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11.15 p.m. Right. New Labour, New ... Oh God. Have become a celibate.
Celibacy! The New Celibates! I mean if it's happening to me, chances are it's happening to lots of other people as well. Isn't that the whole point about zeitgeist?
'Suddenly there is less sex everywhere.' Hate, though, this about popular news coverage. Reminds me of when there was an article in The Times that started: 'Suddenly there are more Dining Rooms everywhere,' the same day as there was one in the Telegraph on 'Whatever Happened to the Dining Room?'
Right, must go to bed. Determined to be very early on first day of new me at work.
Wednesday 3 September
8st 5 (gaah, gaah), calories 4,955, no. Of seconds since had sex 14,601,600 (yesterdays figure + 86,400 - a day's worth).
7 p.m. Got into office early, first day back since Thailand, expecting new concern and respect to find Richard Finch in traditional foul mood: petulant, obsessively chain-smoking and chewing with crazed look in his eye.
"Ho!" he said as I walked in. "Ho! Ahahahahaha! What've we got in that bag, then? Opium, is it? Skunk? Have we got crack in the lining? Have we brought in some Purple Hearts? Some E for the class? Is it poppers? Is it some nice speedy speed? Hasheeeesh? Some Rokeycokey cokey? OHHHHH okeecokeycokeeee," he started to sing maniacally. "Oooh okeecokeycokeeee. Ooooh! okeecokeycokeeee!" An idiotic gleam in his eye, he grabbed the two researchers next to him and started rushing forwards, yelling, "Knees bent, arms stretched, it's all in Brid-get's bag, Ra-Ra!"
Realizing our executive producer was coming down from some drug-induced frenzy, I smiled beatifically and ignored him.
"Oh, little Miss Hoity-toity today, are we? Oooh! Come on, everybody. Bridget Hoity-bottom-just-out-of-prison's here. Let's start. Let's startitdeedoodaa."
Really, this was not at all what I had in mind. Everyone began to converge on the table, looking from the clock to me resentfully. I mean it was only twenty bloody past nine: the meeting wasn't supposed to start till half past. Just because I start coming in early doesn't mean the meeting has to start early instead of late.
"Right then, Brrrrrridget! Ideas. What ideas have we got today to delight the breathless nation? Ten Top Smuggling Tips from the Laydee in the Know? Britain's Best Bras for stashing Charlie in the booster pads?"
If you can trust Yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. Oh fuck it, I'm just going to sock him in the mouth.
He looked at me, chewing, gri
"What about New Labour - after the honeymoon?" Richard Finch crashed his head down on to the table and started snoring.
"Actually, I have got another idea," I said, after a casual pause. "About sex," I added, at which Richard sprang to attention. (I mean just his head. At least I hope.)
"Well? Are you going to share it with us - or save it, for your chummies in the Drug Squad?"
"Celibacy," I said.
There was an impressed silence.
Richard Finch was staring at me bulgy-eyed as if he couldn't believe it.
"Celibacy?"
"Celibacy." I nodded smugly. "The new celibacy."
"What - you mean monks and nuns?" said Richard Finch.
"No. Celibacy."
"Ordinary people not having sex," Patchouli cut in, looking at him insolently.
Really there was a very changed atmosphere around the table. Maybe Richard had begun to go so far over the edge that no one was sucking up to him any more.
"What, because of some tantric, Buddhist thing?" said Richard sniggering, one leg twitching convulsively as he chewed.
"No," said sexy Matt, carefully looking down at his notebook. "Ordinary people, like us, who don't have sex for long periods of time."
I shot a look at Matt, just as he was doing the same to me.
"What? You lot?" said Richard, looking at us incredulously. "You're all in the first flush of youth - well, except Bridget."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"You're all at it like rabbits every night! Aren't you? In, out, in, out and shake it all about," he sang. "You do the Okeekokee and you turn her round, and do it to her from be-hind! Aren't you?"
There was a certain degree of shuffling round the table.
"Aren't you?" More pause.
"Who here hasn't had sex in the last week?" Everyone stared hard at their notepads. "OK. Who has had sex in the last week?" No one raised their hand.
"I don't believe this. All right. Which one of you has had sex in the last month."
Patchouli raised her hand. As did Harold, who beamed at us all smugly from behind his spectacles. Probably lying. Or maybe just puppy-love-type shagging.
"So the rest of you ... Jesus. You're a bunch of freaks. It can't be because you're working too hard. Celibacy. Pah! Talk about bums off seats. We're off the air because of Diana so you lot had better come up with something better than this for the rest of the season. None of this limp no-sex bollocks. We're coming back next week with a bang."
Thursday 4 September
8st 6 (this must stop or jail sentence will have been wasted), no. of ways imagined killing Richard Finch 32 (this too must stop otherwise deterrent value of jail sentences a
6 p.m. V. happy about return-to-school-autumnal-style feel of world. Going to go late-night shopping on way home: not to buy anything as financial crisis, just to try on new "brown is black" autumn wardrobe. V. excited and determined this year to be better at shopping i.e. (a) not panic and find only thing able to buy is black jacket as only so many black jackets one girl needs and (b) get money from somewhere. Maybe Buddha?
8 p.m. Angus Steak House, Oxford Street. Uncontrollable panic attack, Shops all seem to have just slightly different versions of each thing. Throws self into thought fug with mind unable to settle until has encompassed and catalogued all, for example, available black nylon jackets: French Co
Maybe whole image is at fault. Maybe should start wearing brightly coloured pantomime outfits in ma
Right. Calm, calm. This is what need to buy:
Black nylon jacket (I only)
Torque. Or maybe Tong or Tonk? Anyway, choker thing to go round neck.
'Boot leg' brown trousers (depending what 'boot leg' should turn out to mean).
Brown suit for work (or similar). Shoes,
Was nightmare in shoe shop. Just trying on brown squaretoed high-heeled 70s style shoes in Office feeling v. dйjа-vu-esque for all those back-to-school times buying new shoes and fighting with bloody Mum about what they were allowed to be like. Then suddenly had horrifying realization: was not freaky sense of dйjа-vu- they were exactly the same shoes I had in Six Lower from Freeman Hardy Willis.
Suddenly felt like i