Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

Monday 14 July

9st 4, alcohol units 4, cigarettes 12 (no longer priority), calories 3,752 (pre-diet), self-help books scheduled for dustbin 47.

8 a.m. In turmoil. Surely it cannot be that reading selfhelp books to improve my relationship has destroyed the whole relationship? Feel like entire life's work has been a failure. But if is one thing have learned from self-help books is how to let go of the past and move on.

About to be thrown out:

What Men Want

How Men Think and What They Feel

Why Men Feel They Want What They Think They Want

The Rules

Ignoring the Rules

Not Now, Honey, I'm Watching the Game

How to Seek and Find the Love You Want

How to Find the Love You Want Without Seeking It

How to Find You Want the Love You Didn't Seek

Happy To Be Single

How Not To Be Single

If Buddha Dated

If Mohammed Dated

If Jesus Dated Aphrodite The Famished Road by Ben Okri (not strictly self-help book, as far as know, but will never read the bloody thing anyway)

Right. All going in the bin plus the other thirty-two. Oh God, though. Cannot bear to throw out The Road Less Travelled and You Can Heal Your Life. Where else is one to turn for spiritual guidance to deal with problems of modern age if not self-help books? Also maybe should give to oxfam? But no. Must not ruin relationships of others, especially in Third World. Would be worse than behaviour of tobacco giants.

Problems

Hole in wall of flat.

Finances in negative position owing to second mortgage for hole in wall of flat.

Boyfriend going out with Other Woman.

Not speaking to joint best friend as is going on holiday with boyfriend and Other Woman.

Work crap but necessary owing to second mortgage for hole in wall of flat.

Badly need holiday owing to boyfriend/friends/hole in wall

of flat/professional and financial crises but no one to go on holiday with. Tom is going back to San Francisco. Magda and Jeremy are going to Tuscany with Mark and fucking Rebecca and probably jude and Vile Richard too for all I know. Shazzer being evasive presumably waiting to see if Simon will agree to go somewhere with her if sleep in twin beds (not under five foot), hoping he will get into hers.

Also no money to go on holiday owing to financial crisis owing to hole in wall of flat.

No. Am not going to weaken. Have been too swayed this way and that by everyone else's ideas. They are going. In. The. Bin. I am Going. To stand on. Own. Two. Feet.

8.30 a.m. Flat is purged of all self-help books. Feel empty and spiritually at sea. But surely some of information will have stayed in head?

Spiritual principles have garnered from self-help book study (non-dating based):

1. Importance of positive thought cf.: Emotional Intelligence, Emotional Confidence, The Road Less Travelled, How to Rid Your Thighs of Cellulite in 30 Days, Gospel according to St Luke, Ch. 13.

2. Importance of forgiveness.

3. Importance of going with flow and instincts rather than trying to squeeze everything into shape and organize everything.

4. Importance of confidence in self.

5. Importance of honesty.

6. Importance of enjoying present moment and not fantasizing or regretting things.

7. Importance of not being obsessed with self-help books.

So solution is to:

1. Think what a nice time am having writing lists of problems and spiritual solutions instead of planning ahead and ...

Gaaah! Gaaah! Is 8.45! Am going to miss morning meeting and not have time for cappuccino.

10 a.m. In work. Thank God have got cappuccino to help self through aftermath of hell of buying cappuccino when late. Is bizarre how cappuccino queue thing gives whole areas of London appearance of war- or communism-torn culture with people standing patiently in huge queues for hours as if waiting for bread in Sarajevo while others sweat, roasting and grinding, banging metal things full of gunge around, with steam hissing. Is odd when people generally show less and less willingness to wait for anything that should be prepared to do so for this one thing: as if in cruel modern world is only thing one can really trust and hold on to ... Gaaah!

10.30 a.m. Loos, work. Was Richard Finch bellowing at self. "Come on, Bridget. Don't be coy," the great lump roared in front of everyone, twitching and chewing in now-obvious post-cocaine-binge frenzy. "When are you going?"

