New Year Resolutions:

I Will: Stop smoking.

Drink no more than 14 alcohol units a week.

Go to gym three times a week, not merely to buy sandwich.

Reduce circumference of thighs by three inches (ie. 1.5in each).

Improve mind (eg. by reading book other than self-help book).

Learn to programme video.

I Will Not:

Fall for any of following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics, people with girlfriends or wives, misogynists, megalomaniacs, chauvinists, emotional f---wits, perverts.

Sulk about having no boyfriend but develop inner poise and authority, and sense of self as woman of substance, complete without boyfriend, as best way to obtain boyfriend.

Sunday, January 1

9st 3lb (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 14 (but effectively covers 2 days as 4 hours of party was on New Year's Day), cigarettes 22, calories 5,424.

Noon. London—my flat: Ugh. The last thing on earth I feel physically, emotionally or mentally equipped to do is drive to Una and Geoffrey Alconbury's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet in Grafton Underwood. Geoffrey and Una Alconbury are my parents' best friends and, as Uncle Geoffrey never tires of reminding me, have known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. My mother rang up at 8.30 in the morning last August Bank Holiday and forced me to promise to go. She approached it via a cunningly circuitous route.

"Oh, hello, darling. I was just ringing to see what you wanted for Christmas."

"Christmas?"

"Would you like a surprise, darling?"

"No!" I bellowed. "Sorry. I mean..."

"Why don't I get you a little suitcase with wheels attached. You know, like air hostesses have."

"Mum. It's eight thirty in the morning. It's summer. It's very hot. I don't want an air-hostess bag."

"I'll tell you what. Why don't Jamie, Daddy and I all club together and get you a proper new big suitcase and a set of wheels?"

Exhausted, I held the phone away from my ear, puzzling about where the missionary luggage-Christmas-gift zeal had stemmed from.

"Is there anything you'd like for Christmas?" I said desperately, blinking in the dazzling Bank Holiday sunlight.

"No, no," she said airily. "Now, darling, you will be coming to Geoffrey and Una's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet this year, won't you? Malcolm and Elaine Darcy are coming and bringing Mark with them. Do you remember Mark, darling? He's one of those top-notch barristers. Masses of money. Divorced."

"Mum, I've told you. I don't need to be fixed up with..."

"Now come along, darling. Una and Geoffrey have been holding the New Year buffet since you were running round the lawn with no clothes on! Of course you're going to come. And you'll be able to use your new suitcase."

11.45pm: Ugh. Cannot quite believe I am once again starting the year in a single bed in my parents' house. It is too humiliating at my age. I wonder if they'll smell it if I have a fag out of the window.

Having skulked at home all day, hoping hangover would clear, I eventually gave up and set off for the Turkey Curry Buffet far too late. When I got to the Alconburys' and rang their entire-tune-of-town-hall- clock-style doorbell, I was still in a strange world of my own— nauseous, vile-headed, acidic.

"Bridget! Happy New Year!" said Geoffrey Alconbury, clad in a yellow diamond-patterned sweater. He gave me the sort of hug which Boots would send straight to the police station.

"Come on, let's get you a drink. How's your love-life?"

Oh God. Why can't married people understand that this is no longer a polite question to ask?

"Bridget! What are we going to do with you!" said Una. 'You career girls! I don't know! Can't put it off for ever, you know. Tick-tock-tick-tock."

It was all right, I suppose. But Mark Darcy... Every time my mother's rung up for weeks, it's been, "Do you remember Mark Darcy, darling? He's one of these super-dooper lawyers. Elaine says he works all the time and he's terribly lonely."

I don't know why she didn't just come out with it and say, "Darling, do shag Mark Darcy over the turkey curry, won't you? He's very rich..."

"Come along and meet Mark," Una Alconbury sing-songed before I'd even had time to get a drink down me.

He turned round, revealing that what had seemed from the back like a harmless navy sweater was actually a V-neck, diamond-patterned in shades of yellow and blue—as favoured by the more elderly of the nation's sports reporters.

As my friend Tom oftens remarks, it's amazing how much time and money can be saved in the world of dating by close attention to detail. A white sock here, a pair of red braces there, a grey slip-on shoe, a swastika, are as often as not all one needs to tell you there's no point writing down phone numbers and forking out for expensive lunches because it's never going to be a runner.

Wednesday, February 1

9st, alcohol units 9, cigarettes 28 (but will soon give up for Lent so might as well smoke self into disgusted smoking frenzy), calories 3,826. Must go to Smug Married dinner party at Magda and Jeremy's tonight. Such occasions always reduce my ego to size of snail.

11.45pm: Oh God. It was me, four married couples and Jeremy's brother (forget it, red braces and face. Calls girls "fillies").

"Why aren't you married yet, Bridget?' sneered Woney (babytalk for Fiona, married to Jeremy's friend Cosmo) with a thin veneer of concern whilst stroking her pregnant stomach.

Because I don't want to end up like you, you fat, boring Sloaney milch cow, was what I should have said, or, Because actually, Woney, underneath my clothes, my entire body is covered in scales. But I didn't because, ironically enough, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So I merely simpered apologetically, at which point someone called Alex piped up, "Well, you know, once you get past a certain age..."

