Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Billy’s friend Jeremiah’s mum: We are celebrating Hanukkah with Jeremiah’s dad, grandma, four aunts, seventeen cousins and the rabbi in Golders Green, though there’ll be quite a lot of time when they are all at the synagogue.

Cosmata’s mum: We are going to watch her oldest child perform as an extra in Wagner’s Ring cycle in Berlin.

Mum and Una: Still the St Oswald’s House over-fifties Christmas cruise.

I mean, maybe the children would enjoy the Drag Queen Christmas Market?

Oh God, oh God. Just when I have made friends with Rebecca I have proved myself to be a total flake.

10.15 p.m. Just called Magda.

‘Come to us,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t possibly do any of those things with two kids, or stay in your house relying on a neighbour you’ve only just met. Come to us in Gloucestershire. I’ll get the couple next door over from the farm – they’ve got kids the same age and that’s all kids need. Plus, there’s nothing they can spoil and we’ve still got all the Xboxes. Never mind anyone else. Just email them back quickly, and say you’ve found a perfect kid-friendly plan. And tell your mum you’ll do a special Christmas at St Oswald’s House when you get back. It’ll all be perfectly fine.’

Monday 31 December 2012

Christmas has been perfectly fine. Mum was perfectly happy with the post-Christmas-Christmas plan and had a whale of a time on the cruise, calling up, gabbling about ‘Pawl’ the pastry chef and some man going into everyone else’s berths. Rebecca thought the whole overbooking thing was hysterical and said we should definitely do the Drag Queen Market or the money-launderer’s vodka boat and if not she was available for wine and burnt food.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were really nice at Magda and Jeremy’s. Magda did Christmas Eve with me; the stockings, helping wrap the giant pile of plastic crap, which ‘Santa’ had of course ended up ordering from Amazon, and putting it under the tree. And I seriously think Billy and Mabel thought it was great. Billy doesn’t really remember Christmas with Mark, and Mabel never had one. Billy only had two of them and he was so little . . . And the rest of the time we’ve been in and out of Rebecca’s house, crossing the road with pans of burnt food, and moaning about computer games, and her and the kids in and out of ours and next year is going to be so much better!

PART TWO

2013 DIARY

Tuesday 1 January 2013

Twitter followers 636, resolutions made about not making resolutions 1, said resolution kept (0), resolutions made 3.

9.15 p.m. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. This year am not going to do any New Year’s Resolutions but instead focus on being grateful for myself as I am. New Year’s Resolutions would be expressing dissatisfaction with status quo rather than Buddhist gratitude.

9.20 p.m. Actually, maybe will just do Capsule New Year’s Resolutions in manner of soon-to-be Capsule Wardrobe.

I WILL

*Focus on being a mother instead of thinking about men.

*If by any unlikely chance do run across any attractive men, put the Dating Rules into practice and be an accomplished dater.

*Oh, fuck it. Find someone really great to shag who is really good fun and makes me feel gorgeous, not horrible, and have SEX.

PERFECT MOTHER

Saturday 5 January 2013

9.15 a.m. Right! Caring for two children will become effortless now I have read One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting, which is all about giving two simple warnings and a consequence, and also French Children Don’t Throw Food, which is about how French children operate within a cadre which is a bit like in school where there is a structured inner circle where they know what the rules are (and if they break them you simply do One Two Three Better, Easier Parenting and then outside you don’t fuss about them too much and wear elegant French clothes and have sex).

11.30 a.m. Entire morning has been totally lovely. Started day with all three of us in my bed cuddling. Then had breakfast. Then played hide-and-seek. Then drew and coloured in Plants and Zombies from Plants versus Zombies. You see! It’s easy! All you have to do is devote yourself completely to your children and have a cadre, and, and . . .

11.31 a.m. Billy: ‘Mummy, will you play football?’

11.32 a.m. Mabel: ‘Noo! Mummy, will you pick me up and thwing me round?’

11.40 a.m. Had just escaped to toilet when both cried ‘Mummy’ simultaneously.

‘I’m on the TOILET!’ I retorted. ‘Hang on a minute.’

Shouting ensued.

‘Right!’ I said brightly, pulling myself together and emerging from the loo. ‘Let’s go out, shall we?’

‘I don’t want to go out.’

‘I want to do compuuuteerrrrrrrrrr.’

Both children burst into spontaneous crying.

11.45 a.m. Went back into the toilet, bit my hand really quite hard, hissing, ‘Everything is completely intolerable, I hate myself, I’m a rubbish mother,’ tore up a piece of toilet paper pettily and, for lack of a grander gesture, threw it into the toilet. Smoothed myself down and stepped out again, smiling brightly. At which I distinctly saw Mabel waddle up to Billy, whack him on the top of the head with Saliva, then sit down to innocently play with her Hellvanians while Billy burst into loud spontaneous crying again.

11.50 a.m. Oh GOD. I really, REALLY want to go on a mini-break with someone and have sex.

11.51 a.m. Returned to toilet, put towel over face and muttered, shamefully, into towel, ‘Look, will everyone just SHUT UP?!’

The door burst open. Mabel stared solemnly. ‘Billy’s exasperating me,’ she said, then ran back into the room yelling, ‘Mummy’s eatin’ a towel!’

Billy rushed eagerly, then suddenly remembered: ‘Mabel hit me with Saliva.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did.’

‘Mabel, I saw you hit Billy with Saliva,’ I joined in.

Mabel stared at me under lowered brows, then burst out, ‘He hit me wid a . . . wid a HAMMER.’

‘I didn’t,’ wailed Billy. ‘We haven’t got a hammer.’

‘We have!’ I said indignantly.

Both started spontaneous crying again.

‘We don’t hit,’ I said despairingly. ‘We don’t hit. I’m going to count to . . . to. . . It’s not OK to hit.’

Ugh. Ridiculous expression: ‘Not OK’, suggesting am too idle or passive-aggressive to locate or use word categorizing what hitting actually is (very bad, effing annoying, etc.), so, instead, hitting has to make do with mere exclusion from vague generalization of things which ‘are OK’.

Mabel, regardless of hitting’s OKness or otherwise, grabbed a fork from the table, jabbed Billy, and then ran off and hid behind the curtain. ‘Mabel, that’s a One,’ I said. ‘Give me the fork.’

‘Yes, master,’ she said, throwing down the fork and running to the drawer to get another one.

‘Mabel!’ I said. ‘The next thing I’m going to say is . . . is . . . TWO!’

I froze, thinking, ‘What am I going to do when I get to Three?’

‘Come on! Let’s go up to the Heath,’ I said in a jolly way, deciding it wasn’t the moment to hit the hitting issue head on.

‘Nooooo! I want to do Wizard101.’

