Billy and Mabel (who fortunately, as is weekend, were absorbed respectively in Plants vs. Zombies and Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2) whilst simultaneously heating up spag bog (actually spag cheese without spag as Grazina has thrown away all the pasta). Finally, when supper was over, something about loading the dishwasher made me crack and send Roxster a fraudulently cheery text saying:

Then went into paroxysms of agony, so bad that I had to let Billy just stay permanently killing plants with zombies, and Mabel watching Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2 for the seventh time so they wouldn’t notice. Realized was irresponsible and lazy parenting, but decided not as bad as emotional damage inflicted by awareness of melting-down mother over someone closer in age to – Gaaah! Is Roxster actually closer in age to Mabel than me? No, but I think he might be to Billy. Oh God. What am I thinking? No wonder he has stopped texting.

9.15 p.m. Still no text. Able, at last, to free-fall into well of misery, insecurity, emotional-pillow-pulled-from-under-feet, etc. The thing about going out with a younger man is that it makes you feel that you have miraculously turned back time. Sometimes, when we’re on the chair in the bathroom, and I catch sight of us in the mirror, I just can’t believe this is me, doing this with Roxster, at my age. But now it’s gone away I have burst like a bubble. Am I just using the whole thing to block existential despair about growing old, and the fear that maybe I’m going to have a stroke, and what would happen to Billy and Mabel?

It was worse when they were babies. Had constant dread that I would spontaneously die in the night, or fall down the stairs, and no one would come, and they would be left alone, and end up eating me. But then as Jude pointed out, ‘It’s better than dying alone and being eaten by an Alsatian.’

9.30 p.m. Must remember what it says in Zen and the Art of Falling in Love: when he comes, we welcome, when he goes, we let him go. Also, when Zen students sit on the Cushion they make friends with Loneliness, which is different from Aloneness. Loneliness is Transience and the way that people we love come into our lives and go away again which is just part of Life, or maybe that is Aloneness, and Loneliness is . . . Still no text.

11 p.m. Cannot get to sleep.

11.15 p.m. Oh, Mark. Mark. I know I did all this ‘Will he call, won’t he call?’ when we were going out, before we were married. But even then it was different. I knew him so well, I’d known him since I was running round his parents’ lawn with no clothes on.

He used to have conversations with me when he was sleeping. That’s when I could find out what he was really feeling inside.

‘Mark?’ That dark, handsome face, sleeping on the pillow. ‘Are you lovely?’

Sighing in his sleep, looking sad, ashamed, shaking his head.

‘Does your mummy love you?’

Very sad, now, trying to say ‘no’ through his sleep. Mark Darcy, the big powerful human rights lawyer, and inside, the little damaged boy, sent away to boarding school at seven.

‘Do I love you?’ I’d say. And then he would smile in his sleep, happy, proud, nod his head, pull me to him, snuggle me under his arm.

We knew each other inside out, back to front. Mark was a gentleman and I trusted him completely in everything and I went out from that safe place into the world. It was like exploring the scary underwater ocean from our safe little submarine. And now . . . everything is scary and nothing will be safe again.

11.55 p.m. What am I doing? What am I doing? Why did I start all this? Why didn’t I just stay as I was? Sad, lonely, workless, sexless, but at least a mother and faithful to their . . . faithful to their father.

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

Friday 19 April 2013 (continued)

Five years. Has it really been five years? To start with it was just a question of getting through the day. Thankfully, Mabel was too little to know anything about it, but, oh, the flashbacks to Billy, running all through the house saying, ‘I lost Dada!’ Jeremy and Magda at the door, a policeman behind them, the look on their faces. Running instinctively to the children, holding them both to me in terror: ‘What’s wrong, Mummy? What’s wrong?’ Government people in the living room, someone accidentally turning on the news, Mark’s face on the television with a caption:

Mark Darcy 1956–2008

The memories are a blur. Friends, family, surrounding me like a womb, Mark’s lawyer friends sorting everything, the will, the death duties, unbelievable, like a film that was going to stop. The dreams, with Mark still in them. The mornings, waking at 5 a.m., washed clean by sleep for a split second, thinking everything was the same, then remembering: poleaxed by pain, as though a great stake was ramming me to the bed, straight through the heart, unable to move in case I disturbed the pain and it spread, knowing that in half an hour the children would be awake and I’d be on: nappies, bottles, trying to pretend it was OK, or at least keep things together till help arrived and I could go off and howl in the bathroom, then put some mascara on and brace up again.

But the thing about having kids is: you can’t go to pieces; you just have to keep going. KBO: Keep Buggering On. The army of bereavement counsellors and therapists helped with Billy and later Mabel: ‘manageable versions of the truth’, ‘honesty’, ‘talking’, ‘no secrets’, a ‘secure base’ from which to deal with it. But for the soidisant ‘secure base’ – i.e. (try not to laugh) me – it was different.

The main thing I remember from those sessions was, bottom line: ‘Can you survive?’ There wasn’t any choice. All those thoughts that crowded in – our last moment together, the feel of Mark’s suit against my skin, me in my nightie, the unknowing last kiss goodbye, trying to recapture the look in his eye, the ring at the doorbell, the faces on the doorstep, the thoughts, ‘I never . . .’ ‘If only . . .’, they had to be blocked out. The carefully orchestrated grieving process, watched over by experts with soft voices, and caring upside-down smiles, was less helpful than figuring out how to change a nappy whilst simultaneously microwaving a fish finger. Just keeping the ship afloat, if not exactly upright, was, I thought, 90 per cent of the battle. Mark had everything arranged: financial details, insurance policies. We got out of the big house full of memories in Holland Park, and into our little house in Chalk Farm. School fees, home, bills, income, all practical matters perfectly taken care of: no need to work now, just Mabel and Billy – my miniature Mark – all I had left of him to keep alive, and to keep me alive. A mother, a widow, putting one foot in front of the other. But inside I was an empty shell, devastated, no longer me.

By the time four years had gone by, however, the friends were not having it.

PART ONE

ONE YEAR AGO . . .

These are the extracts from last year’s diary, starting exactly one year ago, four years after Mark died, which show how I got myself into the current mess.

2012 DIARY

Thursday 19 April 2012

175lb, alcohol units 4 (nice), calories 2822 (but better eating real food in club than bits of old cheese and fish fingers at home), possibility of having or desire to have sex ever again 0.

‘She HAS to get laid,’ said Talitha firmly, sipping a vodka martini and glancing alarmingly around Shoreditch House for candidates.

It was one of our semi-regular evenings which Talitha, Tom and Jude insist I attend, in an effort to ‘Get Me Out’, rather like taking Granny to the seaside.

‘She does,’ said Tom. ‘Did I tell you, I got a suite at the Chedi in Chiang Mai for only two hundred quid a night on LateRooms.com. There was a Junior Suite for 179 on Expedia but it didn’t have a terrace.’

Tom, in later life, has become increasingly obsessed with boutique-hotel holidays and trying to make us tailor our lifestyles to fit in with Gwyneth Paltrow’s blog.

‘Tom, shut up,’ murmured Jude, looking up from her iPhone, where she was on DatingSingleDoctors. ‘This is serious. We have to do something. She’s become a Born-Again Virgin.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘It’s a total impossibility. I don’t want anyone else. And anyway, even if I did, which I don’t, I’m non-viable, completely asexual and no one will ever fancy me again, ever, ever, ever.’

I stared at my stomach, bulging under my black top. It was true. I had become a Born-Again Virgin. The trouble with the modern world is that you are bombarded with images of sex and sexuality all the time – the hand on the bum on the billboard, the couples smooching on the beach in the Sandals ad, real-life couples entwined in the park, condoms by the till in the chemist – a whole wonderful magical world of sex, which you no longer belong to and never will again.

‘I’m not going to fight it, it’s just part of being a widow and the process of turning into a little old lady,’ I said melodramatically, hoping they would all immediately insist I was Penelope Cruz or Scarlett Johansson.

‘Oh, darling, don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ said Talitha, summoning the waiter for another cocktail. ‘You probably do need to lose a bit of weight, and get some Botox and do something with your hair, but—’

‘Botox?’ I said indignantly.

‘Oh God,’ Jude suddenly burst out. ‘This guy isn’t a doctor. He was on DanceLoverDating. It’s the same photo!’

‘Maybe he’s a doctor who’s also a dance lover and just covering all the bases?’ I encouraged.

‘Jude, shut up,’ said Tom. ‘You are lost in a morass of nebulous cyber presences, most of whom don’t exist and who simply turn each other on and off randomly at will.’

‘Botox can kill you,’ I said darkly. ‘It’s botulism. It comes from cows.’

‘So what? Better to die of Botox than die of loneliness because you’re so wrinkly.’

‘For God’s sake, shut up, Talitha,’ said Tom.

Suddenly found self missing Shazzer again and wishing she was here to say, ‘Will everyone fucking stop the fuck telling everyone else to shut the fuck up.’

‘Yes, shut up, Talitha,’ said Jude. ‘Not everyone wants to look like a freak show.’

‘Darling,’ said Talitha, putting her hand to her brow, ‘I am NOT a “freak show”. Grieving apart, Bridget has lost, or shall we say, mislaid, her sense of sexual self. And it’s our duty to help her relocate it.’

And with a toss of her lush, shining locks Talitha settled back into her chair while the three of us stared at her silently, sucking our cocktails through our straws like five-year-olds.

Talitha burst out again, ‘The thing about not looking your age is, it’s all about altering the “signposts”. The body must be forced to reject the fat-positioning of middle age, wrinkles are completely unnecessary and a fine head of swingy shiny healthy hair—’

‘Purchased for a pittance from impoverished Indian virgins,’ interjected Tom.

‘—however obtained and attached, is all one needs to turn back the clock.’

‘Talitha,’ said Jude, ‘did I actually just hear you articulate the words “Middle” and “Age”?’

‘Anyway, I can’t,’ I said.

‘Look. This really makes me very sad,’ said Talitha. ‘Women of our age—’

‘Your age,’ muttered Jude.

‘—have only got themselves to blame if they brand themselves as unviable by going on and on about how they haven’t had a date for four years. Germaine Greer’s “Disappearing Woman” must be brutally murdered and buried. One needs, for the sake of oneself and one’s peers, to create an air of mysterious confidence and allure, rebranding oneself—’

‘Like Gwyneth Paltrow,’ said Tom brightly.

‘Gwyneth Paltrow is not “our age” and she’s married,’ said Jude.

‘No, I mean I can’t shag anyone,’ I elucidated. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the kids. There’s too much to do, and men are very high-maintenance matters.’

Talitha surveyed me sorrowfully, my customary black loose-waisted trousers and long top swathing the ruins of what was once my figure. I mean, Talitha does have some authority to speak, having been married three times and, ever since I first met her, never without some completely besotted man in tow.

‘A woman has her needs,’ Talitha growled dramatically. ‘What good is a mother to her poor children if she’s suffering from low self-esteem and sexual frustration? If you don’t get laid soon, you will literally close up. More importantly, you will shrivel. And you will become bitter.’

‘Anyway,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘It wouldn’t be fair to Mark.’

There was silence for a moment. It was as if a huge wet fish had been thrown into the high-spirited mood of the evening.

Later, though, Tom drunkenly followed me into the Ladies’, leaning against the wall for support as I flapped my hands around the designer tap trying to get it to turn on.

‘Bridget,’ said Tom, as I started groping under the washbasin for pedals.

I looked up from under the sink. ‘What?’

Tom had gone into professional mode again.

‘Mark. He would want you to find someone. He wouldn’t want you to stop—’

‘I haven’t stopped,’ I said, straightening up with some difficulty.

‘You need to work,’ he said. ‘You need to get a life. And you need someone to be with you and love you.’

‘I do have a life,’ I said gruffly. ‘And I don’t need a man, I have the children.’

‘Well, if nothing else, you need someone to show you how to turn taps on.’ He reached over to the square tap column and turned a bit of the base, at which water started gushing out. ‘Have a look on Goop,’ he said, suddenly changing back into funny, flippant Tom. ‘See what Gwyneth has to say about sex and French-style parenting!’

11.15 p.m. Just said goodnight to Chloe, trying to conceal slight squiffiness.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘Five minutes?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, kindly. ‘Glad you had a bit of fun!’

11.45 p.m. In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child-centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’

11.50 p.m. Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.

11.52 p.m. Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy-headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat-pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.

11.53 p.m. Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.

11.54 p.m. Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.

Midnight. Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets, diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.