"Exactly... All the decent chaps have been snapped up," said Cosmo, slapping his fat stomach and smirking so that his jowls wobbled.

At dinner Magda had placed me between Cosmo and Jeremy's crashing bore of a brother. "You really ought to hurry up and get sprogged up, you know, old girl," said Cosmo, pouring a quarter of a pint of '82 Pauillac straight down his throat.

"Seriously, old girl. Office is full of them, single girls over 30. Fine physical specimens. Can't get a chap."

"Oh my God, it's eleven o'clock,' shrieked Woney. "The babysitter!" and they all leapt to their feet.

"Wanta lift or anything?" said Jeremy's brother.

"Actually, I'm going on to a nightclub," I trilled, hurrying out into the street. "Thanks for a super evening!"

Then I got into a taxi and burst into tears.

Midnight: Har har. Just called Sharon.

"You should have said 'I'm not married because I'm a Singleton, you smug, prematurely ageing, narrow-minded morons,' " Shazzer ranted. "And there's a whole generation of single girls like me with their own incomes and homes who have lots of fun and don't need to wash anyone else's socks."

"Singletons!" I shouted happily. "Hurrah!"
 

Saturday, March 4

9st (what is point of dieting for whole of Feb when end up exactly same weight at start of March as start of Feb?)

I am so depressed. Daniel, though perfectly chatty, friendly, even flirty all week, has given me no hint as to what is going on between us, as though it is perfectly normal to sleep with one of your colleagues and just leave it at that. Work has become an agonizing torture. I have major trauma every time he puts his coat on to go at end of day: to where? With Whom?

At 4.15 on Friday evening Sharon rang me in the office. "Are you coming out with me and Jude tomorrow?"

"Er..." I silently panicked, thinking, Surely Daniel will ask to see me this weekend before he leaves the office?

"Call me if he doesn't ask," said Shazzer drily, after a pause.

At 5.45 saw Daniel with his coat on heading out of the door. Miserably, I picked up the phone and dialled Sharon. "What time are we meeting tomorrow?" I mumbled sheepishly.

"Eight thirty. Café Rouge. Don't worry, we love you. Tell him to buggerr off from me. Emotional f----wit."

2am: Argor sworeal brilleve with Shazzan Jude. Daniel stupid prat. Feel sicky though. Oops.
 

Monday, September 4

9st, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 27, calories 15, minutes spent having imaginary conversations with Daniel telling him what I think of him 145.

8am: First day at new job. Must begin as mean to go on, with new calm, authoritative image. And no smoking. Smoking is a sign of weakness and undermines one's personal authority.

8.30am: Mum just rang.

"Guess what, darling?" she began.

"What?"

"Elaine has invited you to their ruby wedding!" she said, pausing breathlessly and expectantly.

My mind went blank.

"She thought it might be nice to have one or two young 'uns there to keep Mark company."

Ah. Malcolm and Elaine. Begetters of the over-perfect Mark Darcy.

"Apparently he told Elaine he thought you were very attractive. Well, the word he actually used, darling, was 'bizarre'. But that's lovely, isn't it - 'bizarre'? Anyway, you can ask him all about it at the ruby wedding."
 

Sunday, October 1

8st 11lb, cigarettes 17, alcohol units 0 (v.g., esp for party).

4am: One of the most startling evenings of life.

Had shock on arrival as Mark Darcy's house was not a thin white terraced house on Portland Road as had anticipated, but huge wedding cake-style mansion on the other side of Holland Park Avenue (where Harold Pinter, they say, lives) surrounded by greenery. He had certainly pushed the boat out for his mum and dad. All the trees were dotted with red fairy lights and strings of shiny red hearts in a really quite endearing manner and there was a red and white canopied walkway all the way up the front path. 
Dinner was served in the "Drawing Room" on the ground floor and I found myself in the queue on the stairs directly behind Mark Darcy.

"Hi," I said. "It's a great party. Thanks for inviting me."

"Oh, I didn't," he said. "My mother invited you. Anyway. Must see to the, er, placement."

Mark had thoughtfully put me between Geoffrey Alconbury and the gay vicar.

After dinner I went outside for a little fresh air and a fag. Suddenly I heard a noise above. A figure was silhouetted against the French windows. It was a blond adolescent, an attractive public schoolboy-type.

"Hi," said the youth. He lit a cigarette unsteadily and stared, heading down the stairs towards me. "Don't suppose you fancy a dance?"

"I'll take over, now, Simon," said a voice.

It was Mark Darcy.

"Will you have dinner with me, Bridget?" he said abruptly.

I stopped and stared at him. "Has my mum put you up to this?" I said, suspiciously.

"No... I..."

"Una Alconbury?"

"No, no..."

Suddenly I realised what was going on. "It's your mum, isn't it?"

"Well, my mother has..."

"I don't want to be asked out to dinner just because your mum wants you to."

"Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or..."

"Mark!" yelled Natasha, heading down the stairs towards us.

"But you're going out with somebody," I said, rather pointing out the obvious.

"I'm not any more, actually," he said. "Just dinner? Some time."

"OK," I whispered.

9st 2lb (but can definitely lose 2lb before tomorrow using Hospital Frankfurter diet); alcohol units 3 (vg); cigarettes 2 (perfect saint-style person); frankfurters 12.