‘Not goin’ in de car! Want to watch SpongeBob.’

Was suddenly wildly indignant that own children’s values were so entirely off-key, due to American cartoons, computer games and general consumer culture. Had flashback to own childhood, and urge to inspire and teach them with song from the Girl Guides.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And the flag is flying freeeee!’ I sang.

‘Mummy,’ said Billy, with Mark-style sternness.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And that’s where I long to beeee . . .’ I warbled. ‘Pack your kit, girls! / Feeling fit, girls! / For a life of health and joy!’

‘Thtoppit,’ said Mabel.

‘For it’s off to camp again / In a lorry not a train.’

‘Mummy, stop!’ said Billy.

‘Camp ahoy!’ I finished with a rousing flourish. ‘Camp ahoy!’

Looked down to see them staring at me nervously, as if I was a zombie from Plants versus Zombies.

‘Can I go on the computer?’ said Billy.

Calmly, deliberately, I opened the fridge, reaching for the enormous stash of chocolate-from-Granny on the top shelf.

‘Chocolate buttons!’ I said, dancing about with the buttons in an attempt to mimic a fairy-themed party entertainer. ‘Follow the trail of buttons to see where it leads! Two trails,’ I added, to ward off conflict, laying a careful line of exactly matching chocolate buttons up the stairs and towards the front door, ignoring the fact that tradesmen may previously have trailed dog-poo traces into the carpet.

The two of them obediently trotted up the stairs after me, stuffing the no-doubt-dog-poo-smeared buttons into their mouths.

On the way in the car, I thought about what I should do about the hitting. Clearly, according to French Children Don’t Throw Food, it should be outside the cadre (but then so should putting chocolate buttons in a trail out of the house) and according to One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting there should simply be a scorched-earth, zero-tolerance, three-strikes-and-you’re-out Donald Rumsfeld kind of policy.

‘Mabel?’ I said in preparation, as we drove along.

Silence.

‘Billy?’

Silence.

‘Earth to Mabel and Billy?’

They both seemed to be in some sort of trance. Why couldn’t they have had the trance in the house so I could have sat down for a minute and read the Style section from last week’s Sunday Times whilst believing myself to be reading the News Review?

Decided to let the trance just happen: to go with the flow and make the most of any moment of calm to clear my head. It was really quite jolly driving along, the sun was shining, people out and about, lovers in each other’s arms and . . .

‘Mummy?’

Hah! I seized the moment, adopting a statesmanlike, Obama-esque tone. ‘Yes. Now. I have something to say: Billy – and particularly Mabel – hitting is not allowed in our family. And I say to you now: every day when a person doesn’t hit – or jab – they will get a gold star. I say to you: any time a person does hit they get a black mark. And I say to you, as a non-violent person and as your mother: any person who gets five gold stars by the end of the week will get a small prize of their choice.’

‘A Hellvanian bunny?’ said Mabel excitedly. ‘A Fuckoon Family?’

‘Yes, a Raccoon Family,’ I said.

‘She didn’t say Raccoon. She said the F-word. Can I have crowns on Wizard101?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wait. How much is a Raccoon Family? Can I get crowns that are worth the same as a Raccoon Family?’ Mark Darcy the top negotiator in child form. ‘How much money does Mabel lose for saying the F-word?’

‘I didn’t say de F-word.’

‘You did.’

‘I didn’t. I THAID Fuckoon.’

‘How many Wizard101 crowns does Mabel lose for saying the F-word again?’

‘Here we are at the super-dooper Heath!’ I said rousingly, pulling into the car park.

Is amazing how everything calms down once one is in the outdoors with blue skies and crisp winter sunshine. Headed for the climbing trees, standing close by as Billy and Mabel hung upside down, motionless, from the conveniently broad, low boughs. Like lemurs.

Wished, for a fleeting second, they were lemurs.

1 p.m. Suddenly had urge to check my Twitter followers and pulled iPhone out to take a look.

1.01 p.m. ‘Mummeee! Mabel’s stuck in the tree!’

Looked up in alarm. How had they got up there in thirty seconds when they’d just been hanging upside down? Mabel was now way up, clinging to the tree trunk like not so much a lemur as a koala, but slithering alarmingly.

‘Hang on, I’m coming.’

I took off my parka and hoisted myself awkwardly into the tree, positioning myself under Mabel and putting a firm hand under her bottom, wishing I hadn’t come in quite such low-rise jeans, and high-rise thong.

‘Mummy, I can’t get down either,’ said Billy who was crouched, wobbling, on a branch to my right like an unsteady bird.

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hang on.’

I leaned my full weight against the tree, placing one foot on a slightly higher branch to lift me towards Billy and putting my hand on Billy’s bottom, whilst keeping the other hand under Mabel’s bottom, simultaneously feeling the low-rise jeans descending lower over my own bottom. ‘Calm and poised! Just hold on tight and . . .’

None of us could move. What was I going to do? Were we going to be frozen against the tree for ever, like a trio of lizards?

‘Everything all right up there?’

‘Is Mr Wolkda,’ said Mabel.

I peered awkwardly down over my shoulder.

It was indeed Mr Wallaker, running, in sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, looking like he was on an assault course.

‘Everything all right?’ he said again, stopping suddenly below us. He was oddly ripped for a schoolteacher, but staring in his usual annoying, judgemental way.

‘Yes, no, everything’s great!’ I trilled. ‘Just, um, climbing a tree!’

‘Yes, I see that.’

Great, I thought. Now he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a completely irresponsible mother letting the children climb trees. Jeans were now slipping below my bottom-cleavage, my black lacy thong on full display.

‘Right. Good. Well. I’ll be off then. Bye!’

‘Bye!’ I called gaily over my shoulder, then reconsidered. ‘Um . . . Mr Wallaker?’

‘Yeeees?’

‘Could you just . . .?’

‘Billy,’ said Mr Wallaker, ‘let go of your mum, hold onto the branch, and sit down on it.’

I released my frozen arm from Billy and put it round Mabel’s back.

‘There you go. Now. Look at me. When I count to three, I want you to do what I say.’

‘OK!’ said Billy cheerfully.

‘One . . . two . . . and . . . jump!’

I leaned back and nearly screamed as Billy jumped out of the tree. What was Mr Wallaker doing?

‘Aaaaaaand . . . roll!’

Billy landed, did a strange military-style roll and stood up, beaming.

‘Now, Mrs Darcy, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Mr Wallaker hoisted himself into the lower branches. ‘I’m going to take hold of . . .’ Me? My thong? ‘. . . Mabel,’ he said, reaching his arms past me to put his big hands round Mabel’s plump little form. ‘And you wriggle out and jump down.’