"Er..." I said, hoping I could ask Patchouli, "Where?" later.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? It is literally unbelievable. When are you going on holiday? If you don't fill it in on the chart now you won't be going."

"Oh, um, yar," I said airily.

"No charto no departo."

"Sure, sure, yar, just need to check out the dates," I said clenching my teeth. As soon as the meeting was over, shot in here to loos for cheering cigarette. Does not matter if am only person in whole office not going on holiday. it does not. Does not mean am social outcast. Definitely. All is well in my world. Even if do have to do item on surrogacy, again.

6 p.m, Nightmare day trying to get women in to talk about quease-inducing egg-hatching permutations. Cannot face thought of going straight home to building site. Is gorgeous, soft sunny evening. Maybe will go for a walk on Hampstead Heath.

9 p.m. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Just shows if you stop struggling to work everything out, and go with Flow in Zen-like positive way, solutions appear.

Was just walking along path towards the top of Hampstead Heath thinking how fantastic London is in the summer with people loosening their ties after work and spreading out shaggily in the sunshine when eye was caught by a happy-looking couple: she on her back with her head on his stomach, him smiling, and stroking her hair while he talked. Something about them looked familiar. As I got closer, I saw that it was Jude and Vile Richard.

Realized had never seen them alone together before well, obviously because if I'd been there they wouldn't have been. Suddenly Jude burst out laughing at something Vile Richard had said. She looked really happy. I hesitated, wondering whether to walk past or go back, then Vile Richard said, "Bridget?"

I paused, frozen, and Jude looked up and gawped unattractively.

Vile Richard got to his feet brushing the grass off him.

"Hey, good to see you, Bridget," he said with a grin. Realized had always seen him before in Jude-based social situations, when I'd been flanked by Shazzer and Tom and he'd been chippily resentful.

"I'm just going off for some wine, you sit down with Jude. Oh, come on, she won't eat you. She won't touch anything with dairy."

When he'd gone, Jude smiled sheepishly. "I'm not pleased to see you or anything."

"Not pleased to see you either," I said gruffly.

"So do you want to sit down?'

"All right," I said, kneeling down on the rug at which she biffed me awkwardly on the shoulder nearly knocking

me over.

"I missed you," she said.

"Shut-urrrrp," I said out of the corner of my mouth. For a moment, thought I was going to cry.

Jude apologized for being insensitive about Rebecca. She said she'd just got carried away by the thought of anyone who was pleased she was marrying Vile Richard. Turns out she and Vile Richard are not going to Tuscany with Mark and Rebecca, even though they were invited, because Vile Richard said he didn't want to be bossed around by a deranged social engineer and he'd rather they just went on their own. Found self unaccountably warming to Vile Richard. I said I was sorry for falling out over something so stupid as whole Rebecca thing.

"It wasn't stupid. You were really hurt," said Jude. Then she said they were delaying the wedding because it had all got so complicated but she still wanted me and Shaz to be bridesmaids. "If you want to," she said shyly. "But I know you don't like him."

"You really love him, don't you?'

"Yes," she said happily. Then she looked anxious. "But I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. It says in The Road Less Tavelled that love isn't something you feel but something you decide to do. And also in How to Get The Love You Want that if you go out with someone who doesn't properly earn their own living and accepts help from his parents then they haven't de-parented and it'll never work."

What was going through my head was the Nat King Cole song my dad was playing in the shed. "The greatest thing ... You'll ever learn . . ."

"Also I think he's an addict because he smokes dope and addicts can't form relationships. My shrink says ..."

". . . is how to love and be loved in return."

". - - I shouldn't have a relationship for at least a year because I'm a relationship addict," Jude went on. "And you and Shaz just think he's a fuckwit. Bridge? Are you listening to me?'

"Yes, yes, sorry. If it feels right I think you should go with it."

"Exactly," said Vile Richard, towering above us like Bacchus with a bottle of Chardonnay and two packets of Silk Cut.

Had fantastic time with Jude and Vile Richard and all piled into taxi and went back together. Once home, immediately called Shazzer to tell her the news.