12.01 a.m. Flapped in fugue-like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom-crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.

Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.

12.07 a.m. Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of Exorcist except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.

12.08 a.m. Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit-filled California-style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.

12.10 a.m. Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross-border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.

He’s missing all the little moments, I thought. Missing his own children growing up. Even this would have been funny instead of confusing and scary. One of us could have stayed with them and the other done the sheets, then we could have got into bunk beds again and giggled about it and . . . how could anyone else ever delight in them and love them as he would have, even when they are pooing everywhere and . . .?

12.15 a.m. ‘Mummy!’ Billy jerked self back to reality. Was difficult situation, undeniably: everyone poo- and sick-smeared, alarmed and retching. Ideal would be to separate children and fabrics/fluids and put both children in warm bath and find sheets. But what if pooing/vomiting continued? What then? Water could become toxic, and possibly cholera-filled, like open sewer in refugee camp.

12.16 a.m. Arrived at makeshift solution: placing plastic mat on bathroom floor with pillows, towels, etc. generally around.

12.20 a.m. Resolved to go down to washing machine (i.e. fridge to get wine).

12.24 a.m. Closed door and ran down.

12.27 a.m. Having cleared head with swig of wine, realized was immaterial washing sheets, etc. Only essential objective, surely, was to keep children alive until morning, ideally simultaneously avoiding nervous breakdown.

12.45 a.m. Realized wine, though fortifying head, had done opposite to stomach.

12.50 a.m. Threw up.

2 a.m. Billy and Mabel both now asleep on bathroom floor on and under towels, cleaned to a degree. Resolve simply to sleep next to them in poo- and sick-covered vaguely sexual nightie.

2.05 a.m. Experiencing pleasing sense of triumph, like general who has brought massacre, bloodbath, etc. back from brink, engineering peaceful solution: even starting to hear theme tune from Gladiator, seeing self as Russell Crowe, partially obscured by caption: ‘A Hero Will Rise’.

At same time, however, am unable to avoid sense that attempting any sort of erotic scenario with this sort of thing going on might not be a particularly good idea.

A NEW START – A NEW ME

Friday 20 April 2012

173lb, minutes set aside for meditation 20, minutes spent meditating 0.

2 p.m. Right. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. Am going to return to Zen/New Age/self-help-book study and yoga, etc., starting from the inside not the outside, meditate regularly, and lose weight. Have got all set up with candle and yoga mat in bathroom and am going to quietly meditate and settle mind before taking kids to doctors, remembering to allow time to a) get snacks and b) locate missing car keys.

Also the other things am going to do are as follows:

I WILL

*Lose 30lb.

*Get on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp instead of feeling old and out of it because everyone except self is on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp.

*Stop being scared of turning on the television but instead simply locate and read instruction manuals for TV, Virgin box DVD remotes and buttons, so that TV becomes source of entertainment and pleasure rather than meltdown.

*Do regular Life Laundry, cleansing house of all unnecessary possessions, esp. cupboard under stairs, so is a place for everything and everything in its place in manner of Buddhist Zendo/Martha Stewart’s house.

*With above in mind, ask Mum to stop sending me unused handbags, ‘stoles’, Wedgwood ‘tureens’, etc., reminding her that age of rationing ended some time ago and is now space rather than possessions which is in short supply (at least in Western urban world).

*Start writing my

Hedda Gabbler

adaptation in order to have professional adult life again.

*Actually write said screenplay instead of spending half day setting off to look for something then wandering vaguely from room to room worrying about unanswered emails, texts, bills, play dates, go-kart parties, leg waxes, doctors’ appointments, parents’ evenings, babysitting schedules, strange noise from fridge, cupboard under stairs, reason why telly won’t work, then sitting down again realizing have forgotten what was looking for in the first place.

*Not wear same three things all the time, but instead go through wardrobe and put together fashionable ‘looks’ based on celebrities at airports.

*Clear cupboard under stairs.

*Find out why fridge is making that noise.

*Go on email for one hour only per day instead of spending entire day in helpless cyber-circle of email, news stories, Calendar, Google and shopping and holiday websites whilst texting, then not answering any of emails anyway.

*Not add Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp and whatever to cyber-circle when have got on them.

*Deal with emails immediately and so that email becomes effective means of communication instead of terrifying Unexploded Email Inbox full of guilt trips and undetonated time-vampire bombs.

*Be better at looking after the children than Chloe the nanny.

*Establish regular routine with children so everyone knows where they are and what supposed to be doing, esp. self.

*Read parenting self-help books, including

One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting

and

French Children Don’t Throw Food

in order to be better at looking after the children than Chloe.

*Be kinder to Talitha, Jude, Tom and Magda in return for their kindness to me.

*Go to Pilates once a week, Zumba twice a week, gym three times a week and yoga four times a week.

I WILL NOT

*Drink so much Diet Coke before yoga that entire yoga session becomes exercise in trying not to fart.

*Ever be late for school run.

*Do V-signs at people during school run.

*Get annoyed by dishwasher, tumble dryer and microwave beeping in attention-seeking manner to tell you they have finished, wasting time crossly imitating dishwasher by dancing round saying, ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a dishwasher, I’ve washed the dishes.’

*Get annoyed with Mum, Una or Perfect Nicolette.

*Call Nicolette ‘Nicorette’.

*Chew more than ten pieces of Nicorette per day.

*Hide empty wine bottles from Chloe.

*Eat grated cheese straight out of the fridge, dropping it all over the floor.

*Be shouty or snarly with the children but talk in calm, even, electronic-person-on-voicemail-type voice at all times.

*Drink more than one can (each) of Red Bull and Diet Coke a day.

*Drink more than two non-decaf cappuccinos a day. Or three.

*Eat more than three Big Macs or Starbucks ham-and-cheese paninis per week.

*Keep saying, ‘One . . . two . . .’ in warning voice to children before have decided what to do when get to ‘three’.

*Lie in bed in the morning thinking morbid or erotic thoughts, but get straight up at six o’clock and do self up for school run in manner of Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer or similar.

*Wang around hysterically when things go wrong but instead achieve acceptance and calm – and stand like a great tree in the midst of it all.

But how can I accept what happened?. . . Look, I mustn’t . . . Gaah! Is time for doctor’s appointment and have not got snack ready, written, meditated or located whereabouts of EFFING CAR KEYS! FUCK!

SOCIAL MEDIA VIRGIN

Saturday 21 April 2012

172lb, minutes spent on exercise bike 0, minutes spent cleaning out cupboard 0, minutes spent working out how to use remotes 0, resolutions kept 0.

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep and house is all dark and quiet. Oh God, I’M SO LONELY. Everyone else in London is out laughing uproariously with their friends in restaurants and then having sex.

9.25 p.m. Look. Is absolutely fine being in on own on Saturday nights. Will simply clear out cupboard under stairs then get on exercise bike.

9.30 p.m. Just looked in cupboard. Maybe not.

9.32 p.m. Just looked in fridge. Maybe will have glass of wine and bag of grated cheese.

9.35 p.m. That’s better. Am going to get on Twitter! With the advent of social media is no need for anyone to feel isolated and alone ever again.

9.45 p.m. Have got onto Twitter site but do not understand. Is just incomprehensible streams of gibberish half-conversations with @this and @that. How is anybody supposed to know what is going on?

Sunday 22 April 2012

9.15 p.m. OK. Have got self set up on Twitter now. Need to find name. Something young-sounding: TotesAmazogBridget?

9.46 p.m. Maybe not.

10.15 p.m. JoneseyBJ!

10.16 p.m. But why does it call it @JoneseyBJ? @? At? At what?

Monday 23 April 2012

176lb (oh God), Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Cannot figure out how to put up photo. Is just empty egg-shaped graphic. Is fine! Can be photo of self before was conceived.

9.45 p.m. Right. Will wait for followers.

9.47 p.m. No followers.

9.50 p.m. Actually will not wait for followers. A watched pot never boils.

10 p.m. Wonder if I’ve got any followers yet.

10.02 p.m. No followers.

10.12 p.m. Still no followers. Humph. Whole point of Twitter is you are supposed to talk to people but there isn’t anyone to talk to.

10.15 p.m. Followers 0. Feel lurching sense of shame and fear: maybe they are all Twittering to each other, and ignoring me because I’m unpopular.

10.16 p.m. Maybe even Twittering to each other about how unpopular I am, behind my back.

10.30 p.m. Great. Not only am I isolated and alone but also, now clearly, unpopular.

Tuesday 24 April 2012

175lb, calories 4827, number of minutes spent fiddling furiously with technological devices 127, number of technological devices managed to get to do anything they were supposed to 0, number of minutes spent doing anything nice apart from eating 4827 calories and fiddling with technological devices 0, number of Twitter followers 0.

7.06 a.m. Just remembered am on Twitter. Feel wildly puffed up! Part of huge social revolution and young. Last night I just didn’t give it enough time! Maybe thousands of followers will have appeared overnight! Millions! I will have gone viral. Cannot wait to see how many followers have come!!

7.10 a.m. Oh.

7.11 a.m. Still no followers.

Wednesday 25 April 2012

178lb, number of times checked for Twitter followers 87, Twitter followers 0, calories 4832 (bad but fault of non-existent Twitter followers).

9.15 p.m. Still no followers. Have eaten the following things:

* 2 chocolate croissants

* 7 Babybel cheeses (but one was half eaten)

* ½ bag of grated mozzarella

* 2 Diet Cokes

* 1.5 leftover sausages from kids’ breakfast

* ½ a McDonald’s cheeseburger from fridge

* 3 Tunnock’s Tea Cakes

* 1 bar Cadbury’s Dairy Milk (large)

Tuesday 1 May 2012

11.45 p.m. Have just been whitelisted by Twitter for checking my followers 150 times in one hour.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Am not going to do Twitter any more or check followers any more. Maybe will go on Facebook.

9.20 p.m. Just called Jude to ask how to get on Facebook. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It’s a good way of keeping in touch but you’ll end up looking at endless pictures of exes embracing their new girlfriends, then finding they’ve de-friended you.’

Humph. Not very likely to happen to me. Am going to try Facebook.

9.30 p.m. Maybe will wait a bit before attempting Facebook.

Jude just called me back, laughing. ‘Really don’t do Facebook yet. I just got a thing saying Tom is checking out dating profiles. He must have ticked a box by accident. Everyone can see, including his parents and former psychology professors.’

THE FLABBY DIAPHRAGM

Wednesday 9 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.30 a.m. Emergency! Back has gone. I mean, not actually gone, in sense of still having shoulders attached to bottom. But was just checking Twitter for followers then slammed laptop shut, tossing head dismissively and saying, ‘Pah!’ and whole of left upper back suddenly went into spasm. Is like I didn’t notice I had a back before and now it is complete agony and what am I going to do?

11 a.m. Just back from osteopath. Osteopath said it is not fault of Twitter but due to years of lifting children and I should try bending from the legs instead of the back – i.e. squat like an African tribal woman, which seems a bit ungainly, though not to insult the gracefulness of African tribal women who are of course very graceful.

She asked if I had any other symptoms and I said, ‘Acid.’ She poked around my stomach exclaiming, ‘Gosh! This is the flabbiest diaphragm I’ve ever felt.’

Turns out, because of my age, my entire middle section has refused to go back like it was and all my intestines are flobbering about, uncontained. No wonder they are hanging over my black sweatpants like porridge.

‘What shall I do?’

‘You’ll have to start working that stomach,’ she said. ‘And you’ll have to lose some of the fat. There’s a very good new obesity clinic at St Catherine’s Hospital.’

‘OBESITY CLINIIIIIIIIIIC?’ I said indignantly, jumping up from the bed and putting my clothes back on. ‘I might have a bit of baby fat, but I’m not obese!’

‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’re not obese. It’s just very effective if you want to lose weight properly. It’s very hard when you’ve got little ones.’

‘I know,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s all very well knowing what you’re supposed to be eating, but if you’re surrounded by leftover fish fingers and chips at five o’clock every night, and then eat them and have your own dinner later . . .’

‘Exactly, the clinic puts you on meal replacement so there isn’t any argument,’ said the osteopath. ‘You just don’t put anything else into your mouth.’

Not sure what Tom, Jude and Talitha would say about that one, harrumph harrumph.