8am: Wild joy. Mark Darcy has been sent from Japan to Paris for 3 weeks and asked me to go for weekend, thereby suggesting he has forgiven me and wants me back. Only condition: must not miss plane, smoke, or damage company flat in any way. Hurrah. Just goes to show you can go through dark times in manner of Greek tragic heroines but if you just . . . Ooh goody, telephone . . .

8.30: "Oh hello, darling, guess what?"—my mother.

"What?" I muttered sulkily.

"I'm going to ski the Net!"

"Surf," I said. "The expression is surf."

"Surf, ski, snowboard, doesn't matter darling. We're all doing it! Una, Geoffrey, Daddy, Raymond and Merle . . ."

"Who are Raymond and Merle?"

"You remember Raymond and Merle darling, used to be on the church spire committee in Buckingham. Anyway apparently this Net is riddled with clubs and people having affairs, so we're all going to ski it! Isn't that fun?"

"Er . . ."

"Now," she suddenly hissed, in her do-what-I-say-or-I'll-Magimix-your-face voice, "you are coming home the Friday before Christmas, aren't you?"

Grrr. Why can't married people understand it is simply not possible to plan things six weeks ahead if you have no idea who you will be going out with by then? Mark Darcy might invite me to Lapland.

Is too humiliating having mother on Internet when cannot face starting with dot./comm. business even if entire world is furiously dot/comm-ing each other, quivering with sexual excitement, except me. Also how, if you do not have the Internet plugged into the phone all the time, can you still get messages . . . Aaargh. It's 8.45: must get up.

9.15: Actually have loads of time. Everyone knows when businessmen whizz between European airports, they turn up 40 minutes before lift-off, with just a briefcase with nylon shirts in. Plane is at 11.45. Must be at Gatwick at 11, so 10.30 train from Victoria and tube at 10. Perfect.

9.30: 5 pairs of shoes and boots might seem a lot for 2 days. Maybe Mark will be casual, but what if he wants to go to posh places? Or hiking? Also 2 sponge bags a bit heavy, but clearly  need to be properly groomed.

9.40: Cannot believe have wasted time on packing, when most important thing is to look nice on arrival. Hair completely mad. Will have to wet it again. Aaargh. Where is passport?

9.55: Have got passport, and hair now calm, so better go.

9.59: Only problem being: cannot lift bag.

10: Goody. Have ordered mini-cab. Will be here in 2 mins.

10.10: Where is mini-cab?

10.15: In mini-cab now. Have definitely done journey in 15 mins before.

10.18: Aaargh. Mini-cab suddenly on Marylebone Rd, inexplicably deciding on scenic tour of London instead of route to Victoria. Fight instinct to yell at and attack mini-cab driver.

10.20: Traffic is solid. There is no occasion now in London when it is not rush hour.

10.27: Wonder if possible to get from Marble Arch to Gatwick Express in one minute.

10.35: Victoria. Humph. Train has gone. Still, if get 10.45, will have clear 30 minutes before plane goes. Also plane will probably be delayed.

11.10: Aaargh. Train has inexplicably stopped. Suddenly all extra things I did, e.g. plucking stray leg-hairs, seem unimportant alongside not actually turning up.

11.45: Cannot believe it. Plane has gone without me.

Sunday, November 9, Paris

Alcohol units: 0 (but only 10am); cigarettes: 0; no. of times apologised to Mark Darcy about unfortunate flight-missing incident: 42 approx; no. of times reiterated unconvincing downstairs-neighbour-mild-heart-attack excuse: 42; no. of times had fantastic, well, you know . . . with Mark Darcy: 4 so far! (Hurrah for Paris and the Common Market!)

10am: In bed pretending to be asleep. Have just put pan of water on (French kettle incomprehensible) and am going to make lovely steaming pot of coffee.

Mini-break vg apart from: 1) flight debacle; 2) bad post-dinner row.

Was telling Mark about Tom going on about Gordon Brown and his EMU in manner of Rod Hull and EMU, which he did not find funny.

"It's the sort of quasi-amusing idea people come out with to disguise the depths of their ignorance about economic union. Usually idiots who are Pro."

"What's wrong with Pro," I muttered, staring furiously at my plate.

"You're not pro-EMU, are you?" he scoffed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

I paused, thoughtfully. (Hmm, there is a funny smell.) Anyway, as I told him, being pro-EMU is to do with being European, cosmopolitan and cool; pavement cafés, beautiful, modern things in old fashioned areas e.g. the glass pyramid in the Louvre; nice food and Terence Conran straddling lace-backed chair in Canary Wharf: as opposed to old buffers puffing behind leather desks and being arrogant at European summit about the cows with everyone thinking we are snooty prats who overboil their vegetables.

At this Mark sank his head into his hands. "Oh God," he moaned . . .

"What?"

"I'd forgotten about this."

"What?" I said. "What? What? What?"

Eventually he lifted his head and took hold of my hands. "How would you like it if big lorries came in the night and took all our gold out of the Bank of England to Germany?"

He paused, then he started laughing and said: "Oh darling, don't look so worried." Then he gathered me up in his arms and . . .. Hmm. Really does seem to be strange smell.

Almost like burning smell.

10.30: Oh my God. Crept out to find entire apartment filled with black acrid smoke. Had turned wrong hot-plate on. Burnt frying pan and stove now glowing and belching smoke like nuclear reactor.