"Oh," she said when I'd fully explained the Zen-like miracle workings of Flow. "Er, Bridge?"

"What?"

"Do You want to go on holiday?"

"I thought you didn't want to go with me."

"Well, I just thought I'd wait till..."

"Till what?"

"Oh, nothing. But anyway..."

"Shaz?" I prodded.

"Simon's going to Madrid to see some girl he met on the Internet."

Was torn between sorriness for Sharon, huge excitement about having someone to go on holiday with, and feelings of inadequacy for not being 6ft architect with penis when could not be further from same.

"Baaah. It's just pashmina-ism. She'll probably turn out to be a man," I said to make Shazzie feel better.

"But anyway," she said lightly, after a pause which sent huge pain vibes down the phone, "I've found these fantastic flights to Thailand for only Ј249 and we could go to Koh Samui and be hippies and it would hardly cost us anything!"

"Hurrah!" I said. "Thailand! We can study Buddhism and have a spiritual epiphany."

"Yes!" said Shaz. "Yes! And we're not having anything to do with any BLOODY MEN."

So, you see ... Oh, telephone. Maybe Mark Darcy!

Midnight. Phone call was from Daniel, sounding different from usual, though still, obviously, drunk. He said he was really down because things were going badly at work, and he was sorry about the Germany thing. He accepted that I was actually very good on geography and could we have dinner on Friday? Just to talk. So said yes. Feel v.g. about same. Why should I not be friend to Daniel in his hour of need? One must not harbour resentment as that only holds one back but must forgive.

Also as Jude and Vile Richard shows - people can change and I was really crazy about him.

And am v. lonely.

And is just dinner.

Am definitely not going to sleep with him though.

Friday 18 July

9st I (excellent omen), condoms attempted to Purchase 84, condoms purchased 36, usable condoms purchased 12 (should be plenty, think. Especially as not intended for actual use).

2 p.m. Am going out in lunch hour to buy some condoms. Not going to sleep with Daniel or anything. Is just to be on safe side.

3 p.m. Condom expedition proved total failure. Initially was totally enjoying sudden feeling of being condom consumer. When do not have sex life always feel sad when passing condom section as whole side of life that is denied to me. However, when got to counter found bewildering range of varied condoms: Ultra Safe 'for extra sensitivity', Variety Pack 'for extra choice' (alluring Kellogg's-style suggestion), Ultra Fine 'spermicidally lubricated', Gossamer, 'lubricated with a gentle lubricant without' (horrible repulsive word coming up) 'spermicide', Natural styled for Extra Comfort (does that mean bigger - then what if too big?). Stared downwards furiously looking under eyelashes at condom array. Surely what one would want is Extra Sensitivity and Extra Comfort and Ultra Fine so why does one have to choose between?

"Can I help you?" said nosy chemist with knowing smirk. Obviously could not say I wanted condoms, as tantamount to announcing 'Am about to have sex': almost as when people are walking round obviously pregnant and is like saying 'Look, everyone, I have had sex'. Cannot believe condom industry whose very existence is virtual admission that everyone has sex all the time (apart from me), instead of continuing pretence that no one does, which is surely more normal in our land.

Anyway. Just bought some Bradasols.

6.10 p.m. Irritatingly detained at work till 6 p.m. and now chemist's is shut and have not got condoms. I know: will go to Tesco Metro. Will surely have as is store designed for impulsive Singletons.

6.40 p.m. Wandered surreptitiously up and down toothpaste aisle. Zilch. Eventually, in desperation, sidled up to supervisor-style lady and whispered, with an attempt at all-lads-together, one-eyebrow-raised smirk, "Where are your condoms?"

"We are going to do them," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe in a couple of weeks."

"Fat lot of good that is to me!" I felt like yelling. "What about tonight?" Though am not going to sleep with him, obviously!

Huh. Soi-disant modern, urban, Singleton-directed store. Humph.

7 p.m. Just went to local stinky double-price corner shop. Could see condoms behind counter with cigarettes and vile tights but decided against as whole setting too sordid. Wish to purchase condom product in pleasant clean Boots-style environment. Also parlous choice. Just Premium Quality Teat-Ended.