Left in huff, then had sudden urge to go back in and say, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

9.15 p.m. Got home and surveyed self aghast in mirror. Am starting to look like a heron. My legs and arms have stayed the same, but my whole upper body is like a large bird with a big roll of fat round the middle that, when clothed, looks like it should be served up at Christmas with cranberry jelly and gravy; when unclothed, as though it’s been cooking all night in a pot in a box full of straw in Scotland, and is about to be served up for an extended family’s post-Hogmanay breakfast. Talitha is right. The secret is to alter the automatic fat positioning of (unacceptable outdated phrase approaching) Middle Age.

Thursday 10 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

10 a.m. Just spoke to Obesity Clinic. Encouragingly, there was some doubt over whether I was actually obese enough to be accepted! Found self, for first time in life, lying about weight to make it heavier than it actually is.

10.10 a.m. Am going to completely transform my body into a lean muscular thing with tight band of muscle round the middle, holding in the intestines.

10.15 a.m. Just reflexively put remains of kids’ breakfast into mouth.

Thursday 17 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.45 a.m. On point of Obesity Clinic departure. Feel have got to lowest ebb ever. Will be like one of those people you see in medical news reports looking ashamed of themselves, having their blood pressure taken in hospital gowns while a trim, streamlined reporter talks in front of them in stern, concerned tones, about the ‘Obesity Epidemic’.

10 p.m. Obesity Clinic was FANTASTIC. After initial awkwardness of having to repeat ‘The Obesity Clinic’ increasingly loudly to the receptionist, eventually reached the clinic, to see a man who was so large he was actually wheeling his fat on a trolley in front of him. He seemed to be being hit on by an only slightly less large woman who was saying to him in a seductive voice, ‘Were you Childhood Obese?’

People were looking at me, with the sort of admiration I hadn’t felt since I was twenty-two and running round in a psychedelic shirt tied up in a knot revealing my flat midriff. Realized they must think I was one of the clinic’s success stories nearing the end of my ‘programme’. Felt unaccustomed, leaping sense of self-confidence. Realized this was wrong, and disrespectful to fellow patients.

Also, the very fact of seeing fat as a separate body attachment being wheeled on a trolley started to make me see fat as an actual thing. Realize, in the past, have seen fat as some totally unreasonable, random act of nature rather than a direct product of things-put-in-mouth.

‘Name,’ said the man on reception, who, worryingly, was very fat himself. Surely the people who work at the clinic ought to have got this one down by now?

The whole thing was medical and complex: blood tests, ECGs and consultations. Once we got over the moment of awkwardness when they tried to put me down on the form as a ‘geriatric mother’ it all went absolutely swimmingly. Seems like the whole thing of weighing yourself is not the point. The point is to drop dress sizes. And people who are very, very fat – say fifty or a hundred pounds overweight – can lose a lot – like twelve pounds of fat in one week! And that is actual fat. But if you’re just trying to lose 10, 15 per cent of your body weight, anything more than a couple of pounds isn’t losing fat, it’s (darkly) other things.

You see, crucially, is not about weight but the percentage of fat to muscle. If you just go on a crash diet, and do not lift weights, you end up losing your muscles, which are heavier than your fat. So you weigh less, but are more fat. Or something. Anyway, upshot is: am supposed to go to gym.

My diet is going to be just protein chocolate puddings and protein chocolate bars, then a small portion of protein and vegetables in the evenings, so I mustn’t put anything in my mouth which isn’t those things. (Apart from penises – why did mind think such a thought? Chance would be a fine thing, though after today it is suddenly looking like that might be a possibility.)

MAKEOVER!

Thursday 24 May 2012

179lb (huh), pounds lost 0, Twitter followers 0, protein chocolate bars consumed 28, chocolate protein puddings consumed 37, number of meals replaced by protein chocolate bars or puddings 0, average number of calories per day eaten combining normal food with protein products 4,798.

Just went to Obesity Clinic for first week’s progress weigh-in.

‘Bridget,’ said the nurse, ‘you’re supposed to replace the meals with the protein products, not eat them as well.’

Looked sulkily at the chart then blurted out, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘I am not,’ she said, ‘on Twitter. Now, next week, forget about Twitter and just eat the products. Nothing else. OK?’

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep. Oh God, I’m so lonely, Twitter follower-less, fat, hungry and sick of effing obesity products. Hate this time of day when children are asleep. Should be relaxing and fun instead of just lonely. Right. Am not going to wallow in it. In next three months am going to:

* Lose 75lb

* Gain 75 Twitter followers

* Write 75 pages of screenplay

* Learn to operate television

* Find friend with children same age who lives nearby so whole evening is fun instead of chaos followed by grated-cheese stuffing-fest

Yes! That is what I need. Is not natural for children to be isolated in individual houses with one or two adults focusing far too much attention on their happiness, scared to let them play in the street for fear of paedophiles. Sure there must have been paedophiles when we were growing up, but mass-media-induced fear of paedophiles has changed the whole face of parenting. Need other parents to spontaneously talk and drink wine with while children play, so whole thing would be like extended Italian family having dinner under a tree. For as the saying goes, ‘It takes a whole village to raise a child.’

Also, to get a celebrity ready for the red carpet.

Actually, there is a nice woman I have seen opposite who seems to have children – though ‘nice’ is perhaps the wrong word. She is wildly bohemian, with mane of black hair topped off with things that would be more at home in a garden centre or pet shop than on a head. Whole thing might look strange were it not for her equally outlandish dark bohemian beauty. Have seen her along with other people coming and going: children, teenagers – nannies? mannies? lovers? – a ruggedly handsome man who may be a husband, or a visiting artist, and, from time to time, a baby. Maybe she has kids the same age?

Feeling more jolly now. Tomorrow will be better.

Thursday 31 May 2012

175lb

Yayy! Have lost 4lbs since last week! Am back to weight at start of diet. Though nurse says loss is not really fat but ‘other things’. Also says I need to start e.g. cycling instead of sitting on my arse all day.

Thursday 7 June 2012

171lb

10 a.m. Have embraced the bike-borrowing scheme of our eccentric (i.e. sensible) mayor, Boris Johnson – bought Boris Bike key, and borrowed Boris Bike and everything! Suddenly feel part of cool bicycling London: whole world of carefree young people eschewing cars and being lean and green! Am going to cycle to Obesity Clinic.

10.30 a.m. Just returned, traumatized from bike ride. Completely terrifying. Kept feeling had forgotten to put seat belt on, and getting off whenever a car came. Maybe will go on canal towpath.

11.30 a.m. Just back from canal ride on bike. Went really well until someone threw an egg at me from a bridge. Or maybe it was a bird which went into sudden early labour. Will clean off egg, not do Boris Bikes any more and go to Obesity Clinic on bus. At least will be alive and clean when sitting on arse instead of dead and covered in egg.

Thursday 14 June 2012

167lb!

Keep repeatedly taking off clothes and getting on scales, then taking off watch, bracelet, etc. and staring delightedly at dial. Just makes me want to do diet more.

Wednesday 20 June 2012

1 p.m. Have just been to gym – which is good, though hideous, obviously. Also what is the law which says that when changing room is empty except for one other person, their locker will always be the one directly above yours?

Now am going to got back on Twitter and find people.

1.30 p.m.

<@DalaiLama Just as a snake sheds its skin, so we must shed our past again and again.>

You see? The Dalai Lama and I are one cyber-mind. I am shedding my fat like a snake.

Wednesday 27 June 2012

9.30 a.m. Have started my Hedda Gabbler screenplay. Is really very relevant because it is about a girl living in Norway – which I am going to translate to Queen’s Park – who decides ‘her dancing days are over’ and nobody lovely is going to actually marry her, so goes for someone boring – like grabbing the last seat when the music stops in musical chairs. Maybe I will also make her lose loads of weight and get millions of Twitter followers.

10 a.m. Maybe not. Twitter followers 0.

Thursday 28 June 2012

159lb, pounds lost 16!

OMG. Have lost 16 lbs! The strange thing is, where hundreds and hundreds of diets over the years have failed or lasted five days, this one is actually . . .

. . . working! It is something about going every week and being weighed and having my fat-to-muscle ratio measured, and knowing I can’t cheat and tell myself am on the Hay Diet when I want a baked potato and the Weightwatchers diet when I want a Mars bar. Also just found I can fit into dress I had before I was pregnant (though admittedly tent-shaped) and that has whipped me into a frenzy of optimism.

Thursday 12 July 2012

155lb, pounds lost 20, pages of screenplay written 10, Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Oh God, I’m so lonely. Right. Am going to really get going on Twitter.

9.20 p.m. Dalai Lama has 2 million followers and yet he follows no one. That is right. A god cannot follow others. Wonder if he actually tweets himself or does he get his assistant to do it?

9.30 p.m. Complete meltdown. Lady Gaga has 33 million followers! Why am I even bothering? Twitter is giant popularity contest which I am doomed to be the worst at.

9.35 p.m. Just texted Tom explaining that Lady Gaga has 33 million followers and I have zero followers.

9.40 p.m.

10 p.m. @TomKat37 has 878 followers. How did he manage that?

Friday 13 July 2012

10.15 p.m. I’ve got a follower! You see. People are starting to notice my style.

10.16 p.m. Oh. <@TomKat37 You see? You’ve got a follower. Now keep going.>

Is just Tom.

Tuesday 17 July 2012

152lb. Twitter followers 1.

Noon. Glorious and historic day. Just went shopping to H&M and asked the assistant to bring me a 16 and she looked at me as if I was mad and said, ‘You need a 14.’

I scoffed, ‘I’ll never fit into a 14,’ and she brought it, and it fitted. I am a 14!

And I have a follower! Am practically viral.

Thursday 26 July 2012

149lb, pages of screenplay 25, Twitter followers 1.

Yayy! Have broken through 150lb glass floor (though may have been through standing on one leg and slightly leaning on washbasin).

Also am on total screenwriting roll. Have decided to call my screenplay The Leaves in His Hair, which is Hedda’s most famous line in Hedda Gabbler. Even though it is only famous because nobody understands what she means.

Monday 30 July 2012

148lb, Twitter followers 50,001.

9.15 p.m. I’ve got another follower! But a weird follower. It’s a follower with 50,000 followers.

9.35 p.m. What is it? It’s just sort of hovering there like a spaceship, watching silently. Feel I ought to fire on it or something.

9.40 p.m. It’s called XTC Communications.

10 p.m. Just tweeted whole weird-follower scenario to Tom, who tweeted back.

<@TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ It’s a spambot, baby. It’s just marketing.>

10.30 p.m. Tee hee. Just replied:

<@JoneseyBJ @TomKat37 I already have a spambot. You should have seen it today in the harsh rays of the early morning sun.>

Tuesday 31 July 2012

Twitter followers 50,001.

2 p.m. FIFTY THOUSAND AND ONE FOLLOWERS. Feeling fabulous! Just bought lip plumper! It feels a bit funny but actually seems to work.

3 p.m. Wonder if put lip plumper on hands will get fat fingers?

Wednesday 1 August 2012

Twitter followers 1 again.

7 a.m. Humph. Spambot has just, like, gone, taking its 50,000 bloody followers with it. Gaah! Kids are awake.

9.15 p.m. Will just check Twitter.

9.20 p.m. Tom has ‘retweeted’ my spambot tweet and seven followers have come.

9.50 p.m. What should I do now, though? Should I greet them? Welcome them?

9.51 p.m. Follow them?

10 p.m. Paralyzed into silence by social-media embarrassment. Maybe will not do Twitter any more.

Thursday 2 August 2012

142lb, pounds lost 33, muscles grown 5% (whatever that means).

1 p.m. Giddily euphoric! Just went to Obesity Clinic and nurse says I am now ahead of target and model patient. Then went to H&M again to check size and am a 12.

Am thin and not a heron! Am Uma Thurman! Am Jemima Khan!

2 p.m. Just nipped into Marks & Spencer to purchase celebratory chocolate mousse cake and have eaten whole thing like a polar bear taking great swipes out with his paw.

Friday 3 August 2012

145lb (emergency).

10 a.m. Chocolate mousse cake has, I swear, moved directly from my mouth to my stomach and is just sitting there, under my skin, like the foil bag inside a cheap wine-box. Must abandon screenplay, career, etc. and go to gym.

Noon. Am never going to gym again. Am never going to lose the weight, never and don’t bloody well care. Was consumed with rage whilst lying on front with bum in air failing to lift weight bar with ankles. Looked round to see everyone contorted ludicrously in machines like Hieronymous Bosch painting.

Why are bodies so difficult to manage? Why? ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a body, I’m going to splurge fat unless you, like, STARVE yourself and go to undignified TORTURE CENTRES and don’t eat anything nice or get drunk.’ Hate diet. Is all fault of SOCIETY. Am just going to be old and fat and eat whatever I like and NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN and WHEEL MY FAT AROUND ON A TROLLEY.