11: Will send Mum message that will be home Friday before Christmas after all.

11.05: Maybe by e-mail.

9st 1 (vg), alcohol units 6 (poor), cigarettes 19 (worse).

7pm: Why hasn't Mark Darcy rung? Why? Realise Paris mini-break did not go particularly well due to missing plane, kitchen fire, etc. but rejection particularly humiliating this week with Royal Golden Wedding merely highlighting own inability to get any relationship off ground for more than five minutes. Whole celebration clearly designed to torture Singletons in manner of—though not quite as bad as—Christmas. Is all very well, Queen beaming everywhere being Epitome-esque Smug Married but what if Duke of Edinburgh had suddenly decided not to call her when they had only just started going out? These days . . . wait a minute. Maybe phone is not working.

7.05pm: Dialling tone seems normal, but will ring from mobile to check. If not working might mean am still in relationship.

7.10: Phone is working. Am going to spend Christmas in single bed in parents' house. Again.

7.15: Phone is ringing. Hurrah! Christmas will be lovely and romantic, kissing by fireside unwrapping silken underwear from tissue paper in manner of Dunhill catalogue.

7.20: Was Sharon, "You do realise, in 50 years we will be more than 80?"

"So?" I said, wanting to yell "Getoff the phone! Getoff the phone!"

"So? So we'll be dead. So there's no chance of any of us having a golden wedding. So we've blown it." 
Agreed to crisis meeting with her and Jude. Maybe reason phone will not ring is that I am in a state about it, therefore better to go out to restore Zen. Might read Buddhism book for a bit. Was forgetting importance of not living in state of neurotic craving. Could murder a cigarette, though.

7.25: Oooh—telephone. Buddhism has worked!

7.50: Was my mother.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?"

"Mum. Do you mind if I ring you back on the mobile?"

"Mobile, darling? Don't be silly—you haven't had one of those since you were about four. Don't you remember? With little fishes on? Anyway Una doesn't want Uncle Geoffrey on this Internet. He's on it day and night, apparently, its absolutely filthy."

Grrr. What is it about mothers and the phone which, immediately you say you have to go, makes them think of 19 completely irrelevant things they have to tell you that minute?

". . . Una thinks he might be one of these 'homos'. Mind you, Raymond and Merle's nephew was one and he was charming. Did I tell you Mavis Enderby's Julie's preggy?"

Finally. I Just had to say: "Mum. I. Am. Go. Ing. Nowbye."

7.51: Mark still hasn't rung.

7.52: Still hasn't rung.

7.53: He's probably gone for a drink after work and will ring when he gets back at 8.

8.01: Maybe I should ring him.

8.20: Pros and Cons:—

Pros: 1) End to torture of waiting for phone call. 2) V. empowering. 3) Might get to talk to him.

Cons: 1) He will think I am too keen. 2) He won't be in. I will leave embarrassing message. He still won't ring. Torture will be worse. 3) Better to wait till he wants to ring me.

But what if he doesn't?

8.25: Clearly, it is over between us. Am going out.

Midnight. My flat. Argor. Eswor blurry goofun. Oof! telphone. Oops.

Friday, November 21

9st 2 (doom), alcohol units and cigarettes 0 (vg but only 8am).

8am: Had v. interesting discussion last night with girls re: Prince Philip's Golden Wedding speech. All agreed was unsettling but why? Then Jude burst out, "It was the fact that he was virtually admitting they are having a relationship."

We nodded thoughtfully. Idea of Queen and Prince Philip holding hands, embracing, jogging in matching tracksuits or looking Reaganesquely into each other's eyes is completely unthinkable: almost like Jeremy Paxman flapping his wrist at Peter Mandelson on Newsnight and going: "Ooh shut up, ducky, you do go on!"

"I mean," said Shazzer. "All that stuff about them having children was tantamount to admitting that they have had sex."

"Shhh, shhh." I hissed horrified by treasonable remark. All agreed, however that while pleased for newly happy-looking Queen, fear and resent "inevitable ensuing pro-Smug Marriage national mood: in unpleasant contrast to recent years where, with Charles, Diana, Fergy etc, it began to seem almost normal to be single and dysfunctional.

Chardonnay seemed best solution, along with growling lustfully, "Phaw—that Prince Philip—phaw." 
Upshot was, when got home was bit on squiffy side. Phone rang.

"Hi, it's Mark."

"It's over isn't it?" I slurred sulkily. "That's the trouble with our generation. Prince Philip says tolerance is the most important thing. Tolerance."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just because I set the pan on fire. The Queen set blurry Windsor Castle on fire and he didn't chuck her."

"But the Queen didn't set Windsor Castle on fire."

"Oh we don't know that, do we?" I muttered, darkly. "She could have left a pan on."

"Bridget," said Mark. "The Queen has been working hard to present herself as the People's Monarch. Nevertheless I think it unlikely Her Majesty decided to make a cup of coffee in Windsor Castle using a saucepan instead of a kettle, turned the wrong hotplate on and set fire to a frying pan with half a fillet steak in it."

"Well, even if she had, he wouldn't have chucked her."

"But darling. Nobody's chucking you."

"But . . . you didn't ring and I thought . . ."

