Bridget Joness Diary

'Where in the name of arse were you last night?' I said.

'I might ask the same question of you,' he said, icily.

At that moment the camera assistant burst into the shop. 'Bridget!' he yelled. 'We've missed the interview. Elena Rossini's come out and gone. Did you get my Minstrels?'

Speechless, I grabbed the edge of the sweet counter for support. 'Missed it?' I said as soon as I could steady my breathing. 'Missed it? Oh God. This was my last chance after the fireman's pole and I was buying sweets. I'll be sacked. Did the others get interviews?'

'Actually, nobody got any interviews with her,' said Mark Darcy.

'Didn't they?' I said, looking up at him desperately. 'But how do you know?'

'Because I was defending her, and I told her not to give any,' he said casually. 'Look, she's out there in my car.'

As I looked, Elena Rossini put her head out of the car window and shouted in a foreign accent, 'Mark, sorry. You bring me Dairy Box, please, instead of Quality Street?' Just then our camera car drew up.

'Derek!' yelled the cameraman out of the window. 'Get us a Twix and a Lion Bar, will you?'

'So where were you last night?' asked Mark Darcy.

'Waiting for bloody you,' I said between clenched teeth.

'What, at five past eight? When I rang on your doorbell twelve times?'

'Yes, I was . . . ' I said, feeling the first twinges of realization, 'drying my hair.'

'Big hair dryer?' he said.

'Yes 1600 volts, Salon Selectives,' I said proudly. 'Why?'

'Maybe you should get a quieter hair dryer or begin your toilette a little earlier. Anyway. Come on,' he said laughing. 'Get your cameraman ready, I'll see what I can do for you.'

Oh God. How embarrassing. Am complete jerk.

9 p.m. Ca

'And a Good Afternoon! exclusive,' it says. 'Good Afternoon !: the only television program to bring you an exclusive interview with Elena Rossini, just minutes after today's not guilty verdict. Our home news correspondent. Bridget Jones, brings you this exclusive report.'

I love that bit: 'Our home news correspondent, Bridget Jones, brings you this exclusive report.'

I'll just play it back once more, then I'll definitely put it away.

9st. (comfort eating), alcohol units 6 (drink problem), lottery tickets 6 (comfort gambling), 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has rung 21 (curiosity only, obviously), number of times watched video 9 (better).

9 p.m. Humph. Left a message for Mum yesterday to tell her all about my scoop so when she rang tonight I assumed it would be to congratulate me, but no, she was just going on about the party. It was Una and Geoffrey this, Brian and Mavis that and how marvelous Mark was and why didn't I talk to him, etc., etc.? Temptation to tell her what happened almost overwhelming but managed to control myself by envisaging consequences: screaming ecstasy at the making of the date and brutal murder of only daughter when she heard the actual outcome.

Keep hoping he might ring me up and ask me for another date after the hair dryer debacle. Maybe I should write him a note to say thank you for the interview and sorry about the hair dryer. It's not because I fancy him or anything. Simple good ma

9st 1 (bad), alcohol Units 3 (both healthy and normal), cigarettes 13,fat Units 17 (wonder if it's possible to calculate fat unit content of entire body? I hope otherwise), lottery tickets 3 (fair), 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has rung 12 (better).

Humph. Incensed by patronizing article in the paper by Smug Married journalist. It was headlined, with subtle-as-a-Frankie-Howerd-sexual-i

'They're young, ambitious and rich but their lives hide an aching loneliness . . . When they leave work a gaping emotional hole opens up before them . . . Lonely style-obsessed individuals seek consolation in packeted comfort food of the kind their mother might have made.'

Huh. Bloody nerve. How does Mrs. Smug Married-at-twenty-two think she knows, thank you very much? I'm going to write an article based on 'dozens of conversations' with Smug Marrieds: 'When they leave work, they always burst into tears because, though exhausted, they have to peel potatoes and put all the washing in while their porky bloater husbands slump burping in front of the football demanding plates of chips. On other nights they plop, wearing unstylish pi

Met Sharon, Jude and Tom after work. Tom, too, was working on a furious imaginary article about the Smug Marrieds' gaping emotional holes.