Sunday 5 August 2012

Weight (unknown, daren’t look).

11 p.m. Have today consumed the following things.

*2 ‘Healthy Start’ (i.e. 482 calories each) muffins

*Full English breakfast with sausages, scrambled egg, bacon, tomatoes and fried bread

*Pizza Express pizza

*Banana split

*2 packets of Rolos

*Half a Marks & Spencer chocolate cheesecake (actually, if am honest, whole of a Marks & Spencer cheesecake)

*2 glasses Chardonnay

*2 packets cheese and onion crisps

*1 bag grated cheese

*1 12-inch jelly ‘snake’ purchased at the Odeon cinema

*1 bag popcorn (large)

*1 hot dog (large)

*Remains of 2 hot dogs (large)

HARHARBLOODY HAR. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, society!

Thursday 9 August 2012

152lb, weight gained since last week: 10lbs (though maybe chocolate cheesecake is still intact in stomach?)

2 p.m. Could hardly bring self to go to Obesity Clinic as was so ashamed.

Nurse took one look at scales, marched me into the doctor, and then made me go into the Group Therapy room, where everyone else talked about their ‘eating relapses’. Actually it was great. Mine was definitely the best and everyone seemed deeply impressed.

9.15 p.m. In spite of – or perhaps proving – nurse’s lecture (‘it takes three days to create a habit and three weeks to break it’), just want to eat cake and cheese again, and go back next week and impress everyone even more.

9.30 p.m. Just called Tom, grated cheese falling out of my mouth, and explained the whole thing.

‘Nooo! Don’t start trying to out-relapse obese people!’ he said. ‘What about Twitter? Have you followed your followers? Follow Talitha.’

9.45 p.m. Tom just tweeted me Talitha’s Twitter address.

9.50 p.m. @Talithaluckybitch has 146,000 followers. Hate Talitha. Hate Twitter. Feel like eating cheese again, or Talitha.

9.52 p.m. Just tweeted Tom: <@JoneseyBJ @TomKat37 Talitha has 146,000 followers.>

<@TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ Don’t worry dear, they’re mostly people she’s slept with or been married to.>

10.00 p.m. Talitha tweeted back.

<@Talithaluckybitch @TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ Darling it’s really TERRIBLY vulgar to display the green-eyed monster on Twitter.>

Friday 10 August 2012

Twitter followers 75, then 102, then 57, then probably none, by now.

7.15 a.m. 75 followers have mysteriously, silently appeared overnight.

9.15 p.m. 102 now. Feel overwhelmed by responsibility: like am leader of a cult and they will all jump into a lake or something if I tell them to. Maybe will have glass of wine.

9.30 pm. Must clearly show leadership and address followers.

<@JoneseyBJ Welcome followers. I am thy leader. Ye art most welcome to my cult.>

<@JoneseyBJ But please do not do anything weird like jump into a lake, even if I suggest it, as may be drunk.>

9.45 p.m <@JoneseyBJ Gaah! 41 one of ye followers have drained away as suddenly as ye first appeared.>

<@JoneseyBJ Comest thou back!>

Thursday 16 August 2012

137lb, pages of screenplay written 45, Twitter followers 97.

4.30 p.m. Twitter followers have surged back and multiplied, rather like Pinocchio’s broomstick. Is clearly sign or portent. Weight is coming off again, have finished Act Two of screenplay, well sort of, and just had sighting of bohemian neighbour.

Was trying to park car. This is impossible in our street as is narrow, curved and cars park on both sides. Had just reversed in and out of space fourteen times, then resorted to Braille Parking, i.e. forcing car into space by bumping cars in front and behind. Braille Parking is fine in our street because everyone does it, then every so often a delivery lorry charges through, scraping everyone, someone takes its number and we all get our dents done on the insurance.

‘Mummeee!’ said Billy. ‘There’s someone in the car you bumped.’

The bohemian neighbour was sitting in the front seat, yelling at the kids in the back. I knew we were kindred spirits. She climbed out of the car, followed by her two dark, wild-looking children. They looked the same age as Billy and Mabel: older boy, younger girl! Then the bohemian neighbour looked at her bumper, grinned at me, and disappeared into her house.

We have initiated contact! We are on the friendship road! As long as she does not behave like the spambot.

Thursday 23 August 2012

135lb, pounds lost 40 (unbelievable), dress sizes dropped 3.

Historic and joyful day. Have not got fat anything. Obesity Clinic says have now got down to healthy weight and should go on ‘Maintenance’ and losing more weight is only for aesthetic reasons and not because they think I need it!

And to prove it, I just went to H&M again and I am a 10!

I have written half of screenplay and at least ascertained that have neighbour with children the same age, I have 79 twitter followers and am part of hooked-in generation of social-media people, and I AM A SIZE 10. You see! Maybe am not completely rubbish.

Monday 27 August 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.25, Twitter followers 87.

Mabel is so funny. She was sitting staring ahead in an eerie manner.

‘What are you doing?’ said Billy, brown eyes looking at her intently, slightly amused. Mark Darcy. Mark Darcy recreated in child form.

‘Havin’ a starin’ competition,’ said Mabel.

‘Who with?’

‘De chair?’ said Mabel, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Billy and me started giggling, then suddenly he stopped and looked at me: ‘You’re laughing again, Mummy?’

SMUG MARRIED HELL

Saturday 1 September 2012

135lb, positive thoughts 0, romantic prospects 0.

10 p.m. Giant step backwards. Just back from Magda and Jeremy’s annual joint-birthday drinks. Was late because it had taken me twenty minutes to do up my zip, despite the time I had spent in yoga attempting to interlink my hands behind my shoulder blades and trying not to fart.

On the doorstep the memories surged up again: the years when I would stand there with Mark, with his hand on my back; the year I’d just found out I was pregnant with Billy and we were going to tell them all; the year when we took Mabel all wrapped up in her little car seat. It was so lovely going to things with Mark. I never worried about what I was wearing because he’d watch me try everything on before we left and help me choose, and tell me I didn’t look fat and do all the zips. He always had something kind and funny to say if I did something stupid, was always batting off any jellyfishing remarks (the kind that suddenly zap you as if from nowhere in the middle of a conversational warm sea).

I could hear the music and laughter inside. Fought the urge to run off. But then the door opened and Jeremy was there.

I saw Jeremy feeling what I was feeling: the yawning gap beside me. Where was Mark, his old friend?

‘Ah, there you are! Excellent,’ said Jeremy, blustering over the pain, as he had consistently done since the moment it happened. That’s public school for you. ‘Come in, come in. Great! How are the children? Growing up?’

‘No,’ I said rebelliously. ‘They are stunted by grief and will be midgets for the rest of their lives.’

Jeremy has clearly never read any Zen books and doesn’t know about just being there, and letting the other person be there, just as they are. But for a split second, he stopped the bluster and we just were there as we were, which was: extremely sad about the same thing. Then he coughed and started again as if nothing had happened.

‘Come on! Voddy and tonic? Let’s take your coat. You’re looking very trim!’

He ushered me into the familiar sitting room and Magda waved cheerily from the drinks table. Magda, who I met at Bangor University, is actually my oldest friend. I looked around at all the faces I’d known since my early twenties, once the original Sloane Rangers, older now. All the couples who seemed to get married like a line of falling dominoes when they were thirty-one, still together: Cosmo and Woney, Pony and Hugo, Johnny and Mufti. And there was the same sense I’d had for all that time – of being a duck out of water, unable to join in what they were talking about because I was at a different stage of life, even though I was the same age. It was as though there had been a seismic timeshift and my life was happening years behind theirs, in the wrong way.

‘Oh, Bridget! Jolly good to see you. Goodness, you’ve lost weight. How are you?’

Then there was the sudden flash in the eyes, the remembering of the whole widowhood thing: ‘How ARE the children? How are they doing?’

Not so Cosmo, Woney’s husband, a successful, confident-though-egg-shaped fund manager, who came charging up like a blunderbuss.

‘So! Bridget! Still on your own? You’re looking very chipper. When are we going to get you married off again?’

‘Cosmo!’ said Magda indignantly. ‘Zip it.’

One advantage of widowhood is that – unlike being single in your thirties, which, because it is ostensibly all your own fault, allows Smug Marrieds to say anything they like – it does usually introduce some element of tact. Unless, of course, you’re Cosmo.

‘Well, it’s been long enough now, hasn’t it?’ he crashed on. ‘Can’t carry on wearing widow’s weeds for ever.’

‘Yes, but the trouble is—’

Woney joined in. ‘It’s very hard for middle-aged women who find themselves single.’

‘Please don’t say “middle-aged”,’ I purred, trying to imitate Talitha.

‘. . . I mean, look at Binko Carruthers. He’s no oil painting. But the second Rosemary left him he was inundated with women! Inundated! Throwing themselves at him.’

‘Hurling themselves,’ said Hugo enthusiastically. ‘Dinners, theatre tickets. Life of Riley.’

‘Yes, but they’re all “of a Certain Age”, aren’t they?’ said Johnny.

Grrr. ‘Of a Certain Age’ is even worse than ‘middle-aged’ with its patronizing, only-ever-applied-to-women insinuations.

‘Meaning?’ said Woney.

‘Well, you know,’ Cosmo was bludgeoning on. ‘Chap gets a new lease of life, he’s going to go for something younger, isn’t he? Plump and fecund and—’

Caught the quick flash of pain in Woney’s eyes. Woney, not an advocate of the Talitha school of branding, has allowed the fat-positioning of middle age freely to position itself all over her back and beneath her bra: her skin, falling exhausted into the folds of her experience, unpolished by facials, peels or light-reflecting make-up bases. She has let her once long and shiny dark hair go grey, and cut it short, which only serves to emphasize the disappearance of the jawline (which as Talitha says, can be quickly glossed over with some well-cut, face-framing layers), and has gone for a Zara version of the structured black frock and high ruffled collar favoured by Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey.

I sense Woney has done this, or rather not done any ‘rebranding’, presumably not out of ‘feminism’ as such, but partly out of an old-fashioned British sense of personal honesty; partly because she can’t be arsed; partly out of self-belief and confidence; partly because she doesn’t define herself by how she looks or her sexuality; and, perhaps, mainly because she feels herself loved unconditionally for who she is: albeit by Cosmo who, in spite of his spherical physique, yellow teeth, hairless scalp and unbridled eyebrows, clearly feels he would be unconditionally loved by any woman lucky enough to have him.

But for a second, at that flash of pain in Woney’s eyes, I felt a surge of sympathy, until she went on . . .

‘What I mean is that for a single man of Bridget’s age, it’s a total buyer’s market. No one’s knocking at Bridget’s door, are they? If she was a middle-aged man, with her own house and income and two helpless children, she’d be inundated by people wanting to take care of her. But look at her.’

Cosmo looked me up and down. ‘Well, yes, we ought to get her fixed up,’ he said. ‘But I just don’t know who would, you know, at a certain age . . .’

‘Right,’ I burst out. ‘I’ve had enough of this! What do you mean, “middle-aged”? In Jane Austen’s day we’d all be dead by now. We’re going to live to be a hundred. It’s not the middle of our lives. Oh. Yes. Well, actually it is the middle. Come to think of it. But the point is, the whole expression “middle-aged” conjures up a certain look.’ I panicked, glancing at Woney, feeling myself plunging helplessly into a deepening hole. ‘. . . a certain, a certain, past-it-ness, non-viability. It doesn’t have to be like that. I mean, why are you assuming I don’t have a boyfriend, just because I don’t blab on about it? I mean, maybe I do have boyfriends!’

They were all staring at me, slavering almost.

‘Do you?’ said Cosmo.

‘Do you have boyfriends?’ said Woney, as if she were saying, ‘Do you sleep with a spaceman?’

‘Yes,’ I lied smoothly, about the admittedly imaginary boyfriends.

‘Well, where are they, then?’ said Cosmo. ‘Why don’t we ever see them?’

‘I wouldn’t want to bring them here because they’d think you were all too old, set in your ways and rude,’ I was about to blurt out. But I didn’t because, ironically enough, as for the last twenty years or more, I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

So instead I used the immensely skilful social manoeuvre I’ve been employing for the last two decades and said, ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

Sat down on the loo seat, saying, ‘OK. It’s OK.’ Put some more lip plumper on, and headed back down. Magda was on her way to the kitchen, holding – symbolically enough – an empty sausage plate.