7.15 p.m. Have had brainwave. Will go to petrol station, wait in queue whilst secretly looking at condoms then ... Actually must not conform to outdated male stereotypes feeling forward or sluttish for carrying condoms. All clean girls have condoms. Is hygiene.

7.30 p.m. Lalala. Have dunnit. Was easy. Actually managed to grab two packets: one Variety Pack (spice of life) and Improved Ultra Lightweight Latex Teat Ended for Even Greater Sensitivity. Assistant looked startled at range and quantity of condom choice yet strangely respectful: probably thought was biology teacher or similar purchasing condoms to teach early developing school pupils.

7.40 p.m. Startled by frank drawings in instruction leaflet, which disturbingly made me think about not Daniel but Mark Darcy. Hmmm. Hmmm.

7.50 p.m. Bet they had a difficult time deciding on sizing of pictures not to make anyone feel crestfallen or overarrogant. Variety Pack is insane. 'Mates coloured condoms are vibrantly coloured for extra fun.' Extra fun? Suddenly get garish image of couples with vibrantly coloured rude bits wearing paper hats, hooting with gay sexy laughter and hitting each other with balloons. Think will throw mad Variety Pack away. Right, better get ready. Oh God, telephone.

8.15 p.m. Oh bloody hell. Was Tom moaning that he'd lost his mobile and thought he left it round here. Forced me to look all over for it, even though was really late, but could not find it and eventually suspected might have thrown it away with the self-help books and newspapers. "Well, can you go and get it?" he said eagerly.

"I'm really late. Can't I do it tomorrow?"

"But what if they empty the bins? What day do they come?"

"Tomorrow morning," I said with a sinking, bitter heart. "But the thing is, they're those big communal dustbins and I don't know which one it's in."

Ended up flinging long leather jacket on top of bra and knickers and going out into street to wait till Tom rang the phone so could find out which it was in. Was just standing on wall peering into the dustbins when a familiar voice said, "Hello."

Turned round and there was Mark Darcy.

He glanced down and I realized was standing with fortunately co-ordinated - underwear on full display. "What are you doing?" he said.

"I'm waiting for the dustbin to ring," I replied with dignity, pulling jacket around self.

"I see." There was a pause. "Have you been waiting ... long?"

"No," I said carefully. "A normal amount of time."

Just then one of the dustbins started to ring. "Ah, that'll be for me," I said and started to try to reach into it. "Please, allow me," said Mark, put down his briefcase, leapt, rather agilely on to the wall, reached into the dustbin and picked out the phone.

"Bridget Jones's phone," he said. "Yes of course, I'll put her on."

He handed it to me. "It's for you."

"Who's that?" hissed Tom, hysterical with excitement. "Sexy voice - who is it?"

I put my hand over the earpiece. "Thank you so much," I said to Mark Darcy who had picked a handful of selfhelp books out of the bin and was looking at them with a puzzled expression.

"Not at all," he said, putting the self-help books back. "Er . . ." He paused, looking at my leather jacket.

"Wbat?" I said, heart racing.

"Oh, nothing, er, just, um, well, nice to see you." He hesitated. "Well ... nice to see you again." Then he gave an attempt at a smile, turned and started to walk off.

"Tom, I'll call you back," I said into the protesting mobile. My heart was beating wildly. By all the laws of dating etiquette I should just let him go but I was thinking about the overheard conversation behind the hedge. "Mark?"

He turned round looking full of emotion. For a moment we just stared at each other.

"Hey Bridge! Are you coming out for dinner without a skirt?"

It was Daniel, walking up, early, behind me.

I saw Mark take him in. He gave me a long, painful look then turned on his heel and strode away.

I I p.m. Daniel had not spotted Mark Darcy - both fortunately and unfortunately because on the one hand did not need to explain what he was doing there but on other hand could not explain why was feeling so churned up. The minute we got in the flat Daniel started trying to kiss me. It felt very strange not to want him to after all the time I spent last year desperately wanting him to and wondering why he wasn't.