Trying to ignore the exasperating frisson brought on by the scent and closeness of Mr Wallaker, I did what he said and jumped down, trying to pull up the jeans. He took Mabel in one strong scoop of his arm, leaned her on his shoulder and placed her on the grass.

‘I thaid Fuckoon,’ said Mabel, looking at him gravely.

‘I nearly said that, too,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But we’re all all right now, aren’t we?’

‘Will you play football with me?’ said Billy.

‘Got to get home, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘to er . . . the family. Now try to avoid the upper branches.’

He started running off again, pumping his arms up and down with palms extended. Who did he think he was?

Suddenly found self shouting after him: ‘Mr Wallaker?’

He turned. Did not know what had intended to say. Mind whirring frantically, I shouted, ‘Thank you.’ Then added, for no reason whatsoever, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he said dismissively, then started running off again.

Humph. Grumpy bastard. Even if he did get us down from the tree.

A NEEDLE IN A TWITTERSTACK

Saturday 5 January 2013 (continued)

Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers I might fancy 1.

4 p.m. Whole Mr Wallaker tree/‘back to the wife and kids’ thing has left self feeling abnormal, and that everyone else is spending Saturday afternoon in nuclear family, while Dad plays ping-pong with the lad, and Mum shops and does mani-pedis with her immaculately dressed little girl. Ooh, doorbell!

9 p.m. Was Rebecca! Had lovely evening sitting at her kitchen table while kids ran around. Was still feeling a bit abnormal, as Rebecca has a husband, or at least a ‘partner’ as they are not married. He is tall, handsome, though frequently a bit wrecked-looking and always dressed in black, and a musician. Told Rebecca about the everyone-else-in-nuclear-families-paranoia at which she snorted.

‘Nuclear families? I never see Jake from one month to the next. He’s always off on some gig or tour, and when he appears it’s frequently like having some kind of teenage stoner in the house.’

Then we all came back to our house, and watched Britain’s Got Talent while I cooked (i.e. microwaved popcorn) and now the children are asleep. Billy and Finn are over the road, and Mabel and Oleander are here.

Sunday 6 January 2013

Twitter followers 649 (feel like tweeting disappeared followers saying, ‘Why? Why?’).

8 p.m. Another good day with Rebecca and the kids. Another good evening with me, Mabel and Billy on my bed watching the Britain’s Got Talent results while I checked Twitter on my iPhone, tweeting my followers (649) with piercing aperçus on the ongoing programme: e.g. <@JoneseyBJ Aww #Chevaune song v. moving totes amazog.>

8.15 p.m. Ooh. Have got response to my apercu from someone called @_Roxster!

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ #Chevaune song ‘totes amazog’? My tears are getting mixed up with my sick.>

‘Mummy,’ said Billy.

‘Mmmm?’ I said vaguely.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’

DO NOT TWEET WHEN DRUNK

Thursday 10 January 2013

Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers who came back 1, new Twitter followers 2, alcohol units (do not want to even think about it. But – quavering voice – don’t I deserve a little happiness?).

9.30 p.m. Chloe staying over again after her night out with Graham in Camden. Is nice sitting down at the end of the day and updating myself with current affairs and Twitter with a well-earned glass or two of white wine.

10 p.m. Woah. Fantastic story: ‘Beef Lasagne 100% Horse’.

10.25 p.m. Hee hee. Just tweeted.

<@JoneseyBJ Warning: Fish fingers found to be 90% Sea Horse.>

Sure will be retweeted and bring more followers like spambot tweet!

Maybe will have another glass of wine. I mean, Chloe is here, so is fine.

Love that the tone of my Twitter feed is so loving and friendly. Not like some, where everyone is slagging each other off. Really, is like going back to the days of Robin Hood with all these little fiefdoms and oh . . .

10.30 p.m. Everyone is slagging me off. And my tweet.

<@_Sunnysmile @JoneseyBJ You think that’s a new joke? Don’t you read anyone except yourself on Twitter? Self-obsessed or what?>

Really need another glass of wine now.

10.45 p.m. Right, am going to tweet back to @sunny or whatever she’s called ’erself and tick her off. So people aren’t allowed to make up their own jokes any more?

11 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Sunnysmile If you don’t stop being mean I will de-follow you.>

11.01 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Sunnysmile Here one spreads joy & positive energy by tweeting. Rather like birds do.>

11.07 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ ‘They toil not, neither do they tweet.’ Hmm. No, they do tweet though. Thasu point with birds.>

11.08 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Anyway f*** em. Stupid birds flapping around tweeting all over s place. Oh oh look at me! I’m a bird!>

11.15 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Hate birds. Look at that movie ‘The Birds’! Birds can turn MAN-EATING.>

11.16 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Peecking people’s eyes out with 60s hairdos. Vicious nasty birds.>

11.30 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ 85 followess gone waway. Why? Why’wasi hwohave I don? comebac!k>

<@JoneseyBJ Noo! Follwers draining away as if through sieve.>

<@JoneseyBJ Nooo! Hate bireds Hatetweetings Hate drainqine away follwoers. An goingsoto bed!>

TWUNKEN AFTERMATH

Friday 11 January 2013

Twitter followers lost 551, Twitter followers remaining 101, number of words of screenplay written 0.

6.35 a.m. Will just check my Twi— Gaaah! Just remembered twunking incoherent drunken rant last night, slagging off birds for no reason to hundreds of complete strangers. Oh God. Have clouting hangover and have got to do school run. Oh, is OK because Chloe is doing school run. Am going back to sleep.

10 a.m. Look, this can be salvaged, like any other PR disaster. With exception, possibly, of current Lance Armstrong PR disaster.

10.15 a.m. Right. The Leaves in His Hair. Must get on.

11.15 a.m. Actually, maybe I could have a career in PR! Oh, shit, is 11.15, must get on with screenplay. First, though, clearly I quickly need to make a full and frank Twitter apology to my few remaining followers.

<@JoneseyBJ Very sorry re #twunk last night re birds.>

11.16 a.m. <@JoneseyBJ Birds delight our ears and eyes with their feathers and song! And control worms. Leave birds alone!>

11.45 a.m. Maybe will just throw in quote from Dalai Lama for good measure:

<@JoneseyBJ Just as a snake sheds its skin so we can shed our past and begin anew. (@DalaiLama)>

9.15 p.m. Right. Children are asleep. Am going to get back on Twitter.

9.16 p.m. OMG. Tweet from @_Roxster! Yesss! At least Roxster has not left in disgust.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ @DalaiLama Once the hangover has cleared? Do you realize you’ve been singled out in a #Twunk thread?>

9.17 p.m. Oh God. Everyone is ridiculing me and retweeting my drunken birds tweet. Must try and do damage control.