‘Don’t listen to bloody Cosmo and Woney,’ she said. ‘They’re just in a frightful state because Max has gone off to university. Cosmo’s on the verge of retiring, so they’re going to be staring at each other across their Conran Shop 70s-style table for the next thirty years.’

‘Thanks, Mag.’

‘It’s always so nice when things go badly for other people. Especially when they’ve just been rude to you.’

Magda has never stopped being kind.

‘Now, Bridget,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to that lot. But you do have to start moving on, as a woman. You have to find someone. You can’t carry on feeling like this. I’ve known you for a long time. You can do it.’

10.25 p.m. Can I? Can’t see any way out of feeling like this. Not at this moment. You see, things being good has nothing to do with how you feel outside, it is all to do with how you are inside. Oooh, goody! Telephone! Maybe . . . a suitor?

10.30 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling’ – my mother. ‘I’m just ringing quickly to see what we’re doing about Christmas, because Una doesn’t want her cranio-facial at the spa because she’s had her hair done, and it’s in fifteen minutes – though why she had her hair bouffed when she’s got a cranio-facial and Aqua-Zumba in the morning I have no idea.’

I blinked confusedly, trying to make sense of what she was talking about. Ever since Mum and Auntie Una moved into St Oswald’s House, the phone calls have been the same. St Oswald’s House is an upscale retirement community near Kettering, only we are not allowed to call it a ‘retirement community’.

The not-a-retirement community is built around a grand Victorian mansion, almost a stately home. As described on the website, it has a lake, grounds which ‘boast a variety of rare wildlife’ (i.e. squirrels), ‘BRASSERIE 120’ (the bar/bistro), ‘CRAVINGS’ (the more formal restaurant) and ‘CHATS’ (the coffee bar), plus function rooms (for meetings: not toilets), ‘guest suites’ for visiting families, a collection of ‘superbly appointed’ houses and bungalows, and, crucially, ‘an Italianate garden designed by Russell Page in 1934’.

On top of this lot there is ‘VIVA’, the fitness facility – with pool, spa, gym, beauty salon and hairdresser, and fitness classes – the source of most of the trouble.

‘Bridget? Are you still there? You’re not wallowing in it, are you?’

‘Yes! No!’ I said, attempting the bright, positive tones of someone who is not wallowing in anything.

‘Bridget. You’re wallowing. I can tell from your voice.’

Grrr. I know Mum did go through a dark time after Dad died. The lung cancer took him in six months from diagnosis to funeral. The only positive thing was that Dad did get to hold newborn Billy in his arms, just before he died. It was really hard for Mum when Una still had Geoffrey. Una and Geoffrey had been Mum and Dad’s best friends for fifty-five years and, as they never tired of telling me, had known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. But after Geoffrey’s heart attack there was no holding Mum and Una back. If they feel it now, Mum about Dad, or Una about Geoffrey, they rarely show it. There’s something about that wartime generation which gives them the capacity to just cheerfully soldier on. Maybe something to do with the powdered eggs and whale-meat fritters.

‘You don’t want to mope around when you’re widowed, darling. You want to have fun! Why don’t you come over and jump in the sauna with Una and me?’

It was kindly meant, but what did she imagine I was going to do? Run out of the house, abandon the children, drive for an hour and a half, rip off my clothes, have my hair bouffed, then ‘jump in the sauna’?

‘So! Christmas! Una and I were wondering, are you going to come to us or . . .’

(Have you noticed how when people are giving you two options, the second one is always the one they want you to do?)

‘. . . Well, the thing is, darling, there’s the St Oswald’s cruise this year! And we wondered if you might like to come? With the children of course! It’s to the Canaries, but it’s not all old people, you know. There are some very “with-it” places they visit.’

‘Right, right, a cruise, great,’ I said, suddenly thinking that if the Obesity Clinic had made me feel thin, maybe an over-seventies cruise might make me feel young.

Mind, however, now also contained image of me chasing Mabel along a cruise-liner deck through a morass of bouffed hairdos and electric wheelchairs.

‘You’ll be perfectly at home, because it’s actually for over-fifties,’ Mum added, unknowingly putting the kibosh on the plan in a microsecond.

‘Well, actually, we think we might have plans here! You’re welcome to join us, of course, but it’ll be chaos, and if the other option is a cruise in hot weather, then—’

‘Oh, no, darling. We don’t want to leave you at Christmas. Una and I would love to come to you! It’d be super having Christmas with the little ones, it’s such a hard time for us both.’

Gaaah! How could I possibly handle Mum, Una and the kids, with no help as Chloe was going on a t’ai chi retreat to Goa with Graham? Did not want it to end up like last year, with me trying to stop my heart from breaking into pieces at doing Santa without Mark and sobbing behind the kitchen counter, whilst Mum and Una squabbled over lumps in the gravy and commented on my parenting and housekeeping, as if, rather than inviting them for Christmas, I had called them in as Systems Analysts.

‘Let me think about it,’ I said.

‘Well, the thing is, darling, we have to reserve the berths by tomorrow.’

‘Go ahead and book it for just you, Mum. Honestly, because I haven’t worked out—’

‘Well, you can cancel with fourteen days’ notice,’ she said.

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘OK.’

Great, an over-fifties cruise for Christmas. Everything looks so dark and gloomy.

11 p.m. Was still wearing my prescription sunglasses. That’s better.

Maybe I have just been like a wave building momentum and now I have crashed and another will come along soon! For as it says in Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, women are like waves and men are like rubber bands which ping away to their caves and come back.

Except mine didn’t come back.

11.15 p.m. Look, stoppit. For, as it says on the Dalai Lama’s Twitter: <@DalaiLama We cannot avoid pain, we cannot avoid loss. Contentment comes from the ease and flexibility with which we move through change.>

Maybe will go to yoga and become more flexible.

Or maybe will go out with friends and get plastered.

A PLAN

Sunday 2 September 2012

Alcohol units 5 (but hard to tell with mojitos – maybe 500?).

‘It’s time,’ said Tom, settling into his fourth mojito in Quo Vadis. ‘We’re taking her to the Stronghold.’

The Stronghold has recently become a regular part of Tom’s micro-universe. Run by a client from his therapy practice, it is an illegal American-style speakeasy in Hoxton.

‘It’s like being in an incredibly well-directed music video,’ Tom enthused, eyes shining. ‘There’s every age group: young and old, black and white, gay and straight. Gwyneth’s been seen there! And it’s a “pop-up”.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Talitha. ‘How many minutes till the edginess of “pop-up” anything has popped down?’

‘Anyway,’ said Jude. ‘Who bothers to meet people in real life any more?’

‘But Jude, there are actual live people there. And Americana bands, and sofas – you can talk and dance, and make out with people.’

‘Why would you do all that before you’ve found out in one click whether they’re divorced or separated-with-kids, like bungee jumping more than going to the movies, know how to spell, know not to use the expression “lol” or “special lady” without irony, and whether they think the world would be a better place if people with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce?’

‘Well, at least you’ll know they’re not a photograph from fifteen years ago,’ said Tom.

‘We’re going,’ said Talitha.

Upshot is, we are off to the Stronghold in Hoxton on Thursday.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.5, attempts to find babysitter 5, babysitters found 0.

9.15 p.m. Disaster. Forgot to ask Chloe about babysitting tomorrow, and she is going to watch Graham compete in the South of England t’ai chi semi-final.

‘I’d love to help, Bridget, but t’ai chi means an enormous amount to Graham. I can definitely do the school run on Friday morning, though, so you can sleep in.’

What am I going to do?

Cannot ask Tom as he is coming to the Stronghold, ditto Jude and Talitha, plus Talitha does not do children since she says she has done that and only uses hers if she needs a walker for charity auctions.

9.30 p.m. Just called Mum.

‘Oh, darling, I’d love to but it’s the Viva Supper tomorrow! We’re doing Ham in Coca-Cola. Everyone is doing things in Coca-Cola now!’

Am slumped at kitchen table, trying not to think about everyone doing things in Coca-Cola in the Viva spa. It’s SO UNFAIR. Am trying my best to rediscover myself as a woman but now am up shit creek without a . . . Oh! What about Daniel?

A DANIEL IN SHINING ARMOUR

Wednesday 5 September 2012 (continued)

‘Jones, you little devil,’ growled Daniel when I called. ‘What are you wearing, what colour are your knickers and how are my godchildren?’

Daniel Cleaver, my former Emotional Fuckwit ‘boyfriend’ and Mark’s former arch-enemy, has, to his credit, really done his best to help since Mark was killed. After years of bitter one-upmanship, when Billy arrived the two of them finally made it up and Daniel is actually the children’s godfather.

Daniel’s best isn’t exactly everyone’s best: the last time he had them to stay, it turned out he just wanted to impress some girl by boasting that he had godchildren and . . . suffice it to say he dropped them off at school three hours late, and when I picked up Mabel later, her hair was in an incredibly complex plaited chignon.

‘Mabel, what fabulous hair!’ I said, imagining Daniel had brought John Frieda in to do full hair and make-up on Mabel at 7.30 a.m.

‘De teacher did it,’ said Mabel. ‘Daniel brushed my hair wid a fork,’ adding, ‘it had maple syrup on it.’

‘Jones? Are you still there, Jones?’

‘Yes,’ I said, startled.

‘Babysitting call, Jones?’

‘Would you . . .?’

‘Absolutely. When were you thinking?’

I cringed: ‘Tomorrow?’

There was a slight pause. Daniel was obviously doing something.

‘Tomorrow night is absolutely fine. I find myself at a loose end, having been rejected by all human women under the age of eighty-four.’ Awww.

‘We might be quite late, is that OK?’

‘My dear girl, I am nocturnal.’

‘You won’t . . . I mean, you won’t bring a model or—’

‘No, no, no, Jones. I shall be a model. A paragon of babysitting. Ludo. Wholesome vitamin-packed fare. And by the way . . .’

‘Yes?’ I said suspiciously.

‘What kind of knickers are you wearing? At this moment? Are they mummy pants? Mummy’s lovely mummy panties? Will you show them to Daddy tomorrow night?’

Still love Daniel, though obviously not to the point that I would get involved with any of his crap.

THE PERFECT BABYSITTER

Thursday 6 September 2012

133lb (v.g.), alcohol units 4, sexual encounters in last 5 years 0, sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2, embarrassing sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2.

The day of the Stronghold outing was upon us. Billy was wildly excited that Daniel was coming. ‘Will Amanda be here?’

‘Who’s Amanda?’

‘The lady with the big boobies who was there last time.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘Mabel, what are you looking for?’

‘My hairbrush,’ she said darkly.

Managed somehow in the excitement to get them bathed and asleep, and scrambled to get ready before Daniel arrived.

I had opted for jeans (a brand chillingly called Not Your Daughter’s Jeans) and a cowboy shirt, thinking it would fit in with the Americana theme.

Daniel arrived late, in his usual suit, hair shorter now, still gorgeous with that irresistible smile, bearing armfuls of unsuitable gifts – toy guns, semi-naked Barbies, giant bags of sweets, Krispy Kreme doughnuts – and a suspicious-looking half-hidden DVD, which I decided to ignore as I was cataclysmically late now.

‘Ding-dong! Jones,’ he said. ‘Have you been on a diet? I thought I’d never see you looking like this again.’

It’s horrifying how differently some people treat you when you’re fat, to when you’re not. And when you’re all done up and when you’re just normal. No wonder women are so insecure. I know men are too. But when one is a woman, with all the tools at a modern woman’s disposal, one can literally look like a completely different person from one half-hour to the next.

Even then, you think you don’t look like you should. Sometimes look at billboards of beautiful models, and the real people underneath, and think it’s a bit like if we were on a planet where all the space creatures were short, green and fat. Except a very few of them were tall, thin and yellow. And all the advertising was of the tall, yellow ones, airbrushed to make them even taller and yellower. So all the little green space creatures spent their whole time feeling sad because they weren’t tall, thin and yellow.

‘Jones? Are you still inhabiting your head? I said, I suppose a fuck would be out of the question?’

‘Yes!’ I said, jerking back to the present. ‘Yes, it would. Though this is in no way a sign of my lack of gratitude for the babysit.’ Rattled through a gabble of instructions and thanks and shot out of the door, feeling outraged as a feminist by Daniel’s complex fattist pass, but uplifted as a female.

When I arrived at Talitha’s, however, Tom burst out laughing. ‘Seriously? Dolly Parton?’