"I said I'd ring you yesterday or today."

"But you didn't!"

Suddenly, he lost his tolerance. "For God's sake! I didn't get home till 8.30 and you've been out all evening. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I'll call you in the morning. Bye."

9.00: He hasn't rung.

9.30: Still hasn't rung.

9.35: Think need to run off to Barbados, to find inner self.

9st 1, alcohol units 3 (vg) cigarettes 19 (poor).

7.45am: Cannot believe am already up in middle of night! But getting out of bed is so much easier when latest Earl Spencer instalment is about to plop through letter box.

8.30: Cannot get enough of the story. As Shazzer said last night, is to do with impression that what Earl Spencer is really in court for is not respecting women enough: as if making women feel insecure, blowing hot and cold, chucking them when you are in the bath or over the phone in an arrogant manner, egging them on, then going off them and behaving as if it is their fault, has at last become a prosecutable offence.

"F---wittage," Shazzer was ranting, pouring an entire glass of chardonnay straight down her throat. "He's effectively on trial for f---wittage. For centuries aristocratic wives have put up with this stuff, but didn't I always predict that women would rise up together? The wife lying down with the mistress... here pass me some of that pizza, will you?"

"What? You mean, become lesbians?" giggled Jude.

"Shut up, Jude, you're drunk," growled Shazzer. "It's the idea that having mistresses is a man's right, that women are disposable, that just because he's rich and titled they should be grateful. Look at him, compared with them—big pink porky bloater."

Hah! Anyway, when I get to work am going to share Shazzer's feminist views with Richard Finch and make him let me do an item on it. I mean, what is the point of working in television if you cannot... Aargh, am going to be late.

10pm: Hateful rest of day: When I arrived Richard Finch was already boxing the air and torturing the research team.

"Ah, Bridget," he said creepily. "Earl Spencer."

I opened my mouth but he took the wind completely out of my sails.

"Come on. I'm thinking women rising up against men, I'm thinking the wife lying down with the mistress. Get me a woman whose husband's had a string of affairs. Live in the studio with all the mistresses."

"By when?" I said, alarmed.

"When do you think, dolly droopy drawers? This afternoon."

Sometimes there seems no limit to the absurdity of what Richard Finch will ask me to do. One day I will find myself persuading Harriet Harman and Tessa Jowell to stand in a supermarket while I ask passing shoppers which is which, or trying to find a Master of the Hunt and have him chased naked through the countryside by a pack of vicious foxes.

Remembering the importance of assertiveness for a woman, said: "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't humanly possible in the time."

"Fine," he said, with an evil glint in his eye. "In that case, Miss Hoity-Toity Pants, you're doing foxhunting."

Next thing found myself in rain-swept Leicestershire, knocking on the door of a big square house surrounded by horseboxes, ready to interview a huntmaster. Was quite excited actually, as would be a chance to put my views on... Suddenly the door burst open, and a tall man was standing in corduroy trousers and a quite sexy baggy jumper.

"Humph," he said, eyeing me up and down. "Better bloody well come in. When are these chaps of yours arriving?"

"The crew will be here in half an hour," I said primly, as he led me into a big kitchen, full of dogs and bits of saddle.

"It's supposed to be a free country," he was yelling, striding round, biffing things. "Once they start telling us we can't even bloody hunt on a Saturday, where will it end?"

"Well, you could say that about people keeping slaves, couldn't you?" I muttered, "Or cutting the ears off cats. It just doesn't seem very gentlemanly to me, a crowd of people and dogs careering after one frightened little creature for fun."

I should have kept my mouth shut. "Have you ever bloody seen what a fox does to a chicken?" he bellowed, turning red in the face. "If we don't hunt 'em, the countryside will be overrun."

"Shoot them, then," I said, staring at him murderously. "Humanely. And chase something else on Saturdays, like in greyhound racing. Fasten a little fluffy animal impregnated with fox smell on to a wire." 
"Shoot them? Have you ever tried to shoot a bloody fox? There'll be your little frightened foxes left wounded in agony all over the bloody shop. Fluffy animal. Grrr!"

When the crew arrived, he was literally purple and suddenly grabbed at the phone and dialled. "Finch, you total arse!" he bellowed. "What have you sent me... some bloody little pinko..."

Twenty minutes later, under pain of sacking, I was in full hunting regalia, on a horse preparing to ride into shot and interview the Rt Hon Fox Murderer, also on a horse. "OK, Bridget, go, go, go," yelled Richard Finch in my earpiece at which I squeezed my knees into the horse, as instructed. Unfortunately, however, the horse would not go. After 15 seconds of frantic knee-digging and hideous abuse in my ear, during which the Rt Hon Purpleface held forth, unchecked, with an eloquent pro-hunting advertisement, my horse suddenly reared up and cantered sideways into shot. All I had time to say was: "Ah! Now back to the studio!" At which the horse reversed into the cameraman.

After the crew had gone I went miserably into the house to change, only to practically bump into the Rt Hon Bossybottom.

"Hmm," he growled throatily. "Spirit. I like that in a woman." Then grabbed me to him.

"Get off!" I said, jumping away. "What about your wife!"

"Wife?" he bellowed. "She's not fit to be my wife. I need a woman who can deal with a man with a strong personality."