"OK, OK," he said, holding out his hands, palms towards me. "No problem." He poured us both a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa, long lean legs all sexy in his jeans. "Look. I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I know you're feeling defensive but I'm different now, I really am. Come and sit down here."

"I'll just go put my clothes on."

"No. No. Come here," he said, patting the sofa beside him. "Come on, Bridge. I won't lay a finger on you, I promise."

I sat down gingerly, pulling my jacket around me, hands folded primly on my knee.

"There, there," he said. "Now come on, have a drink of this and just relax."

He put his arm gently round my shoulders.

"I'm haunted by the way I treated you. It was unforgivable." It was so lovely to be held again. "Jones," he whispered tenderly. "My little Jones."

He pulled me to him, laying my head against his chest. "You didn't deserve it." The old familiar scent of him wafted over me. "There. Just have a bit of a cuddle. You're all right now."

He was stroking my hair, stroking my neck, stroking my back, he started slipping my jacket off my shoulders, his hand reached down and with one flick, he'd undone my bra.

"Stoppit" I said trying to pull the coat back round me.

"Honestly, Daniel." I was half laughing, I suddenly saw his face. He wasn't laughing.

"Why?" he said, pulling the jacket roughly off my shoulders again. "Why not? Come on."

"No!" I said. "Daniel, we're just going out for dinner. I don't want to kiss you."

He dropped his head forward, breathing unsteadily, then sat up, head back, eyes closed.

I got to my feet, pulling my coat around me, and walked to the table. When I looked back, Daniel had his head in his hands. I realized he was sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Bridge. I've been promoted downstairs. Perpetua's got my job. I feel redundant, and now you don't want me. No girls will want me. Nobody wants a man at my age without a career."

I stared at him in astonishment. "And how do you think I felt last year? When I was bottom of the pile in that office and you were messing me around and making me feel like a re-tread?"

"Re-tread, Bridge?"

Was going to explain about the re-tread theory, but something made me decide I just wouldn't bother.

"I think it'd be best if you go now," I said.

"Oh, come on, Bridge."

"Just go," I said.

Hmm. Anyway. Will just detach from whole thing. Glad am going away. Will be able to free self's head of all men issues in Thailand and concentrate on self.

Saturday 19 July

9st 3 (why? On bikini-purchase day, why?), confusing thoughts about Daniel: too many, bikini bottoms fitted into1, bikini tops fitted into: half, rude thoughts about Prince William 22, no. of times wrote "Prince William and his lovely date Miss Bridget Jones at Ascot" on Hello! magazine 7.

6.30 p.m. Bloody, bloody, bloody. Have spent all day in changing rooms of Oxford Street trying to squeeze my breasts into bikini tops designed for people with breasts either arranged one on top of the other in the centre of their chests or one under each arm, with the harsh downlighting making me look like River Cafe frittata. Obvious solution is one-piece but then will return with already squashily textured stomach highlighted against rest of body by whiteness.

Urgent bikini diet weight-loss target programme: week I

Sun 20 July 9st3

Mon 21 July 9st2

Tues 22 July 9st I

Wed 23 July 9st 0

Thurs 24 July 8st 13

Fri 25 July 8st 12

Sat 26 July 8st 11

Hurray! So by a week today will be almost down to target weight so then, with body-bulk thus adjusted, all will need to do is alter texture and arrangement of fat through exercise.

Oh fuck. Will never work. Am only sharing a room and probably bed with Shaz. Will concentrate instead on my spirit. Anyway Jude and Shaz are coming round soon. Hurrah!

Midnight. Lovely evening. V. nice to be back with girls again, though Shaz whipped herself up into such a frenzy of indignation about Daniel was all I could do to stop her ringing the police and having him arrested for date rape.

"Redundant? You see?" she was ranting. "Daniel's an absolute archetype of fin-de-millennium male. It's becoming clear to him that women are the superior race. He's realizing he has no role or function so what does he do? He turns to violence."