‘You can’t rely on your arse in jeans at our age,’ said Talitha briskly, sweeping in with a tray of mojitos. ‘You’ve got to have something else going on.’

‘I don’t want to look like mutton,’ I said. ‘Or a prostitute.’

‘Well, quite, but you need something to start the idea of sexuality. Legs or boobs. Not both.’

‘What about one leg and one boob?’ said Tom.

Eventually I ended up in a very expensive short black silk tunic of Talitha’s and insanely high Yves Saint Laurent thigh boots.

‘But I can’t walk in them.’

‘Honey,’ said Talitha, ‘you’re not going to need to walk.’

In the cab started to think about how much Mark would have loved the thigh boots.

‘Stoppit,’ said Tom, seeing my face. ‘He would want you to have a life.’

Next I started to panic about the children. Talitha, who has known Daniel since Sit Up Britain days, took out her phone and texted:

No reply. We all stared nervously at the phone.

‘Daniel doesn’t text,’ I said, suddenly remembering. Then added, giggling, ‘He’s too old.’

Talitha put her mobile on speakerphone and called him.

‘Daniel, you bloody old bastard?’

‘Talitha! My dear girl! The very thought of you finds me suddenly, unaccountably, over-aroused. What are you up to at this moment and what colour are your panties?’

Grrr. He was supposed to be BABYSITTING.

‘I’m with Bridget,’ she said, drily. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Yup, all perfectly splendid. Children fast asleep. Am patrolling the doors, windows and corridors like a sentry. I shall be impeccable.’

‘Good.’

She clicked off the phone. ‘You see? It will all be fine. Now stop worrying.’

THE STRONGHOLD

The Stronghold was in a brick warehouse with an unmarked metal door and a buzzer with a code. Tom punched in the code, and we teetered in our insane heels up a concrete staircase which smelt as if somebody had weed in it.

But once we got in, as Tom gave our names for the guest list, I felt a reckless surge of excitement. The walls were brick, there were bales of straw round the edges which made me slightly wish I’d remained as Dolly Parton, and battered sofas. There was a band playing and a bar in the corner, manned by youths who were adding to the atmosphere by looking around nervously, as if a sheriff was going to tie up his horse, burst in in a cowboy hat and break it all up. It was hard to make the people out in the artistic lighting, but it was instantly clear that they weren’t all teenagers, and that there were some . . .

‘. . . very hot men in the room,’ murmured Talitha.

‘Come on, girl,’ said Tom. ‘Get back on that horse.’

‘I’m too old!’ I said.

‘So? It’s practically pitch black.’

‘What am I going to talk about?’ I gabbled. ‘I’m not au fait with popular music.’

‘Bridget,’ said Talitha, ‘we are gathered here to rediscover your inner sensual woman. This has nothing whatsoever to do with talking.’

It felt like going back to being a teenager with the same leaping sense of doubt and possibility. It reminded me of the parties I used to go to when I was sixteen, when as soon as the parents had dropped us off, the lights would go out and everyone would get on the floor and start snogging anyone with whom they had made the most perfunctory eye contact.

‘Look at him,’ said Tom. ‘He’s looking at you! He’s looking at you!’

‘Tom, shut urrp,’ I said out of the side of my mouth, folding my arms across my chest and trying to tug the tunic down to reach the thigh boots.

‘Pull yourself together, Bridget. DO SOMETHING.’

I forced myself to look across, with an attempt at smoulderingness. The cute guy was, however, now making out with a stunning iBabe in short-shorts and an off-the-shoulder sweater.

‘OhMyGod, that’s disgusting – she’s an embryo,’ said Jude.

‘Call me old-fashioned, but I did read in Glamour that one’s shorts should always be longer than one’s vagina,’ murmured Talitha.

We all became crestfallen, our confidence collapsing like a house of cards. ‘Oh God. Do we just look like an ensemble of elderly transvestites?’ said Tom.

‘It’s happened, just as I always feared,’ I said. ‘We’ve ended up as tragic old fools convincing ourselves the vicar is in love with us because he’s mentioned his organ.’

‘Darlings!’ said Talitha. ‘I forbid you to continue in this vein.’

Talitha, Tom and Jude went off to dance, while I sulked on a hay bale, thinking, ‘I want to go home and snuggle my babies, and hear their quiet breathing and know who I am and what I stand for’, shamelessly using the children to gloss over me being old and past it.

Then a pair of legs in jeans sat down beside me on the hay bale. I caught a scent of a MAN, darling, as Talitha would put it, as he leaned in to my hair. ‘Do you want to dance?’

It was as simple as that. I didn’t need to formulate a plan, work out what to say, or indeed do anything but look up into his attractive brown eyes and nod. He took my hand, and hoisted me up with a strong arm. He kept hold of my waist as we walked towards the floor, which was fortunate, given the thigh boots. Thankfully, it was a slow dance or I would have broken an ankle. He had a crinkly smile, and looked in the darkness like the sort of man who appears in adverts for SUVs. He was wearing a leather jacket. He put his hand on my waist and pulled me in to him.

As I laid my arm on his shoulder I suddenly realized what Tom and Talitha were on about. Sex is just sex.

Flashes and pulses of long-forgotten lust started running through me, like Frankenstein’s monster when he was plugged into the electricity, only more romantic and sensual, and I found myself instinctively slipping my fingers to feel the hair on the stranger’s collar, the skin on the back of his neck. He pulled me even closer to him, making it unmistakable that he was into sex at least with someone. As we turned slowly to the music, I saw Tom and Talitha staring at me with a mixture of awe and astonishment. I felt like a fourteen-year-old who’d pulled her first boy. I made a face to stop them doing anything stupid as I felt him, slowly, irresistibly, in manner of Mills & Boon hero, moving his lips to find mine.

And then we were kissing. Suddenly everything started going crazy. It was like driving a very fast car in a pair of stilettos. Nothing had stopped functioning despite years in the garage. One minute I was blocked at every turn and in a flash there were zero restraints and what was I doing? What about the children and what about Mark and who was this impertinent man anyway?

‘Let’s go somewhere quieter,’ he murmured. It was all a plot. Why else would he have asked me to dance? He was planning to murder me and then eat me!

‘I’ve got to go! Now!’

‘What?’

I looked up at him, terrified. It was midnight. I was Cinderella and I had to get back to the cots and the nannies, and the sleeplessness and sense of being totally asexual and staring down the barrel of single life till the end of my days . . . but wasn’t that better than being murdered?

‘Awfully sorry! Must be going. Jolly good! Thanks!’

‘Go?’ he said. ‘Oh God. That face.’

Even as I was stumbling down the wee-smelling stairs I was becoming puffed up by his last phrase. ‘That face’! I was Kate Moss! I was Cheryl Cole! Once in the minicab, however, explaining the whole incident, a glance at my wild expression and drink-bloated features, mascara smeared under the eyes, somewhat ruined the concept.

‘He means tormented by the face of a geriatric mother who’s decided he’s planning to murder her because he’s kissed her!’ shrieked Tom.

‘And then eat her,’ added Talitha, as everyone fell about laughing.

‘What were you thinking?’ said Jude, giggling hysterically. ‘He was hot!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Talitha, recovering her composure and trying to settle elegantly back into the minicab seat, which smelt of curry. ‘I got his number.’

12.10 a.m. Just got back and crept into house. Everything was quiet and dark. Where was Daniel?

12.20 a.m. Tiptoed downstairs and turned on the light. The basement looked like a bomb had hit it. The Xbox was still going, there were Sylvanian bunnies arranged in a line from one end to the other, Barbies, toy dinosaurs and machine guns, cushions, pizza cartons, Krispy Kreme doughnut bags and chocolate wrappers all over the floor, and a tub of melted chocolate fudge Häagen-Dazs upside down on the sofa. They would probably throw up in the night but at least they’d had a good time. But where was Daniel?

Crept up to their room. They were fast asleep, chocolate all over their faces but breathing peacefully. No Daniel. Started to panic.

Rushed down to the sofa bed in the sitting room – nothing. Rushed back up to my bedroom, opened the door and let out a noise. Daniel was in the bed. He raised his head and squinted through the darkness.

‘Good God, Jones,’ he said. ‘Could those possibly be . . . thigh boots? Could I take a closer look?’

He pulled back the sheet. He was half-naked.

‘Come on in, Jones,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t lay a finger on you.’

The whole combination of being slightly drunk, aroused by a recent kiss and Daniel half-naked and devilish in the half-light made me flash back to being a thirty-something singleton. A split second later I was giggling and lurching into bed in the thigh boots.

‘Now, Jones,’ began Daniel, ‘these are very, very naughty boots, and this is a very, very silly little tunic’ – and then another split second later I fast-forwarded back to the present moment and remembered . . . well, everything, really.

‘Gaah! Can’t do this! Terribly sorry. Jolly good!’ I gabbled, leaping out of the bed.

Daniel stared, then started laughing. ‘Jones, Jones, Jones, you’re completely bonkers as usual.’

I waited outside the door while he got up and dressed, and then, in the midst of my apologies and thanks for the babysitting, there was another moment when I felt so confused and turned on I almost jumped on him again and started devouring him like an animal. Then his mobile rang.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said into the phone. ‘No, my plumptious, just got terribly stuck at work, look, I know, FUCK!’ Cross Daniel now. ‘Look! Jesus! I said I had a presentation. It’s a huge big deal for the project and . . . OK, OK, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, yes . . . yes . . . mmm . . . I long for your orb-like radiance . . .’

Orb-like radiance??

‘. . . I long to plunge myself into . . .’

Sighing with relief that I hadn’t succumbed to the old routine, I managed to get him out of the door, then wrestle Talitha’s thigh boots off. I cleared up the sitting room enough to not make Chloe hand in her notice in despair tomorrow, and sank into the empty bed.

12.55 a.m. But now feeling all restless and aroused. Feel like it has gone from total Man-Desert to, in the space of one evening, literally raining men.

AFTERMATH

Friday 7 September 2012

7 a.m. Am stark naked with clouting headache and have got to do school run.

7.01 a.m. No! Do not have to do school run. Was special treat this morning to lie in but have woken up anyway.

7.02 a.m. Gaah! Just remembered what happened last night with Leatherjacketman. And Daniel.

7.30 a.m. Traumatized by sounds of Chloe downstairs doing all the things that I am supposed to do: the one Weetabix that Mabel is allowed to put one teaspoonful of sugar on herself, the two slices of bacon for Billy with ketchup but no bread.

7.45 a.m. Feel terribly guilty: like hung-over Joan Crawford figure, about to drift down in a housecoat, with lipstick smeared all over my face, saying, ‘Hello, darlings, I’m your mummy. Remember? What are your names again?’

8 a.m. Door bangs, noises stop.

8.01 a.m. Door opens, noises restart: a search for Mabel’s book bag.

8.05 a.m. Door slams again.

8.15 a.m. Silence. Bed is all cool and white and is delicious just lying here naked doing nothing. Feel like a spell has been broken, like Sleeping – well, not Beauty exactly – Sleeping Quite Old Person with Two Children, awoken by a kiss. Spring has touched the withered, wintry branches. Leaves and blossoms are bursting out and unfurling left, right and centre.

8.30 a.m. Texting ping! Maybe Talitha! Texting Leatherjacketman’s number! Maybe even Leatherjacketman himself, making joke to diffuse whole situation and asking me out! Am sexually viable!

It was the Infants Branch.

WOMEN CHANGE THEIR MINDS

Saturday 8 September 2012

Annoying electronic devices in house 74, electronic devices which beep 7, electronic devices I know how to operate 0, electronic devices requiring passwords 12, passwords 18, passwords that can remember 0, minutes spent thinking about sex 342.

7.30 a.m. Just woke up from delicious, sensual dream all mixed up with Daniel and Leatherjacketman. Suddenly feel different – sensual, womanly – and yet that makes me feel so guilty, as if I’m being unfaithful to Mark and yet . . . is so sensual feeling like a sensual woman, with a sensual side which is sensually . . . oh. Children are awake.

11.30 a.m. Entire morning has been totally sensual and peaceful. Started day with all three of us in my bed, cuddling and watching telly. Then had breakfast. Then played hide-and-seek. Then coloured in Moshi Monsters, then did obstacle course, all in pyjamas, while roast chicken emitted delicious fragrance from the Aga.

11.32 a.m. Am perfect mother and sensual woman with sensual possibilities. I mean, maybe someone like Leatherjacketman could join in with this scenario and . . .

11.33 a.m. Billy: ‘Can we do computer, now it’s Saturday?’