Aargh. Have had enough of career, politics and entire male race - with exception of Mark Darcy, who is going back to Japan. Wish to become single parent and spend time caring for tiny gentle girl-child and visiting job clubs.

9st 2lb (doom!—but still time to lose stone before Christmas); alcohol units 4 (final build-up to pre-Christmas abstinence); cigarettes 19 (disgusting self with smoking vileness, ready to give up for New Year); calories 5,284 (better).

8pm: Feeling mounting tide of Christmas panic, and existential despair-style sense that have already left everything too late. Problem compounded by image-bombardment from shops and magazines of aspirational World of Christmas; beautiful, expensive, smelling of department-store perfume counters and draped with silk lingerie and glamorously wrapped gifts: in stark contrast to own World-of-Christmas foraging sub-existence: no decorations, no food in fridge, and self-lurching neurotically between sordid parties, worrying about failure to Christmas shop, and nursing daytime cumulative hangover with whatever seems necessary—e.g. chips with cheese.

Hideous build-up of exam-style pressure. Self's usual recurring exam nightmare (no revision) replaced with family Christmas Morning nightmare, when have not have bought anyone any sodding gifts. Determined, though, to be better this year. Am going to actually do things instead of just making lists.

Tonight, for example, am staying in to find all Christmas cards purchased in recent years but never sent, then send them.

Actually will make plan first, in manner of management consultant.

Festive Season Plan

I will:

1. Spend Christmassy evenings writing cards well in advance, in front of tree and fire (hmmmm: if had tree or fire).

2. Get fit, thin and eat lightly so do not spend festive season bloatedly fearing explosive clothes burst-out.

3. Buy lovely party dress early so do not end up leaving bizarre panic-buy unworn behind sofa while sporting ancient Top Shop black dress at every single party for fifth year running, telling self can always "dress it up" with e.g. pom-poms and then not doing.

4. Insist on being treated by family as if at least human, even though single.

5. Hold open-house weekend with mince pies, scented candles, etc. in slacks or satin housecoat in manner of e.g. Zsa Zsa Gabor, Princess Margaret or similar.

6. Keep food in house so am nourished (or definitely milk, anyway).

7. Buy clever, stylish presents such as featured in magazine "gift ideas".

8. Avoid being alone in London between Christmas and New Year, when will inevitably become overwhelmed by sense of social isolation, drink best part of bottle of wine and start sobbing.

9. Set aside evenings for gift-wrapping with cinnamon sticks etc. instead of buying garish 5p-a-sheet in Oxford Street and screwing presents up in it in taxis, attempting to use lip gloss as glue.

I will not:

1. Drink at parties, in order to avoid nauseous, acidic, daily head-endurance test.

2. Become so irritated if receive more than three cards, "From your paper boy", that determine not to tip paperboy, then guiltily overcompensate so wildly that paperboy decides tip is love-token and spends next three months trying to persuade me to accompany him to amusement arcades.

3. Mind if receive more Christmas cards from garages, paperboys, depressing hotels stayed in three years ago than friends.

4. Be annoyed by Mum spending all December telling me what dress to wear on Christmas Day, then, when I turn up in it, saying: "Oh, I thought you'd have worn your trouser suit."

5. Obsess about how many Christmasses have had without boyfriend.

6. Obsess about how everyone else in world except me is clustered around Xmas Trees, smiling dewy-eyed in nuclear families.

Aargh Is 9pm: Must start on Christmas cards immediately - or maybe Christmas card list. Hmmm. Question is, does it matter if you don't send Christmas cards? Sure there are people from whom have never in my life received a Christmas card. Is this rude? Always seems faintly ridiculous to send e.g. Jude or Shazzer a Christmas card when see them every other day. But then, if do not send cards, how can one expect pleasing display of cards in return? Except that, of course, sending cards never yields fruit until following year, unless send cards in first week of December but that would be unthinkable, Bored-Married-style behaviour. Hmm. Maybe should do list of pros and cons of sending cards ... Ooh goody, telephone.

9.30: Was Magda talking in strangled, over-controlled voice. "Bridget," she said amid background childish wails and Jeremy bellowing like a boar, "you're always moaning about how awful it is being a Singleton at Christmas. Well, [she started yelling] I have made a list of reasons why it is better to be single than married at Christmas and I hope you're sodding listening, Jeremy."

There was silence, then the crying and bellowing started again ... "Right," she said viciously. "One: you can go to parties on your own instead of having to stay in every night because you can't get a babysitter while your husband is going to bloody 'Work Dos'.

"Two: you can get drunk once in a blue moon without a despotic marital lecture about breast-feeding babies alcohol. Three: you don't have to spend the entire year arguing about whose in-laws are coming to stay when you don't want any of them anyway.

"Four: you don't have to spend the week before Christmas cramming a hideous fleshy turkey into the oven to prove to your control-freak husband it will fit, cut its legs off, then endure a barrage of unfunny legless chickens in-law jokes for the rest of your bloody life. Five: you can sometimes get five minutes, five minutes! to yourself.

"And Six: you don't have to open the adulterous bastard's credit card statement and find ..."

She started crying, "Oh Bridget, I'm sorry ..." and then she put the phone down.

Oh, my God! Poor Magda. Does this mean I am going to have to send them separate Christmas cards?