<@JoneseyBJ #twunkbirds Look, sorry, I really wish I hadn’t – what is the past tense of tweet? Tweeted? Twittered?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ I believe the appropriate term is ‘Twat’.>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Are you being grammatical or rude?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ The former *pretentious voice*: from the Latin, Twitto, Twittarse, Twittat.>

He’s funny. And pic is handsome. And young-looking. I wonder who he is?

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Roxster, if you carry on like this, your 103 remaining Twitterati will be demanding sick bags.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Why? Are they all hung-over because they too were twunking about birds last night?>

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Cheeky young whippersnapper.

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Please stop being so impertinent, or I shall have to tweak you.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Tweak or tweet? Best not the latter. You’ve just lost 48 more followers.>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Oh no! They think I’m a really neurotic Twitterer and fat.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Did you just say ‘and fart’?>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster No, Roxster, I said ‘and fat’. You seem unhealthily obsessed with farting and vomiting.>

Roxster just retweeted me from one of his followers: <@Raef_P @Rory See you in five, yar? Outside the Fartage?> adding:

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Posh bastards are skiing in France.>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster But what is Fartage?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Waxing.>

10 p.m. Waxing? France? Suddenly have lurching fear that Roxster is not a cute younger man who finds me entertaining, but gay, and is drawn to me and Talitha as tragic ironic ruined drag acts, like Lily Savage.

10.05 p.m. Just called Talitha to get her opinion.

‘Roxster? That rings a bell. Is he one of my followers?’

‘He’s MY follower!’ I said indignantly, then conceded, ‘Though he may have jumped across from you.’

‘He’s adorable. Roxster. Roxby someone. I had a man on the show who was plugging designer food-recycling caddies and Roxby came with him. He works for some green eco-charity. Nice young chap. Very handsome. Go for it!’

10.15 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Do you go to France and get waxed, Roxster?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Deep masculine voice* Jonesey, I am very far from gay. I am talking about waxing snowboards.>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster ‘Oh oh, look at me, I’m a young person. I do snowboarding in baggy trousers showing my underpants.’>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster ‘Instead of skiing elegantly with a furlined hood.’>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Do you like younger men, Jonesey?>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster *Icy, almost to point of glacier-esque* Excuse me? What EXACTLY are you implying?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Hides behind sofa* How old are you, Jonesey?>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Oscar Wilde: Never trust a woman who will tell you her age. If she tells you that she will tell you anything.>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster How old are you, Roxster?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ 29.>

SCREENWRITER

Monday 14 January 2013

Twitter followers 793 (am #Twunken heroine), tweets 17, disastrous social occasions agreed to 1 (or maybe 3 all in one), words of screenplay written 0.

10 a.m. Right, must get down to work!

10.05 a.m. Maybe will just check news.

10.15 a.m. Oooh. Really like Michelle Obama’s new haircut with fringe, or ‘bangs’, as they are known. Maybe I should get fringe or bangs? Also, of course, delighted by Obama’s second term of presidency.

10.20 a.m. Really has started to seem as if nice people are in charge: Obama, that new Archbishop of Canterbury who had a proper job before and speaks out against the banks being greedy, and William and Kate. Right, work. Ooh, phone!

11 a.m. Was Talitha. ‘Darling! Have you finished your screenplay?’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Well, sort of.’ The truth is, what with the whole Leatherjacketman thing, and the dating study thing, and then the Twitter thing, The Leaves in His Hair seems to have rather gone to seed. Oh, though, can leaves go to seed? Maybe if sycamores?

‘Bridget? Are you still there? Is it in some sort of shape?’

‘Yes!’ I lied.

‘Well, send it to me. Sergei’s doing some “dealings” in the film business and I think I can use it to get you an agent.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, very touched.

‘Send it today?’

‘Um. Yes! Just give me a couple of days?’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But get on with it, OK? Between tweets to toy boys? Remember, we do not let Twitter become an obsession.’

11.15 a.m. Right. Is absolutely imperative not to tweet today, but finish screenplay. Have just got to do the ending. Oh, and the middle bit. And sort out the start. Maybe will just look quickly at Twitter to see if @_Roxster has tweeted again. Gaah! Telephone.

‘Oh, hello, darling’ – my mum. ‘I’m just ringing about the Cruise Slideshow Event and Hard-Hats-Offing a week on Saturday. It was super doing the Christmas-After-Christmas at Chats and I thought . . .’

Tried to resist the temptation to immediately tweet hilariously about the Mum/Cruise Event conversation whilst being in the middle of it. Of course Mum would never be on Twitter.

‘Bridget?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, trying to drag myself away from Twitter.

‘Oh! So you ARE going to come?’

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Can you just run through it again?’

She sighed. ‘It’s the Hard-Hats-Offing for the completion of the new Gatehouse Lodges! All the St Oswald’s establishments do them when they’ve finished a new build. We all wear hard hats, and then just toss them in the air!’

‘When is it again?’

‘A week on Saturday. You will come, darling, because Mavis is having Julie and Michael and all the grandchildren.’

‘So I can bring the kids?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Yes, of course, darling, that’s the whole idea but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Nothing, nothing, darling. You’ll make sure Mabel wears the dress I sent?’

I sighed. No matter how many cool shorts-tights-and-biker-boots outfits from H&M kids, or sticky-outy party dresses from Mum I try to coax Mabel into, Mabel has her own ideas about what she wants to wear: usually some sort of Hamish-meets-Disney look involving a glittery T-shirt, leggings and an ankle-length tiered skirt. Feel am from totally Other Generation, which doesn’t understand the look of the young people.

‘Bridget!’ said Mum, understandably, perhaps, exasperated. ‘You must come, darling, it doesn’t matter how badly they behave.’

‘They don’t behave badly!’

‘Well, the other grandchildren are older because of you having them so late in life, and of course when you’re on your own with them it’s harder to—’

‘I’m not sure I can make Saturday week.’

‘Everyone else will have their grandchildren there and it’s terribly hard for me being on my own.’

‘OK. Now, Mum, I’ve got to go.’

‘Did I tell you about the trouble we’ve been having . . .?’ she started to gabble, as she always does when I say I have to go. ‘We’ve got one of these men going into all the bedrooms. Kenneth Garside? He keeps getting into bed with all the women.’

‘Do you like Kenneth Garside, Mum?’ I said innocently.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, darling. You don’t want a man when you get to my age. They just want looking after.’

It’s an interesting thing, the ages at which men and women want each other more than the other does:

Twenties: Women have the upper hand because pretty much everyone wants to shag them so they have a lot of power. And twenty-something men are super-horny but haven’t made it in their careers yet.