11.34 a.m. Mabel: ‘Want to watch SpongeBob.’

11.35 a.m. Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and desire to read papers in echoing silence. Just for ten minutes.

‘Mummeee! De TV is broken.’

Realized, horrified, Mabel had got hold of the remotes. I started jabbing at buttons, at which white flecks appeared, accompanied by loud crackling.

‘Snow!’ said Mabel excitedly, just as the dishwasher started beeping.

‘Mummy!’ said Billy. ‘The computer’s run out of charge.’

‘Well, plug it in again!’ I said, shoving my head into the cupboard full of wires under the telly.

‘Night!’ said Mabel as the TV screen went black, and the tumble dryer joined in the beeping.

‘This charger doesn’t work.’

‘Well, go on the Xbox!’

‘It’s not working.’

‘Maybe it’s the Internet connection.’

‘Mummy! I’ve unplugged the Airport, I can’t get it in again.’

Realizing my thermostat was veering dangerously towards red, I scampered off up the stairs saying, ‘Time to get dressed, special treat! I’ll get your clothes.’ Then ran into their bedroom and burst out, ‘I hate fucking technology. Why can’t everyone just FUCKING SHUT UP AND LET ME READ THE PAPERS?’

Suddenly, horrified, saw that the baby monitor was on! Oh God, oh God. Should have got rid of it ages ago but paranoid as single parent, fear of death, etc., etc. Ran downstairs to find Billy racked by sobs.

‘Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Was it the baby monitor?’

‘Nooooooooo!’ he yelled. ‘The Xbox is frozen.’

‘Mabel, did you hear Mummy in the baby monitor?’

‘No,’ she said, staring delightedly at the television. ‘De TV is mended.’

It was showing a page asking for the Virgin TV password.

‘Billy, what’s the Virgin password?’ I said.

‘Isn’t it the same as your bank card, 1066?’

‘OK, I’ll do the Xbox, you put in the password,’ I said just as the doorbell rang.

‘That password won’t work.’

‘Mummeee!’ said Mabel.

‘Shh, both of you!’ I rasped. ‘There’s SOMEONE AT THE DOOR!’

Ran up the stairs, head a mass of guilty thoughts – ‘I’m a terrible mother, there is a hole inside them left by the loss of their father which they are trying to fill with technology’ – and opened the door.

It was Jude looking glamorous, but hung-over and tearful.

‘Oh, Bridge,’ she said, falling into my arms. ‘I just can’t stand another Saturday morning on my own.’

‘What happened . . . tell Mummy . . .’ I said, then remembered Jude was a grown-up financial giant.

‘The guy I met on Match and went out with the day before the Stronghold? The one I made out with?’

‘Yes?’ I said, trying to vaguely remember which one.

‘He didn’t call. And then last night, he copied me in on a global text saying his wife has just had a baby girl, six pounds twelve ounces.’

‘OhMyGod. That’s disgusting. That’s inhuman.’

‘All these years I didn’t want children and people kept saying I’d change my mind. They were right. I’m going to get my eggs unfrozen.’

‘Jude,’ I said. ‘You made a choice. Just because some guy is a fuckwit it doesn’t mean it was the wrong choice. It’s a good choice for you. Children are . . . are . . .’ I glanced murderously back down the stairs.

She held out her phone, showing an Instagram picture of the fuckwit holding his baby. ‘. . . Cuddly and sweet and pink and six pounds twelve ounces and all I do is work and hook up and I’m all on my own on a Saturday morning. And—’

‘Come downstairs,’ I said lugubriously. ‘I’ll show you cuddly and sweet.’

We clomped back down. Billy and Mabel were now standing cherub-like, holding out a drawing saying, ‘We Love You, Mummy.’

‘We’re going to empty the dishwasher, Mummy,’ said Billy. ‘To help you.’

Shit! What was wrong with them?

‘Thank you, children,’ I purred, bustling Jude back upstairs and outside the front door, before they did something worse, like emptying the recycling bin.

‘I’m going to defrost my eggs,’ sobbed Jude as we sat down on the steps. ‘The technology was primitive then. Crude even. But it might work if . . . I mean, I could get a sperm donor and—’

Suddenly the upstairs window in the house opposite shot open and a pair of Xbox remotes hurtled out, landing with a smash next to the dustbins.

Seconds later, the front door was flung open and the bohemian neighbour appeared, dressed in fluffy pink mules, a Victorian nightdress and a small bowler hat, carrying an armful of laptops, iPads and iPods. She teetered down the front steps and shoved the electronics in the dustbin, with her son and two of his friends following her, wailing, ‘Noooooo! I haven’t finished my leveeeeeeel!’

‘Good!’ she yelled. ‘When I signed up for having children, I did NOT sign up to be ruled by a collection of inanimate thin black objects and a gaggle of TECHNO-CRACKHEADS refusing to do anything but stare with jabbing thumbs, while demanding that I SERVICE them like a computer tech crossed with a five-star hotel concierge. When I didn’t have you, everyone spent their whole time saying I’d change my mind. And guess what? I’ve had you. I’ve brought you up. And I’ve CHANGED MY MIND!’

I stared at her, thinking, ‘I have to be friends with that woman.’

‘Children of your age in India live entirely successfully as street urchins,’ she continued. ‘So you can just sit on this doorstep and instead of putting your ENTIRE BRAINS into getting to the next level on MINECRAFT, you can apply them to CHANGING MY MIND about letting you back in. And don’t you dare touch that dustbin or I shall enter you in the HUNGER GAMES.’

Then, with a toss of her bowler-hatted head, she flounced back into the house and slammed the door.

‘Mummeee!’ Shouting and crying erupted from my own basement. ‘Mummeee!’

‘Want to come back in?’ I said to Jude.

‘No, no it’s fine,’ Jude said, happy now, getting to her feet. ‘You’re completely right. I have made the right choice. Just a bit hung-over. I need to have breakfast and a Bloody Mary at Soho House and read the papers and I’ll be fine. Thanks, Bridge. Love you. Byee!’

Then she teetered off in her Versace knee-high gladiator sandals looking hung-overly fabulous.

I looked back across the street. The three boys were sitting in a line on the doorstep.

‘Everything all right?’ I said.

The dark-haired son grinned. ‘Yeah, it’s fine. She just gets like this. She’ll be all right in a minute.’

He glanced behind him to check the door was still closed, and pulled an iPod out of his pocket. Then the boys started giggling and bent over the iPod.

Huge wave of relief washed over me. I bounded cheerfully back, suddenly remembering that the password for everything was 1890, the year in which Chekhov wrote Hedda Gabbler.

‘Mummeeeee!’

I grabbed the Xbox remote, grabbed the Virgin remote, and typed ‘1890’ into both of them at which the screens burst miraculously into life.

‘There!’ I said. ‘There’s your screens. You don’t need me. You just need screens. I am going. To make myself. A cup. Of coffee.’

I flung the remotes onto the armchair, and flounced, bohemian-neighbour-like, towards the kettle, at which Billy and Mabel started giggling.

‘Mummy!’ laughed Billy. ‘You’ve turned everything off again.’

8.30 p.m. Ended up all cosy and good and Billy had his Xbox time and Mabel watched SpongeBob and cuddled me on the sofa, then we all went up on Hampstead Heath and I kept thinking about Leatherjacketman, and how gorgeous it was having the kiss, and feeling sexy again and thinking maybe Tom is right that I do need to be a woman and have someone in my life, and maybe it wouldn’t be wrong, and maybe I will call Talitha and get his number.

CRASHING WAVE

Sunday 9 September 2012

135lb, calories 3250, number of times checked for texts from Leatherjacketman 27, texts from Leatherjacketman 0, guilty thoughts 47.

2 a.m. Everything is terrible. Texted Talitha. Turns out she not only took Leatherjacketman’s number, but GAVE HIM MY NUMBER. Feel stab of insecurity in my stomach. If she gave him my number – then why hasn’t he called?

5 a.m. Should never, ever have got involved with men again. Had completely forgotten the nightmare of ‘Why hasn’t he called?’

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep and all ready for Monday morning. But I am in total meltdown. Why hasn’t Leatherjacketman texted? Why? Clearly Leatherjacketman thinks I am crazy and old. Is all my own fault. I should be simply a mother – the children should come home every day to find a casserole bubbling on the Aga and steamed jam roly-poly for pudding. I’d read them Swallows and Amazons, put them to bed and then . . . What, though? Watch Downton Abbey, fantasize about sex with Matthew, and start again in the morning with the Weetabix?

9.16 p.m. Just called Talitha and explained the whole thing. She is coming round.

9.45 p.m. ‘Get me a drink, please.’

I fixed her her usual vodka and soda.

‘This has all been set off because one guy you’ve met for five seconds hasn’t texted you. You’ve opened yourself to the possibility of life, and now it seems to have been snatched away from under your nose. Why don’t you text him?’

‘Never pursue a man, it will only make you unhappy,’ I said, reciting our mantra from being single in our thirties. ‘Anjelica Huston never, ever called Jack Nicholson.’

‘Darling, you have to understand that you have no idea what you’re talking about. Everything has changed since you were single. There was no texting. There were no emails. People spoke on telephones. Plus, young women are more sexually aggressive now, and men are naturally more lazy. You have to, at the very least, encourage.’

‘Don’t send anything!’ I said, lunging at the phone.

‘I won’t. But it’s all fine. When I swapped your numbers, I had a discreet word with him and told him you’d been widowed . . .’

‘You WHAT?’

‘It’s better than being divorced. It’s so romantic and original.’

‘So, basically, you’re using Mark’s death to procure me a man?’

There was the thud of feet on the stairs. Billy appeared, in his striped pyjamas.

‘Mummy, I haven’t done my maths.’

Talitha looked up vaguely, then returned to the phone.

‘Say, “Hello, nice to see you again,” to Talitha and look at her eyes,’ I said reflexively. Why do parents do this? ‘Say Please.’ ‘Say Hello!’ ‘Say Thank you for having me.’ If you haven’t trained them to do these things before they get into a live situation then there’s really no point in—’

‘Hello, Talitha.’

‘Hello, darling,’ said Talitha without looking up. ‘He’s adorable.’

‘You did do your maths, Billy. Remember – the problems? We did them when you came home from school on Friday.’

‘OK, how about this?’ Talitha looked up, then looked back at the phone again.

‘But there was another sheet,’ said Billy. ‘Look – here. It’s Craft and Design.’

Not Craft and Design. Billy has spent the last six weeks constructing a small mouse out of bits of felt, then he gets ‘sheets’, which ask mysterious conceptual questions. I looked at the latest sheet: ‘What do you want to achieve by making the mouse?’

Billy and I looked at each other desperately. How global do they expect you to go with a question like that, I mean in a philosophical sense? I handed Billy a pencil. He sat down at the kitchen table and wrote, then handed me the sheet.

To make a mouse.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Very good. Now shall I take you back up to bed?’

He nodded and put his hand in mine. ‘Goodnight, Talitha.’

‘Say goodnight to Talitha.’

‘Mummy. I just did.’

Mabel was asleep on the bottom bunk, head on back to front, clutching Saliva.

‘Will you cuddle me?’ said Billy, climbing into the top bunk. I thought about Talitha getting increasingly impatient downstairs then climbed in with him, Puffle One, Mario and Horsio.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes,’ I said, heart wavering, fearing he was going to ask about Daddy or death.

‘What is the population of China?’ Oh God, he looks so like Mark when he is worrying about these questions. What was I doing messing about texting some unshaven leather-jacketed stranger who probably—

‘Mummy?’

‘Four hundred million,’ I lied smoothly.

‘Oh. Why is the earth shrinking by one centimetre a year?’

‘Um . . .’ I thought about this. Is the world shrinking by one centimetre a year? Like, the whole planet or just the land bits? Is it to do with global warming? Or the awesome power of waves and . . . Then I felt the slight relaxing sigh of Billy falling asleep.

Rushed back downstairs, panting. Talitha looked up with a self-satisfied expression: ‘OK. I hope you appreciate this. This was a really tough one.’

She handed me the phone.

‘You haven’t sent it?’

‘Not yet. But it’s good. You have to take care of their ego. What do you think the poor guy felt like, with you running off like that and not explaining yourself?’

‘Doesn’t that sound—’

‘It’s a question, and carrying on the thread. Don’t overthink it, just—’

She took hold of my finger, and pressed ‘Send’.

‘Nooo! You said you wouldn’t—’

‘I didn’t. You sent it. Could I possibly have another teensy teensy little vodka?’