9st 1lb 8oz, alcohol units: (do not want to talk about it); cigarettes: 13, calories: 3,251 (but was sick).

5am: Aargh. Have just remembered what happened. Hope was not sick on new coat.

5.03am: Why did I do that? Why? Why? Especially after watching alcohol units on News and telling self was never going to drink more than two units a day and certainly not consume entire week's units at one party as specifically instructed not to do by experts. Wish could get back to sleep or up.

5.30am: Weird how quickly time goes when you have a hangover. Is because you have so few thoughts: exactly opposite to when people are drowning, entire life flashes past and moment seems to last for ever because they are having so many thoughts.

6am: You see half an hour just went like that, because I did not have any thoughts. Oof. Actually head hurts quite a lot.

7am: Trouble is they never tell you what will happen if you drink more than two units a day. Does it mean you will get a magenta face and gnarled nose in manner of gnome or that you are an alcoholic? But in that case everybody at the party last night must have been an alcoholic. Except that actually the only people who weren't drunk were the alcoholics, because they weren't drinking.

7.30am: Maybe am pregnant and will have harmed newborn child with alcohol. Oh my God, might have given it leukaemia. Hmm, though. Cannot be pregnant, as have not had sex.

8am: Worst of it is being alone in middle of night without anyone to ask how drunk I was. Keep remembering increasingly hideous things that I said. Maybe was not that drunk but . . . Oh no. Have just remembered giving beggar 50p who, instead of "thank you", said: "You look really pissed." Suddenly also remember childhood mother saying: "There is nothing worse than a woman drunk." Or - aargh - "You know what they'll say if you sleep with a man before you're married. 'She's easy meat'." Am Yates' Wine Lodge-style easy-meat gutter floozy.

8.15am: Think will open curtains.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Surely is not natural for sun to be that bloody bright in morning.

8.30am: Anyway. Am going to gym in a minute and am never going to drink again, therefore is perfect moment to start Scarsdale diet. So actually what happened last night was VG because this is start of totally new life. Hurrah! People will say . . . Oooh, telephone.

Was Shazzer. "Bridge, was I really pissed last night?" For a moment, I could not remember her at all. "No, of course not," I said nicely to cheer Shazzer up, as sure if she had been really drunk I would have remembered. I gathered all my courage together and asked: "Was I?" There was silence.

"No, you were lovely, you were really sweet."

There you see. It was just hungover paranoia.

Noon: Doom. When got to work Richard Finch was already in full auto-witter. "Right, I'm thinking women MPs complaining about sexist behaviour in the House, I'm thinking Blair's whingeing crybabes. Bridget," he said, pretending to hold two melons in front of him, "get me Nicholas Soames to do his John Prescott cruise steward gag and say, if these stupid birds can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, because slagging each other off is what parliamentary debate is all about, cor look at the tits on that," he said at a passing PA as if he thought he was amusing.

"No," I said, clenching my fists and noticing a big cardboard tube which I wanted to hit him with.

"Why, pray?" he said, fondling the imaginary ever-huger melons with an evil smirk.

"Because," I said, grabbing the tube and holding it up like an enormous penis, "Parliament is meant to represent everyone and, just because the men like braying at each other with cheap putdowns, it doesn't mean women have to be able to argue like that to have their say."

We stared at each other with our jaws jutting out, he still holding his melons and me the cardboard tube.

"Fine," he said, evilly glancing out at the lashing rain. "Oxford Street . . . You can stay out there till you find me a shopper who supports the IRA."

7.30pm: Futile wet afternoon producing only videotaped hours of incoherent anti-Irish ranting, and Oriental killer flu in head. Clearly needed company, so called Magda, who is having a terrible time since she found unexplained payments to the Ann Summers shop on her husband's credit card statement. Stupidly, forgot it was feeding time. "Bridget, hi!" she said. "Look, if you want to do a poo-poo, you ask to go on the potty."

"How's the Jeremy crisis?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Adulterous bastard! He still won't tell me who she . . . Mummy will smack! She will smack! Can't talk. He's just back and I've got to do the shopping. Now eat it up!"

Next Jeremy grabbed the phone.

"Shopping?" he bellowed. "Shopping? She means write the ******* shopping list and fax it to the au pair. And who pays for it? Muggins."

Blimey. Got off the phone asap. Shazzer was out, but found Tom.

"So how's your head today?" he quipped.

"Why?" I muttered, blushing.

"Well, you were pretty far gone last night."

"Shazzer said I wasn't."

"Bridget," said Tom, "Sharon wasn't there. She was at the Strident TV party and, I gather, considerably farther gone than you."

Humph. Anyway, goody. Tom is taking me to his works Christmas party tonight and am not going to drink anything. Hurrah.

Friday, December 12

9st 1lb (vg); cigarettes: 12 (vg); alcohol units v.bad.

5am: Oh God. Why? Why? Am never going to drink again as long as live. Oof.

9st 1 ( poor) alcohol units 5 (vg) cigarettes 19 (excellent) calories 80 (canape) good but maybe unhealthy slightly?