"Well, he only tried to kiss her," said Jude mildly, flicking idly through the pages of What Marquee.

"Pah! That's exactly the point. She's bloody lucky he didn't burst into her bank dressed as an Urban Warrior and kill seventeen people with a sub-macbine gun."

Just then the phone rang, It was Tom, not, unaccountably, ringing to thank me for sending his mobile back after all the bloody trouble the pesky item has caused but wanting my mum's phone number. Tom seems to be quite pally with mum, seeing her in what I suspect is a Judy Garland/Ivana Trump kitsch sort of way (which is odd since only last year I remember Mum lecturing me on how gayness was 'just laziness, darling, they simply can't be bothered to relate to the opposite sex' - but then that was last year). Suddenly feared that Tom was going to ask my mother to perform 'Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien' in a sequinned dress in a club called Pump, which she would - naively yet egomaniacally - agree to, thinking it was something to do with ancient machinery in Cotswold Mill Houses.

"What do you want it for" I said suspiciously.

"Isn't she in a book club?"

"Dunno. Anything's possible, Why?"

"Jerome's sensing his poems are ready, so I'm finding him book club venues. He did one last week in Stoke Newington and it was awesome."

"Awesome?" I said, doing a bulging-cheeked vomit face at Jude and Shaz. Ended up giving Tom the number in spite of reservations, as suspect Mum might be needing another diversion now Wellington has gone.

"What is it about book clubs?" I said when I'd put the phone down. "Is it just me, or have they suddenly sprung up from nowhere. Should we be in one or do you have to be Smug Married?"

"You have to be Smug Married," said Shaz definitively. "That's because they fear their minds are being sucked dry by the paternalistic demands of ... Oh my God, look at Prince William."

"Let me look," interrupted Jude, snatching the copy of Hello! with its photo of the lithe young royal whippersnapper. Tried not to snatch it myself. Although, clearly, wish to admire as many pictures of Prince William as possible, preferably in a range of outfits, realize urge is both intrusive and wrong. Cannot, though, ignore impression of great things fermenting around in young royal brain, and sense that, at maturity, will rise up like ancient knight of Round Table thrusting sword in air and creating dazzling new order, which will make President Clinton and Tony Blair look like passe elderly gentlemen.

"How young is too young, would you say?" said Jude dreamily.

"Too young to be your legal son," said Shaz definitively as if was already part of government statute: which suppose it is, come to think of it, depending bow old you are. Just then the phone rang again.

"Oh, hello, darling. Guess what?" My mother. "Your friend Tom - you know the 'homo' - well, he's bringing a poet to read at the Lifeboat Book Club! He's going to read us romantic poems. Like Lord Byron! Isn't that fun?"

"Er ... yes?" I floundered.

"Actually, it's nothing special," she sniffed airily. "We often have visiting authors."

"Really? Like who?'

"Oh, lots of them, darling. Penny's very good friends with Salman Rushdie. Anyway, you will be coming, darling, won't you?"

"When is it?"

"A week on Friday. Una and I are doing vol-au-vents hot with Chunky Chicken."

A sudden fear convulsed me. "Are Admiral and Elaine Darcy coming?"

"Durr! No boys allowed, silly. Elaine's coming but the chaps are turning up later."

"But Tom and Jerome are coming." "Oh, they're not boys, darling."

"Are you sure Jerome's poems will be the sort of thing that . . ."

"Bridget. I don't know what you're trying to say. We weren't born yesterday, you know. And the whole point about literature is free expression. Ooh, and I think Mark's coming along later. He's up doing Malcolm's will with him - You never know?"

Friday I August

9st 3 (total failure of bikini diet), cigarettes 19 (diet aid), calories 625 (not too late, surely).

6.30 p.m. Grr. Grrr. Leaving for Thailand tomorrow, nothing is packed and had failed to realize that "a week on Friday" for book club is to-bloody-night. Really, really do not want to drive all way to Grafton Underwood. Is hot steamy evening and Jude and Shaz are going to lovely party at River Cafe. Obviously, though, is important to support Mum, Tom's love life, Art etc. Is respecting self by respecting others. Also does not matter if tired tomorrow when get on plane as going on holiday. Sure trip-preparation will not take long as only need capsule wardrobe (just a couple of bodies and a sarong!) and packing always expands to fill the time available so best use of time, surely, is to make time available v. short. Yes! You see! So will do everything

Midnight.