Thirties: Men definitely have the upper hand. Thirties is the worst possible time for a woman to be dating: whole thing increasingly loaded by biologically unfair ticking clock: a clock which will hopefully soon be transformed, by the perfection of Jude-style egg-freezing, into silent digital clock with no need for an alarm. Meanwhile, men sense it like sharks scenting blood and are also simultaneously perfecting their careers, so the balance tips more and more in their favour until . . .

Forties: Not sure about this because I was with Mark most of the time. Maybe about equal? If you take babies out of the equation. Or maybe men think they’re on top because they think they want younger women and think age-equivalent women want them. But actually secretly the women equally want younger men. And the younger men like the older women because they’re refreshingly not looking to them to be breadwinners and not thinking about babies any more.

Fifties: It used to be the age of Germaine Greer’s ‘Invisible Woman’, branded as non-viable, post-menopausal sitcom fodder. But now with the Talitha school of branding combined with Kim Cattrall, Julianne and Demi Moore, etc. is all starting to change!

Sixties: Balance completely shifting, as men realize they’ve got as far as they’re going to get in their careers and that they’ve never really made friends in the way women do, but just talked about golf and stuff. And women take better care of themselves – look at Helen Mirren and Joanna Lumley!

Seventies: Definitely women have the upper hand, and still do themselves out nicely, and make a nice home and cook and—

‘Bridget, are you still there?’

Upshot of it is, have agreed to take the children to Hard-Hats-Offing for the new Gatehouse Lodges and the Cruise Slideshow Event followed by Family Tea at Chats. And have still not even made a start on screenplay.

Tuesday 15 January 2013

11.55 p.m. Have spent all of last night and all of today writing writing writing and just emailed The Leaves in His Hair to Talitha.

Wednesday 16 January 2013

134lb (bad: too much time sitting on arse), agents, though, 1!

11 a.m. Just had phone call from agent! Unfortunately had mouth full of grated cheese but did not matter as did not seem imperative to talk.

‘I have Brian Katzenberg for you,’ said the assistant.

‘So,’ Brian Katzenberg crashed straight in. ‘We have Sergei in common, and I know Sergei wants to get this spec out.’

‘Have you read it?’ I said excitedly. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I think it’s fascinating and I’m going to get it out to appropriate people immediately. So you can let Sergei know that straight away and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Thank you,’ I stammered.

‘So you’ll tell Sergei I did it?’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Will do!’

11.05 a.m. Just called Talitha to thank her.

‘You will tell Sergei?’ I said. ‘He seemed very anxious that I tell him straight away.’

‘Oh God. Yes, I’ll tell Sergei. Fuck knows what’s going on there. But, darling, I’m very proud of you for finishing.’

LET IT SNOW!

Thursday 17 January 2013

Texts about snow 12, tweets about snow 13, snowflakes 0.

8 p.m. Text from school.

8.15 p.m. Plain excitement. We can all bunk off and go sledging! Clearly no one can go to sleep. We keep opening the curtains to check if you can see it in the street lamps.

8.30 p.m. Still no snow.

8.45 p.m. Still no snow. Look, is really time the children went to sleep now.

9 p.m. Eventually got them to sleep by saying, ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep, if you don’t go to sleep you won’t be allowed to ENJOY the lovely snow!’ repeatedly like parrot. Obvious lie, as who else am I going to go in the snow with?

9.45 p.m. Still no snow. Maybe will check Twitter.

9.46 p.m. @_Roxster is tweeting about the snow!

<@_Roxster Anyone else excited about the snow?>

9.50 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Me. But where is it? ‘Oh, oh, look at me! I’m snow but I don’t exist!’>

10 p.m. Tweet from @_Roxster!

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Jonesey, are you twunking again? Or do you like snow as much as me?>

10.15 p.m. Carried on flirting with @_Roxster.

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Are you getting fartaged in preparation?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Definitely.>

Talitha joined in. <@Talithaluckybitch @JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Very funny, you two. Now GO TO SLEEP.>

10.30 p.m. Mmmm. Love Twitter. Love feeling that there is someone else out there who cares about all the little exciting things you yourself get excited about.

11 p.m. Still no snow.

Friday 18 January 2013

Number of times checked for snow 12, snowflakes 0, tweets from @_Roxster 7, tweets pretending to be to all followers but actually to @_Roxster 6 (slightly less than him, v.g.)

7 a.m. Woke up and all rushed excitedly to the window. No snow.

7.15 a.m. Tempting to all stay in PJs for Snow Day, even if no snow, but forced self to force everyone, including self, to get dressed just in case School Snow Day text did not happen.

7.45 a.m. No text. Maybe tweet, though, from @_Roxster?

7.59 a.m. Still no school text. Still no tweet from @_Roxster. Trying to deal with own as well as everyone else’s disappointment, shoved three bacon-wrapped chipolatas in mouth, adding as an afterthought, ‘Anyone else want one?’

8 a.m. No text from school. We had better go.

9 a.m. Dropped off Mabel and got to Junior Branch to find infectious excitement, and Mr Wallaker organizing lines of boys crouching behind imaginary snow-walls and hurling imaginary snowballs at each other. Resisted temptation to tweet about scene to @_Roxster lest it put him off me that I have kids.

‘Snow today, Mrs Darcy!’ said Mr Wallaker, suddenly looming up beside us. ‘Going to be climbing trees?’

‘I know! I’ve been waiting for it all night,’ I said, smoothly ignoring the tree reference. ‘But where is it?’

‘On its way from the west! It’s snowing in Somerset. Do you enjoy snow?’

‘Punctual snow,’ I said darkly.

‘Maybe it’s been held up on the M4,’ he said. ‘It’s closed by snow at Junction 13.’

‘Oh!’ I said, brightening.

‘Wait,’ said Billy suspiciously. ‘How could snow be held up by snow?’

There was a slight twitch of amusement in Mr Wallaker’s eyes, then Billy’s face broke into a grin. It was really annoying, as if they were somehow sharing a joke at my expense.

‘Have a nice day!’ I said confusedly – we weren’t exactly in California – and slithered off through the ice to get on with my Twitter, I mean writing. Why did I put on high-heeled boots?

9.30 a.m. Back home. Right! The Leaves in His Hair.

9.35 a.m. Quickly tweeted @_Roxster, I mean my followers, Mr Wallaker’s joke.

9.45 a.m. <@JoneseyBJ Apparently the snow has been held up by snow on the M4 but will be here shortly.>

10 a.m. Five people have retweeted my tweet! Twelve more followers have come.

10.15 a.m. Keeps saying, ‘WARNING! SNOW!’ on the telly.

10.30 a.m. The snow has started!

11 a.m. Is just getting thicker and thicker. Can’t stop going up to window to look out at it.