Mind reeling I headed for the fridge, but just as I opened the door there was a text ping. Talitha grabbed it. A self-satisfied smirk spread across her immaculately made-up features.

‘Now, Bridget,’ she said sternly, watching the confusion of feelings on my face, ‘you have to be brave and get back in the saddle, for everyone’s sake, including . . .’ She nodded in the direction of upstairs.

Ultimately, Talitha was right. But it couldn’t have gone more disastrously wrong with Leatherjacketman. As she herself said, as we sat on my sofa in the bloody aftermath:

‘It’s all my fault. I forgot to warn you. When you come out of a long relationship, the first one is always the worst. There’s too much hanging on it. You think you’re going to be rescued. Which you’re not. And you think they’re the barometers of whether you’re still viable. Which you are, but they’re not going to prove that to you.’

I broke every single one of the Key Dating Rules with Leatherjacketman. But, in my defence, at that point, I didn’t know that the Dating Rules even existed.

HOW NOT TO DO DATING

Wednesday 12 September 2012

133lb (lost 2lb through texting thumb-action), minutes spent fantasizing about Leatherjacketman 347, number of times checked for texts from Leatherjacketman 37, texts from Leatherjacketman 0, number of times checked Unexploded Email Inbox from Leatherjacketman even though Leatherjacketman does not have email address 12 (insane), total cumulative minutes late for school runs 27.

2.30 p.m. Mmm. Just back from lunch with Leatherjacketman in Primrose Hill. He was looking even more like a car-advert man, in a brown leather jacket this time, and aviator shades. It was an unseasonably warm, bright autumn day, the sky blue, the sun shining, so we could sit outside at a pavement cafe.

FINE

I love him. I love him.

NOT FINE

He’s about my age and divorced with two kids. And he’s called Andy – such a cool name.

ANDY??

As I sat down at the table, he took off his shades. His eyes were like pools. Pools of pale, pale water like a tropical sea . . .

DO NOT GET CARRIED AWAY

. . . only brown. I love him. The Dating Gods have smiled down on me.

TRY TO RETAIN SOME VESTIGE OF OBJECTIVITY

He REALLY understands the problems of single parenting. He said things like ‘How old are your kids?’

All through lunch felt like some dangerously aroused puppy who was going to start shagging his leg.

DO NOT JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS OR FANTASIZE

It’ll be so great having sex together on Sunday mornings, I was thinking, then breakfast together with all the kids – laughing, moving in together, selling both our places and getting a house they can all walk to school from. Just as I was thinking, ‘. . . then we could just have one car and not have an issue with the parking permits,’ he interrupted: ‘Do you want a coffee?’

I blinked at him, disorientated, teetering on the brink of saying, ‘Do you think we could manage with just the one car?’

ON THE FIRST DATE: LET HIM PAY

When the bill came, I made a terrible fuss about getting my credit card out and saying, ‘No, let me,’ and ‘Shall we split it?’

‘I’ll get it,’ he said, looking at me in a funny way – maybe he already knew he loved me too?

RESPOND TO WHAT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING, NOT WHAT YOU WISH WAS HAPPENING

After lunch, I couldn’t bear it to end, and suggested we go for a walk on the Hill. It was so lovely. When we got to his car, I was hoping against hope that he was going to kiss me again but he just gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, ‘Take care.’

I panicked. ‘Do you think we should see each other again?’ I blurted out.

Maybe it was a bit forward but THINK it was completely fine.

IT WASN’T

‘Sure,’ he smirked. ‘I was just waiting for you to run off screaming.’ Then he smiled his crinkly car-advert smile and got into the car.

He’s so funny!

DO NOT ALLOW HIM TO DISRUPT YOUR LIFE OR EQUILIBRIUM

Oh, look, this is hopeless. Cannot just lie in bed MASTURBATING all day when have a screenplay to write and children to care for.

Thursday 13 September 2012

DO NOT OBSESS OR FANTASIZE WHEN DRIVING

8.30 a.m. Hmmm. The thing is, when I said, ‘Do you think we should see each other again?’ he didn’t say, ‘No,’ he said, ‘Sure.’

So that means ‘Yes’, doesn’t it? But then why didn’t he say something about the next time when we said goodbye? Or why hasn’t he texted? GAAAH!

9.30 a.m. Rounded a bend to find a taxi had just stopped in front of me, completely selfishly, with no rhyme or reason whatsoever. Was huge line of cars behind me.

Pulled round the taxi, looking crossly at taxi driver. Then realized, as looked ahead, was yet another car steaming towards me, driven by man who was pointing and mouthing at me, ‘You go back. You. Go. Back!’ as if was idiot or similar.

‘Honestly, men drivers!’ I thought, doing a V-sign at the man. (Apart from Leatherjacketman who am certain is very respectful.) ‘Oh, oh, look at us! We’re alpha males! We’re just going to bear down on defenceless women, bullying them into reversing.’

‘Mummy,’ said Billy. ‘The taxi has stopped so that that other car can get round us.’

Suddenly realized what Billy meant. The oncoming car was ALREADY THERE and the taxi driver, who is after all an experienced roadsman, was not stopping to let the already-oncoming car come past. And now I was like the alpha female SUV driver (except not in SUV) who had swerved round the experienced roadsman taxi driver and tried to drive the oncoming car backwards like an angry snow-plough brandishing an Oxbridge First in PPE (except Third in English from Bangor).

Tried to mouth ‘Sorreee!’ while reversing backwards, but the man glared at me with exactly the same disbelieving ‘what-is-the-world-coming-to?’ expression that I myself am so accustomed to adopting during the morning school run.

‘Well!’ I said brightly once we’d rounded the corner. ‘What lessons have we got today, Billy? PE?’

‘Mummy.’

I looked round at him. The same eyes. The same tone when I’m being not altogether at my best.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Are you just saying that because you feel silly?’

Friday 14 September 2012

DO NOT ALLOW HIM TO MAKE YOU GENERALLY DISTRACTED AND CRAZY

Just made contact with Aspirational Bohemian Neighbour and was so distracted that completely fucked it up. Was just walking back from car when saw her going into the house wearing a woollen hat with several points with bobbles on the end, platform Doc Martens and a garment which looked like cross between a German officer’s coat from the Second World War and a crinoline with a frill at the bottom.

‘Hello,’ she suddenly said, ‘I’m Rebecca. Don’t you live across the road?’

‘Yes,’ I said delightedly, then launched into a nervous monologue: ‘Your children look like they might be the same age as mine? How old are they? What a nice hat! . . .’

It all went very well and ended with Rebecca saying, ‘Well, maybe knock on the door and come for a play date – doesn’t-the-very-word-make-you-want-to-shoot-yourself? – sometime.’

‘Hahaaha! It does. Yes,’ I said, miming embarrassingly, shooting my own head. ‘That would be cool. Byeee!’ Then crossed the road and went into the house thinking, ‘Yayy! We can be friends and maybe I could introduce her to Leatherjacketman and . . .’

‘Wait!’ Rebecca suddenly called.

I turned.

‘Isn’t that your daughter?’

Shit! Had completely forgotten I had Mabel with me. She was standing, bemused, outside Rebecca’s house, abandoned on the pavement.

NOTICE HOW HE MAKES YOU FEEL. SOMEWHERE AMIDST LIST – ‘HORNY’, ‘TAKING STOMACH MEDICINE DUE TO ANXIETY’ – THERE SHOULD BE THE WORD ‘HAPPY’

9.15 p.m. Still no text. Whole Leatherjacketman scenario is making me horribly anxious with a sick feeling in my stomach.

THE NUMBER ONE KEY DATING RULE

Saturday 15 September 2012

DO NOT TEXT WHEN DRUNK

8.15 p.m. YAYY! Telephone!

9 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling!’ – my mother – shit! Tailspinned, wondering if Leatherjacketman could still send a text while Mum was on the phone.

‘Bridget? Bridget? Are you still there? Have you decided about the cruise?’

‘Um, well, I think it might be a bit—’

‘I mean, most people from St Oswald’s will be with their grandchildren. It is a special time of year, when people do spend it with the grandchildren. Julie Enderbury and Michael are taking the whole family to Cape Verde.’

‘Well, what about Una’s grandchildren?’ I counterpointed.

‘It’s the in-laws’ turn.’

‘Right, right.’

In-laws. Admiral Darcy and Elaine are actually incredibly sweet with Billy and Mabel and manage to play it right by inviting them one at a time, to rather well-thought-out and short treat-like occasions. But I don’t think they could handle having us for Christmas. Even when Mark was alive he used to invite them to our big house in Holland Park, but he always got a cook to do the Christmas dinner, which he said was nothing to do with my cooking, but so that everyone could relax and enjoy being together. Oh, though. Why would they not ‘relax’, if I was cooking? Maybe it was to do with my cooking.

‘Bridget? Are you still there? I just don’t want you to be on your own,’ Mum said. ‘I mean, there’s still time to decide.’

‘Great! Then we can sort it out,’ I said. ‘Christmas is ages away.’

Now she’s gone off to her Aqua-Zumba. Wish Dad was here, to mitigate Mum and giggle with me about everything and hug me. Wish could get blind drunk on entire bottle of wine.

9.15 p.m. Ooh, just heard Chloe come in from her night out in Camden. She’s staying on the sofa bed so she can get to t’ai chi early tomorrow.

9.30 p.m. Think will have small glass of wine, now she is here, just to get spirits up.

ALERT! ALERT! DO NOT EVEN OPEN WINE WITHOUT WRAPPING PHONE UP IN NOTE SAYING ‘NO TEXTING’ AND PUTTING ON HIGH SHELF

9.45 p.m. Much better now. Will put music on. Maybe Queen’s ‘Play the Game’. Gay perspective is always good, esp. in musical form. Mmmm. Leatherjacketman. Wish he would text me then we could see each other and have sensual . . .

10 p.m. Maybe tiny nother glass of wine.

ALERT! ALERT!

10.05 p.m. Love Queen.

10.20 p.m. Mmm. Dancing . . .

‘This is your life!. . . Don’t play hard to get . . .’

10.20 p.m. You see, s true. ‘Love runs . . . pumping through my veeeeiiiiins!’ Love Letherjackiema. You an’t go ound getting bogged in defensiveness. Love is loike a stream.

DO NOT USE WORDS OF POP SONGS TO GUIDE BEHAVIOUR, ESPECIALLY WHEN DRUNK

10.21 p.m. Youse? Dfon’t polay hard to get. So why shunni text him . . .?

GAAAH! You see, this is the trouble with the modern world. If it was the days of letter-writing, I would never have even started to find a pen, a piece of paper, an envelope, a stamp, and Leatherjacketman’s home address and gone outside at 11.30 p.m. with two children asleep in the house to find a postbox. A text is gone at the brush of a fingertip, like a nuclear bomb or Exocet missile.

10.35 p.m. Just pressssd d SEND. Issfineisn’ tit.

DO NOT TEXT WHEN DRUNK

CONTINUING DATING INCOMPETENCE

Sunday 16 September 2012

133lb (stuffing feelings).

‘No!’ said Talitha, sitting in my living room with Tom, me and Jude. ‘It is not “fine”.’

‘Why?’ I said, staring eerily at my text.

Tom read it out then snorted.

‘Well, number one, you’re clearly drunk,’ said Jude, looking up briefly from OkCupid.

‘Number two, it’s eleven thirty at night,’ said Tom. ‘Number three, you’ve already told him you’d like to see him again, so you’re sounding desperate.’

‘Number four, you used an exclamation mark,’ said Jude crisply.

‘And it’s emotionally inauthentic,’ said Tom. ‘It has the gushing, fraudulently breezy tone of a schoolgirl who’s persuaded the netball captain to sit next to her at lunch, and is trying to force her to be friends, whilst attempting to sound casual about it.’

‘And he didn’t reply,’ added Jude.

‘Have I ruined everything?’

‘Just leave it as the naivety of a newborn bunny amidst a pack of ravenous coyotes,’ said Tom.

Almost immediately the text pinged.

I looked at them with the expression of an anti-Iraq War demonstrator hearing that there were no weapons of mass destruction. Then I floated up onto a cloud – non-biochemical – of excitement.

‘“How’s your babysitting schedule?”’ I said, dancing around. ‘He’s so CONSIDERATE.’

‘He’s trying to get into your knickers,’ said Jude.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Tom excitedly. ‘Answer the text!’

I thought a bit, then texted:

came straight back.