6.30pm: Will I never learn? Week before Christmas, always swear next year I will escape to tiny woodman's cottage deep in forest to sit quietly by fire instead of waking up in huge, throbbing mountingly hysterical city with entire population going "oh my God" at thought of work, cards, and present deadlines and getting all dressed up, and stuck in traffic every night, arriving at do's wanting to shout "Oh will you all just SOD OFF!" as everyone exhausted and sick of sight of each other.

Also Christmas reminds one of entire year's failure to achieve anything eg form functional relationship. V sad re: Mark Darcy. Relationship left frustratingly ambiguous having spent one weekend together in Paris and one here, but now he has gone back to work in Japan. Hoped obsessively he might ring to suggest eg, spending Christmas in twinkly Swiss Mountain village but he has not even rung for 10 days. Am just rubbish. Am love pariah. Am going to end up . . . Oh-oh. Realise what has happened. Clearly have got in mad mood through stress. Will call Jude.

6.45pm: Have left message asking if she is mad too. Anyway tonight am going to stay in quietly, listening to classical music.

7pm: You see, it is good to calm down, everyone needs to nourish their soul.

7.O2pm: V boring though.

7.04pm: Think will ring up Sharon.

7.15pm: Hurrah! Shazzer has invited me to party.

Midnight: Hair would not go right, then entire city gridlocked so when arrived Shazzer had been standing outside for 15 minutes, and gave me real earful. Next thing bumped into old friend, Michael, who said 'Bridge, isn't it about time you had a baby?'

Was just about to give him earful when he said 'Why don't you have a baby with me?'

I gawped. 'I mean,' he said hurriedly, 'be a single Mum. New Labour, new - Oh . . . well anyway just going to get a drink. I'll make up the six quid for you.'

Could suddenly imagine being trendy single Mum with lovely tiny pink baby to love and teach things to, shopping with it in markets, keeping it in the bedroom and slipping off marvellously during dinner parties to feed it. Shot off to discuss with Shazzer, who was talking to posh lady in crusty sequined top.

'Trouble is,' said Shaz. 'On top of, 'Why aren't you married?' every minute of the bloody day you'd have "Who's the father?" to contend with.'

"You could say it was an immaculate conception."

'I think all this would be extremely selfish . . .' the posh lady snapped.

'Why?' said Shaz belligerently. 'Because a child needs two parents. You would be doing it to satisfy yourself when actually you're just too selfish to have a relationship.'

Blimey. Knowing how mad we all are this week I could see Shaz taking out a sub-machine gun and gunning her down. Maybe lady was right, though. Maybe we are the fussy generation and actually just want to be free and have fun while whingeing about non-existence of 50s-style marriage.

'That's rather a narrow, paternalistic, unrealistic, partisan Smug Middle-Class-Married-Parent view isn't it?' Shaz was saying. 'Look at the Caribbean'—Mmmm. I thought, lovely luxury hotel and white sand.— 'The womenfolk bring the children up in compounds and the men just turn up sometimes and shag them, and now the women are getting economic power and there are pamphlets saying "Men at Risk" because they're losing their role.'

Sometimes wonder if Sharon quite such a PH-style authority on, well, everything as she pretends to be.

'A child needs two parents,' said the woman, coldly.

'Bollocks. Children need relationships and life and people around, but it doesn't have to be a husband . . .'

"Yur. You can't spoil a child by loving it," I slurred suddenly remembering something my—ironically enough—mother always comes out with.

'Shut up, Bridge, you're drunk.'

Eventually Posh woman stormed off and I ended up having snappy exchange with Shaz about Caribbean social mores at which spotted future father of my child chatting up 12-year-old and decided to go home. 
Got back to lovely message from Jude.

'Yes. Also mad. The cat has picked up my mood and started pooing in the basket. I'm going start doing that too. Call me.'

Hurrah, love the lovely friends. Maybe if Jude had a baby too we could live in a community together and . . . aargh.

12.15am: Have set wastebin on fire with fag end. Will just have a glass of wine then ring.

1am: Called Jude but the cat had just pooed again. 'Can I call you back in a minute?' When it rang I picked up and sing-songed. "Would you hold? Just pooing on the carpet." 'I'm sorry?' said a male voice. Oh my God. It was Mark Darcy.

Grr. What is it about him that he always catches me at the wrong moment. For the entire last 10 days I have answered the phone by simply saying "hello". (Jude and I sometimes answer by purring "So you did call" which can be amusing. Also one time Shaz worked for a programme called The Night is Young, and had to answer phone saying "He-llo. The Night is . . .". . .)

'Bridget,' said Mark. 'You've gone curiously silent. Are you pooing on the carpet?'

Tried to explain about Jude and the cat . . .

'I see,' he said, dismissively. 'Are you going to your parents for Christmas?'

Yesss! Yess! Swiss Mountain village! "Not sure, actually," I replied, airily.

'Pity. I'm going to mine for a few days.'

"Well I'm bound to be there for some of the time," I gabbled. Mark's parents live in the same village. 
'Great! Well, in that case . . .'

Now in turmoil. Definitely vg that Mark coming to England but no question of sleeping together at parents so does that mean we are "just friends"? Oh God. Am going to spend Christmas Day with Mum, Dad and Granny, the Alconburys, Mark's parents and Mark himself whom Mum has been trying to get me off with for four years and does not know I am sleeping with. And now neither do I. Still it will be lovely to see him. Hurrah! Happy Christmas.