11.45 a.m. Just keep staring at the miracle of the snow. Is like someone has beautifully drawn white shading on all the trees. Is an inch and a half thick on the table outside – like icing on a cake. Or cream . . . Maybe not an inch and a half. Consider going out with ruler to measure, then realize ridiculous. Must get on with myriad tasks.

Noon. OMG is tweet from @_Roxster.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Shall we bunk off work, get fartaged and go sledging??>

Blink at tweet in shock. Is @_Roxster actually asking me out? Does he mean it? But I’m looking completely crazed with hair standing up on end and . . . But I could wash my hair! And put on sledging things and you only live once and it’s snowing! Tweeted: <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Yes! Can you?>

Just as I had tweeted there was a text:

12.15 p.m. What am I going to do? Cannot expect twenty-nine-year-old dream god to suddenly want to come sledging with two children and older woman with mad hair. Whole point of older woman is you are supposed to be soignée in black silk stockings like in French-style parenting and Catherine Deneuve and Charlotte Rampling. Must go get children but how can I stand @_Roxster up, and the Dating Rules say it’s like dancing and you’re just meant to follow but . . .

Another text:

Is genuine emergency!!

12.30 p.m. Rushed downstairs to get sledges out of cupboard, quickly wiping off spiders, etc.

12.50 p.m. Opened door to see road was completely covered in snow. It is a major blizzard, clearly a very serious and dangerous situation! Wildly excited. But what about @_Roxster? Must put children first.

1 p.m. OK, have got full ski gear on now, not sure if helmet is required but goggles certainly. Have thrown snow boots, salopettes, jackets, gloves, survival kit, shovel, torch, water, chocolate and sledges in back of car.

5 p.m. Eventually got to school after thrilling slithery journey. Was necessary, even so, to take goggles off and put glasses on to check for @_Roxster tweets.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Sorry, Jonesey – was being inauthentically devil-may-care. Have job cannot get out of to play in snow. Unlike, clearly, you.>

Crushed. Am stood up for snow date.

Waddled up hill into school, in manner of Lance Armstrong when landing on moon – I mean, Neil Armstrong – owing to ski pants on top of my jeans and jacket and everything, thinking, ‘OK, do not need to reply to @_Roxster now as he has, technically speaking, stood me up for sledging. And I responded not reacted so have perfectly followed dating rules and—’

Burst through door into school hall, where the Infants and Juniors were gathered, to see Perfect Nicorette dressed as a sort of Snow Queen in white snow boots, perfectly blow-dried hair, enormous black patent handbag covered in bling, and long white coat with white fur thing draped around it, laughing flirtatiously with Mr Wallaker. Huh. Man-Tart. Married and flirting with Nicorette. Mr Wallaker turned as I walked in, and patently burst out laughing.

He wouldn’t laugh if he knew I had a possible sledging date with a toy boy, would he? Am Catherine Deneuve and Charlotte Rampling.

‘Mummeee!’ Billy and Mabel ran over, eyes shining. ‘Can we go sledging?’

‘Yes! I’ve got the sledges in the car!’ I said and, giving Mr Wallaker an imperious look, I pulled my goggles back over my eyes and swept mysteriously – as best I could given outfit – out of the hall.

10 p.m. Fantastic day. Sledging was completely brilliant. Rebecca and everyone from over the road came up to Primrose Hill too and it was completely magical, really like a Christmas card. The snow was deep and fluffy and hardly anyone was up there at first and you could really get the sledge to go quite fast on the paths. And @_Roxster tweeted in the middle.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Do you want to sledge later? Can make it tonight if you can.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Though worry re you in treacherous conditions. Would another night be better?>

Was too difficult to reply as fingers were frozen, had to put glasses on to read tweets and simultaneously run after sledges to stop collisions, etc., so just left it for a while, savouring the feeling of being the last one to receive a message and @_Roxster wanting to have a date with me!

As it got later, more and more people were on the Hill, and it started getting icy so we all came back to our place, had hot chocolate and supper together and it was really very jolly, and while Rebecca was watching the kids I snuck off to my Twitter for five minutes, glancing briefly in the mirror and realizing tonight really would not be a good night for a date with a toy boy.

In the midst of all the incoherent stream of tweets about snow and the M4 there was another one from @_Roxster.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Jonesey? Have you died in the snow?>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Nearly. Was epic off-piste powder. Another night would be great.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Any particular night?>

You see, straightforward, authentic communication! That’s the way. Tweeted back.

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Let me consult my extremely full diary . . .>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ You mean huge body of dating advice manuals?>

OMG. Was Roxster reading my tweets back in the days of Leatherjacketman?

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster *Smoothly ignoring impertinent young whippersnapper* When did you have in mind?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Tuesday?>

Headed back down to the kitchen beaming. Everything is marvellous! Have date with gorgeous, funny, hunky twenty-nine-year-old toy boy and house full of rosy-cheeked children, sweet-smelling food, sledges and willies (I mean wellies – where did that come from?).

DO NOT TWEET ABOUT DATE DURING DATE

Sunday 20 January 2013

Twitter followers 873, tweets from @_Roxster 7.

11 a.m. Tweeting is going sensationally. More and more followers have come since the whole #twunkbirds thread thing. Cannot help noticing that Roxster has gone rather silent since the agreement about the date. But maybe, being a man, he feels that a level has been accomplished, as with Xbox, and there is no need to keep on at it.

11.02 a.m. Actually had better just send a tweet to let everyone know what’s going on.

<@JoneseyBJ *Trills smugly, annoyingly, full-of-joys-of-spring-and I’ve-got-a-date-with-mysterious-stranger-off-Twitter* Morneeeeeing, everyone!>

11.05 a.m. OMG, have lost two followers. Why? Why? Was there something in the tone? Had better send another one.

<@JoneseyBJ Sorry, have clearly turned off several followers with early-morning smugness. Obviously date will all go wrong and will be stood up.>

11.15 a.m. Great, have lost three more followers. Must remember not to overtweet in the morning. Or maybe at all since seem to get more followers when do not tweet than when do tweet.

Roxster has tweeted! You see, this is my reward for epic self-control.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Insulted, appalled* Stand you up, Jonesey??>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Roxster! You’re back!>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Was just trying to counteract boasty tone of previous tweet which had alienated followers. So you’re still on?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Jonesey, I may be a youth but I am not a callow one, nor a charlatan.>

Then another: <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ OK. How about I meet you outside Leicester Sq. tube @7.30? Then we could go to Nando’s. Or fish and chips?>

9.45 p.m. Immediately went into meltdown. Leicester Sq. tube?? Leicester Sq. tube?? But it’s freezing. Then remembered the key dating rules.