Just back. Arrived v. late owing to typical motorway signpost debacle (if war today, better, surely, to confuse Germans by leaving signposts up?). Was greeted by Mum, wearing a very strange maroon velvet kaftan which presume she intended to be literary.

"How's Salman?" I said as she tut-tutted about my lateness.

"Oh, we decided to do chicken instead," she said sniffily, leading me through the ripply-glassed French doors, into the lounge where the first thing I noticed was a garish new "family crest" above the fake stone fireplace saying 'Hakuna Matata'.

"Shh," said Una, holding a finger up, enraptured. Pretentious Jerome, pierced nipple clearly visible through black wet-look vest, was standing in front of the cut-glass dish collection, bellowing belligerently: "I watch his hard, bony, horny, hams. I watch, I want, I grab," at a semi-circle of appalled Jaeger-be-two-pieced Lifeboat Luncheon Book Club ladies on reproduction Regency dining chairs. Across the room I saw Mark Darcy's mum, Elaine, sporting an expression of suppressed amusement.

"I want," Jerome bellowed on. "I seize his horny, hairy, hams. I have to have. I heave, I hump, I . . ."

"Well! I think that's been absolutely smashing!" said Mum, jumping to her feet, "Does anyone fancy a vol-au-vent?"

Is amazing the way the world of middle-class ladies manages to smooth everything into its own, turning all the chaos and complication of the world into a lovely secure mummy stream, rather as lavatory cleaner turns everything in the toilet pink.

"Oh, I love the spoken and written word! It makes me feel so free!" Una was gushing to Elaine as Penny Husbands-Bosworth and Mavis Enderbury fussed over Pretentious Jerome as if he were T. S. Eliot.

"But I hadn't finished," whined Jerome. "I wanted to do 'Fister Contemplations" and 'The Hollow Men-Holes'." Just then there was a roar.

"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you." It was Dad, and Admiral Darcy. Both paralytic. Oh God. Every time I see Dad these days, he seems to be completely pissed, in bizarre father-daughter role-reversal scenario.

"If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you," Admiral Darcy bellowed, leaping on to a chair to a flutter from the assembled ladies.

"And make allowance for their doubting too," added Dad, almost tearfully, leaning against the Admiral for support.

The pissed duo proceeded to recite the whole of Rudyard Kipling's "If" in manner of Sir Laurence Olivier and John Giulgud to the fury of Mum and Pretentious Jerome who started throwing simultaneous hissy fits.

"It's typical, typical, typical," hissed Mum as Admiral Darcy, on his knees, beating his breast, intoned, "Or being lied about, don't deal in lies."

"It's regressive, colonialist doggerel," hissed Jerome.

"If you can force your heart, and nerve and sinew."

"I mean it fucking rhymes," re-hissed Jerome.

"Jerome, I will not have that word in my house," also re-hissed Mum.

"To serve their turn long after they are gone," said Dad, then flung himself on the swirly carpet in mock death.

"Well, why did you invite me then?" hissed Jerome really hissily.

"And so keep on, when there is nothing in you," roared the Admiral.

"Except your nerve," growled Dad from the carpet. "Which says to you" - he leapt to his knees and raised his arms -"hold on!"

There was a huge cheer and round of applause from the ladies as Jerome flounced out slammiig the door and Tom rushed after him. I looked despairingly back at the room straight into the eyes of Mark Darcy.

"Well! That was interesting" said Elaine Darcy, coming to stand by me as I bent my head, trying to recover my composure. "Poetry uniting the old and young."

"The pissed and sober," I added.

At this Admiral Darcy lurched over, clutching his poem.

"My dear, my dear, my darling!" he said, lunging at Elaine. "Oh here's what's-her-name," he said, peering at me. "Lovely! Mark's arrived, that's my boy! Come to pick us up, sober as a judge. All on his own. I don't know!" he said.