'Their influence affects everything from the kind of houses being built to the kind of food that stocks the supermarket shelves,' Tom's appalled article was going to rant. 'Everywhere we see A

'I'm bloody sick of this arrogant hand-wringing about single life!' roared Sharon.

'Yes, yes!' I said.

'You forgot the fuckwittage,' burped Jude. 'We always have fuckwittage.'

'Anyway, we're not lonely. We have extended families in the form of networks of friends co

'Yes! Hurrah! Singletons should not have to explain themselves all the time but should have an accepted status – like geisha girls do,' I shouted happily, slurping on my tumbler 0f Chilean Chardo

'Geisha girls?' said Sharon. looking at me coldly.

'Shut up, Bridge,' slurred Tom. 'You're drunk. You're just trying to escape from your yawning emotional hole into drunk.'

'Well, so's bloody well Shazzer,' I said sulkily.

'I's not,' said Sharon. 'You's blurr are,' I said.

'Look. Shuddup,' said Jude, burping again. 'Shagernothebol Chardo

9st 3 (but have temporarily turned into wine bag), alcohol units 0 (but feeding off wine bag), calories 0 (v.g.).*

* Actually might as well be honest here. Not really v.g. as only 0 because puked up 5876 calories immediately after eating.

Oh God, I'm so lonely. An entire weekend stretching ahead with no one to love or have fun with. Anyway, I don't care. I've got a lovely steamed ginger pudding from M amp;S to put in the microwave.

9st (better), alcohol units 5 (but special occasion), agarettes 16, calories 2456, minutes spent thinking about Mr. Darcy 245.

8:55 a.m. Just nipped out for fags prior to getting changed ready for BBC Pride and Prejudice . Hard to believe there are so many cars out on the roads. Shouldn't they be at home getting ready? Love the nation being so addicted. The basis of my own addiction, I know, is my simple human need for Darcy to get off with Elizabeth. Tom says football guru Nick Hornby says in his book that men's obsession with football is not vicarious. The testosterone-crazed fans do not wish themselves on the pitch, claims Hornby, instead seeing their team as their chosen representatives, rather like parliament. That is precisely my feeling about Darcy and Elizabeth. They are my chosen representatives in the field of shagging, or, rather, courtship. I do not, however, wish to see any actual goals. I would hate to see Darcy and Elizabeth in bed, smoking a cigarette afterwards. That would be u

10:30 a.m. Jude just called and we spent twenty minutes growling, 'Fawaw, that Mr. Darcy.' I love the way he talks, sort of as if he can't be bothered. Ding-dong ! Then we had a long discussion about the comparative merits of Mr. Darcy and Mark Darcy, both agreeing that Mr. Darcy was more attractive because he was ruder but that being imaginary was a disadvantage that could not be overlooked.

9st 2 alcohol units 0 (v.g. Have discovered delicious new alcohol substitute drink called Smoothies-v. nice, fruity), cigarettes 0 (Smoothies removes need for cigarettes), Smoothies 22, calories 4265 (4135 of them Smoothies).

Ugh. Just about to watch Panorama on 'The trend of well-qualified female breadwi

9st 3 (bloody Smoothies), alcohol Units 0, cigarettes 0, Smoothies 32.

On marvelous roll with work. Ever since Elena whatserface interview, seems can do no wrong.

'Come on! Come on! Rosemary West!' Richard Finch was saying, when I got into the office (bit late, actually, sort of thing that could happen to anyone), holding up his fists like a boxer. 'I'm thinking lesbian rape victims, I'm thinking Jeanette Winterson, I'm thinking Good Afternoon! doctor, I'm thinking what lesbians actually do. That's it! What do lesbians actually do in bed?' Suddenly, he was looking straight at me.