JUST GO ALONG WITH WHATEVER HE SUGGESTS

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster *Purrs* Why, that would be delightful!>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Growls* See you there, baby.>

You see? You see? So much better than trying to manipulate the situation.

9.50 p.m. Suddenly in panic re meeting stranger off Twitter at Leicester Square tube when am single mother.

9.51 p.m. Just called Tom, who is going to pop round.

10.50 p.m Unfortunately, had to wait for opinion as Tom was having meltdown of his own about a Hungarian architect called Arkis. He insisted on showing all the texts and pictures and Arkis’s messages on the Scruff app on his iPhone. ‘Scruff is so much better than Grindr. It used to be Beardy but now it’s got more Fashion Beardy, small clothes and big glasses, but not in a George Michael sense.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ I said, in a crisp professional manner, as if I were the psychotherapist and not Tom.

‘I think Arkis might be all text and no trousers. He just keeps sending really flirty, sexual texts late at night but nothing else.’

‘I see. Have you suggested meeting?’ I enquired.

‘I said I’d like to get to know him better but I sent it at 1 a.m. because I was looking for validation and I just got the opposite of validation because Arkis didn’t reply for two days, then didn’t mention it and just started talking about my Scruff pictures again, and now I’m wandering around with this horrible pain below my ribcage because I think he thinks—’

‘I know, I know,’ I said eagerly. ‘It was exactly like that with Leatherjacketman. It’s like the love interest assumes this huge power – like a giant standing over you in judgement, possessed of all the rules of dating competence, and about to mark you down as a desperate stalker.’

‘I know,’ he said sadly. ‘But he did say he wanted to see Zero Dark Thirty.’

‘So? Suggest you go! Durr!’ I said loftily. ‘Otherwise it’s like a staring competition of who’ll blink first.’

Once Tom appeared satisfied with the psychological underpinnings of the plan, I moved smoothly onto my own worry, at which he said crisply:

‘Of course you must meet @_Roxster, as long as it’s in a public space. Talitha says he’s fine. We’ll all be on the end of the phone. And it’s perfectly normal and healthy to meet in cyberspace.’

Love the way Tom and I swap positions at being the expert on dating mores as if on a seesaw – even though clearly neither of us has any idea what we are talking about in the first place. Sometimes it seems like just a sea of humanity out there with millions of seesaws all going on at the same time like nodding-donkeys. And everyone’s on one end or other of the seesaw at different times.

11 p.m. Heaven is rewarding me today. Roxster just tweeted again.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ It’s freezing out there, Jonesey. Shall we make it the bar at the Dean Street Townhouse instead?>

Aww. He’s been thinking about it. He’s so gorgeous and nice. Tweeted back:

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Perfect. See you there.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Can’t wait, baby.>

Tuesday 22 January 2013

133lb (still!), number of outfits tried on and thrown on floor 12, tweets sent when supposed to be getting ready 7 (very stupid), though Twitter followers 698 (advantages of live-action tweeting must be weighed against disadvantages of lateness).

6.30 p.m. Right. Almost ready. Talitha, Jude and Tom are primed about where I am going and standing by to rescue me in case anything goes wrong. Determined not to make same mistake this time and be late. Only thing is, cannot help self from tweeting as I get ready. Is almost as if I have duty to all followers to let them know what I’m doing all the time.

<@JoneseyBJ Which is more important? Look nice or be on time? I mean, if it’s an either/or situation?>

Wow – lots of responses and @ mentions:

<@JamesAP27 @JoneseyBJ On time of course. How can you be so vain? That’s so unattractive.>

Humph. Right. We’ll see about him.

<@JoneseyBJ @JamesAP27. Is not vanity but CONCERN for others i.e. not startling or scaring them.>

6.45 p.m. Shit shit, have put waterproof mascara on lips as same Laura Mercier packaging as lip gloss and will not come off. Oh God. Am going to be late with black lips.

7.15 p.m. OK. In minicab now, still rubbing at lips. Have time for a few more tweets.

<@JoneseyBJ Calm assured – in taxi now – receptive responsive Woman of Substance . . .>

<@JoneseyBJ . . . goddess of joy and light! *Rasps at cab driver* Noooo! Don’t go down f***ing Regent St!>

<@JoneseyBJ *Holds nose, talks in police radio voice* Going into the Dean Street Townhouse. Going INTO the Townhouse.>

<@JoneseyBJ Wish me luck. Over and out. Roger.>

<@JoneseyBJ *Whispers* He’s FANTASTIC.>

<@JoneseyBJ There is a lot to be said for the younger man as long as not young enough to be legal grandson.>

<@JoneseyBJ He’s smiling! He’s stood up like a gentleman.>

Roxster was indeed gorgeous, was even more handsome than his photo but, crucially, merry-looking. He looked as if he was going to burst out laughing all the time. ‘Hellooo.’ Was just about to instinctively reach for my phone to tweet when he put his hand on top of mine on my phone . . .

‘No tweeting.’

‘I haven’t . . .!’ I said insanely.

‘Jonesey, you’ve been twatting or twunking all the way here. I’ve been reading it.’

DATE WITH TOY BOY

Tuesday 22 January 2013 (continued)

I shrank down sheepishly into my coat. Roxster laughed.

‘It’s all right. What would you like to drink?’

‘White wine, please,’ I said sheepishly, instinctively reaching for the phone.

‘Very good. And I’m going to have to confiscate this until you’ve settled down.’

He took my phone, put it in his pocket and summoned the waitress, all in one easy movement.

‘Is that so you can murder me?’ I said, eyeing his pocket with a mixture of arousal and alarm, thinking that if I needed to summon Tom or Talitha I would have to wrestle him to the ground and lunge at it.

‘No. I don’t need the phone to murder you. I just don’t want it being tweeted live to the breathless Twitterati.’

As he turned his head I guzzled the spectacle of the fine lines to his profile: straight nose, cheekbones, brows. His eyes were hazel and twinkly. He was so . . . young. His skin was peachy, his teeth white, his hair thick and shiny, slightly too long to be fashionable, brushing his collar. And his lips had that fine white line outlining them that only young people have.

‘I like your glasses,’ he said as he handed me the wine.

‘Thank you,’ I said smoothly. (They’re progressive glasses so I can see out of them normally and also read. My idea in wearing them was that he wouldn’t notice I was so old that I needed reading glasses.)

‘Can I take them off?’ he said, in a way that made me think he meant . . . clothes.

‘OK,’ I said. He took them off and put them on the bar, brushing my hand slightly, looking at me.

‘You’re much prettier than your photo.’

‘Roxster, my photo is of an egg,’ I said, slurping at the wine, remembering too late that I was supposed to sit back and let him look at me stroking the stem of the wine glass arousingly.

‘I know.’