They both turned to look at Mark who was sitting at Una's threepenny-bit occasional table, scribbling something, watched over by a blue-glass dolphin.

"Writing my will for me at a party I don't know. Work, work, work" roared the Admiral. "Brought this bit of totty along, what was 'er name, m'dear, Rachel, was it? Betty?"

"Rebecca," Elaine said tartly.

"And the next thing she's nowhere to be seen. Ask him what's happened to her, and he mumbles! Can't stand a mumbler Never could."

"Well, I don't think she was really...," murmured Elaine.

"Why not? Why not? Perfectly good! I don't know! Fussing about this, that and the other! I hope you young ladies are not always flitting hither and thither like these young fellers seem to be!"

"No," I said ruefully. "In fact if we love someone it's pretty hard to get them out of our system when they bugger off."

There was a crash behind. I turned to see that Mark Darcy had knocked over the blue-glass dolphin, which in turn had dislodged a vase of chrysanthemums and a photo frame, creating a melee of shattered glass, flowers and bits of paper, the hideous dolphin itself remaining miraculously intact.

There was a commotion as Mum and Elaine and Admiral Darcy all rushed at the scene, the Admiral striding around and bellowing, Dad trying to bounce the dolphin on to the floor saying, "Get rid of the bloody thing," and Mark grabbing at his papers and offering to pay for everything.

"Are you ready to go, Dad?" muttered Mark, looking deeply embarrassed.

"No, no, in your own time, I've been in very good company, with Brenda here. Get me another port, will you, son?"

There was an awkward pause as Mark and I looked at each other.

"Hello, Bridget," Mark said abruptly. "Come on, Dad, I really think we should go."

"Yes, come along, Malcolm," said Elaine, taking his arm affectionately. "Or you'll be widdling on the carpet."

"Oh, widdling, widdling, I don't know."

The three of them made their goodbyes, Mark and Elaine easing the Admiral out of the door. I watched, feeling empty and flat, then suddenly Mark reappeared and headed towards me.

"Ah, forgot my pen," he said, picking up his Mont Blanc from the occasional table. "When are you going to Thailand?"

"Tomorrow morning." For a split second I could swear he looked disappointed.

"How did you know I was going to Thailand?"

"Grafton Underwood speaks of nothing else. Have you packed?"

"What do you think?'

"Not a single pant," he said wryly.

"Mark," bellowed his father. "Come on, boy, thought it was you who was keen to be off."

"Coming," said Mark, glancing over his shoulder. "This is for you." He handed me a scrumpled piece of paper, flashed me a ... er ... penetrating look, then left.

I waited till no one was watching then unfolded the sheet with shaking hands. It was just a copy of Dad and Admiral Darcy's poem. What did he give me that for?

Saturday 2 August

9st 2 (huh, total pre-holiday diet failure), alcohol units 5, cigarettes 42, calories 4,45 7 (total despair), items packed 0, ideas as to whereabouts of passport 6, passport whereabout ideas proved to have any substance whatsoever 0.

5 a.m. Why oh why am I going on holiday? I will spend the entire holiday wishing Sharon were Mark Darcy, and she that I were Simon. It's 5 o'clock in the morning. My entire bedroom is covered in wet washing, biros, and Polythene bags. I do not know how many bras to take, I cannot find my little black Jigsaw dress without which I cannot go or my other pink jelly mule, I haven't got any traveller's cheques yet and do not think my credit card is working. There are now only 1.5 hours left till I have to leave the house and everything will not fit into the suitcase. Maybe will have cigarette and look at brochure for calming few minutes.

Mmm. Will be lovely just to lie and sunbathe to get all brown on beach. Sunshine and swimming and ... Oooh. Answerphone light is flashing. How come did not notice?

5.10 a.m. Pressed ANSWER PLAY.

"Oh Bridget, it's Mark. Just wondered. You do realize it's the rainy season in Thailand? Maybe you should pack an umbrella."