‘Weren’t you worried I might turn out to be a sixteen-stone cross-dresser?’

‘Yes. I’ve got eight of my mates planted in the bar to protect me.’

‘That’s spooky,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a parade of hit men lined up in all the windows across the street in case you try to murder me and then eat me.’

‘Have they all been fartaged?’

I was just taking a slurp of wine and laughed in the middle, then choked with the wine still in my mouth, and sick started coming up my throat.

‘Are you all right?’

I waved my hand around. My mouth was a mixture of sick and wine. Roxster gave me a handful of paper napkins. I made my way to the loos, holding the napkins over my mouth. Got inside just in time and spurted the sick/wine into the washbasin, wondering if I should add ‘Do not be sick in own mouth at start of date’ to the Dating Rules.

I washed my mouth out, remembering with relief that there was a kid’s toothbrush somewhere at the bottom of my handbag. And some gum.

When I got out Roxster had found us a table and was looking at his phone.

‘I thought I was supposed to be the one who was obsessed with vomit,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’m just tweeting your followers all about it.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Noooo.’ He handed me back my phone and started laughing. ‘Are you all right?’ He was laughing so much now he could hardly speak. ‘Sorry, I just can’t believe you were sick in your own mouth on our first date.’

In the midst of giggling, I realized he had just said ‘our first date’. And ‘first’ clearly implied that there would be others in spite of sick-in-own-mouth.

‘Are you going to fart next?’ he said, just as the waiter arrived with the menus.

‘Shut up, Roxster,’ I giggled. I mean, honestly, he did have a mental age of seven, but it was fun because it made me feel so at home. And maybe this was someone who wouldn’t be completely appalled by the bodily functions on display in our household.

As we opened the menus, I realized I didn’t have my glasses any more.

I looked at the blurry letters, panicking. Roxster didn’t notice. He seemed completely overexcited by the food. ‘Mmm. Mmm. What are you going to have, Jonesey?’

I stared at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.

‘Everything all right?’

‘I’ve lost my glasses,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘We must have left them on the bar,’ he said, getting up. Marvelling at his impressive young physique, I watched him go to where we had been standing, look around, and ask the barman.

‘They’re not there,’ he said, coming back, looking concerned. ‘Are they expensive ones?’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I lied. (They were expensive ones. And I really liked them.)

‘Would you like me to read the menu to you? I could cut up your food for you as well if you like.’ He started laughing. ‘Have to watch out for your teeth.’

‘Roxster, this is a very undesirable line of teasing.’

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’

After he’d read me the menu, I tried to remember the Dating Rules, rubbing my finger delicately up and down the stem of the wine glass, but there didn’t seem to be any point, as Roxster already had my knee between his strapping young thighs. Realized, even in the midst of excitement, was DETERMINED to find the glasses. Is so easy to let something like that go out of sexual distraction and embarrassment and they were really, really nice glasses.

‘I’m just going to look under the bar stool,’ I said, when we’d ordered.

‘But your knees!’

‘Stoppit.’

We both ended up crawling about under the stools. A pair of very young girls, who were sitting where we had been, were very snotty about it. Suddenly felt myself dying with embarrassment at being on a date with a toy boy and forcing him to look under young girls’ legs for my reading glasses.

‘There aren’t any glasses, OK?’ said one of the girls, staring at me rudely. Roxster rolled his eyes then dived under her knees again, saying, ‘Just while I’m down here . . .’ and began groping around on the floor. The girls were unamused. Roxster reared up triumphantly, brandishing the glasses.

‘Found them,’ he said and put them on my nose. ‘There you are, darling.’

He kissed me pointedly on the lips, gave the girls a look, and led me back to the table while I tried to recover my composure, hoping he couldn’t taste the sick.

Conversation seemed to flow quite effortlessly. His real name is Roxby McDuff and he does work for the eco-charity, met Talitha on the show, and jumped across from Talitha’s Twitter to my Twitter. ‘So you just, like, follow cougars?’

‘I don’t like that expression,’ he said.

‘It implies the hunter, rather than . . . the hunted.’

My discombobulation must have been obvious, because he added softly, ‘I like older women. They know what they’re doing a bit more. Have a bit more to say for themselves. How about you? What are you doing out with a younger man off Twitter?’

‘I’m just trying to widen my circle,’ I said airily.

Roxster looked straight at me, without blinking. ‘I can certainly help you with that.’

JOY MIXED WITH SICK

Tuesday 22 January 2013 (continued)

When it was time to go, we stood awkwardly in the street.

‘How are you going to get back?’ he said, which instantly made me feel a bit sad, because obviously he wasn’t planning to come back with me, even though obviously I wouldn’t have asked him to. Obviously.

‘Taxi?’ I said. He looked surprised. Realized I only ever come out into Soho with Talitha, Tom and Jude and we always share a taxi but that that must seem helplessly extravagant to a young person. There were, however, no taxis to be found.

‘Do you want me to summon a helicopter, or should we get the tube? Do you know how to get the tube?’

‘Of course I do!’ I said. But to be honest, it was all unfamiliar, being in the crowds of Soho late at night without the friends. It was quite exciting, though, as Roxster took my arm and led me to Tottenham Court Road tube.

‘I’ll see you down,’ he said. When we got to the barriers I realized I didn’t have my Oyster card. I tried to pay at the machines, but it was all impossible.

‘Come here,’ he said, taking out a spare card, swiping me through the barriers and leading me to the right platform. The train was approaching.

‘Quick, give me your mobile number,’ he said. ‘I now haven’t murdered you.’

I gave it to him really quickly and he typed it in. The doors were opening, people were pouring out.

Then quite suddenly, as if from nowhere, Roxster kissed me on the lips. ‘Mmm, sick,’ he said.

‘Oh, no! But I brushed my teeth.’

‘You brought a toothbrush? Are you always sick on your dates?’

Then seeing my horrified expression he laughed and said, ‘You don’t taste of sick.’ People were crushing themselves into the train. He kissed me again, gently, looking at me with his merry hazel eyes, then again this time with the mouth a little open, then delicately finding my tongue with his. This was MUCH better than stupid Leatherjacketman with his sex-crazed—

‘Quick, the doors are closing!’ He pushed me towards the train and I squeezed in. The doors closed and I watched him as the train pulled out, just standing there, smiling to himself: gorgeous, gorgeous toy boy.

Came up from the tube into Chalk Farm, euphoric and completely over-aroused. There was a ping on text. It was from Roxster.

Texted back:

No reply. I shouldn’t have put the thing about the sick.

Another text!

11.40 p.m. Just bustled Chloe out of the house, rather rudely, so could carry on texting.

Here it comes! I love being back in the world of flirting again. It’s so romantic. Oh.