15 stone (feels like) cigarettes 4 (but out of window so v. pure) alcohol units 6 calories 4,675,824 approx.

Noon: Hiding from sprout hell in bedroom having fag out of window.

This is what I have got for Christmas.

1. A small box of bottom-shaped chocolate liqueurs.
2. A set of different-sized spanners for taking the lids off jars which may have become stuck.
3. A bag to hang up in the kitchen to keep other carrier bags in.
4. Tights.
5. A breadmaker from Mum—which is great, so when I lurch home at the end of the evening I can spend an hour sieving ingredients into giant plastic machine. THEN when wake up in morning can consume entire giant loaf of bread on way to work instead of buying chocolate croissant when get cappuccino.
6. A very small cheeseboard from Auntie Una with Delft tiles on and a plastic cover large enough to encompass 1 piece of micro-cheese.
7. Case of wine from Dad. Love the lovely Dad.

Was Mum, holding a box of chocolate brazils.

'I hope nobody is smoking in here,' she said in a weird narrowed-eyed Pol Potesque manner.

"It's certainly to be hoped not at this Yuletide time," I giggled owing to having had a few sherries with Dad while doing sprouts.

'I hope no one's going to be smelling of smoke when Mark arrives, they don't like it, you know. Don't you think you'd better get ready?'

Grrr. Was already ready actually but she always makes me so paranoid have ended up getting changed out of trousers into stupid dress.

8pm: Oh God. When got down into hall heart gave hiccup as saw Mark talking to Una in lounge looking—in midst of Jaeger two-piece hell—utterly irresistible in suit with dark hair just brushing against collar so that wanted to kiss his neck and started thinking about all things we . . .

'Bridget, what are you doing with your mouth open, like one of those morons. Go give everyone a sausage roll,' said Mum.

Why in the name of arse anyone would want to eat a sausage roll before a full Christmas dinner is beyond the limits of the human imagination. Could not for life of me go up to Mark, so ended up having mad conversation with Uncle Geoffrey about fast-growing hedges and did not take in single word. Half way through, Mark and I crossed eyes and thought legs were going to give way under self. (if see what mean.)

'Stand up straight, Bridget and hand them round,' hissed Mum, from behind shoving me towards Mark.

Was dreadful. Kept looking at the buttons on his shirt imagining what was underneath.

'D'you know the older I get the harder it is to find presents,' Una was trilling. 'I always used to buy Pam Portmeirion but she's got everything now except the clock and we both think they're common.'

'Yes it does get, er, harder and harder,' murmured Mark with a meaningful glance down, then at me. 'Don't you find?'

"I'm always just really wet about it," I said, desperately trying not to start laughing.

'Really one should just thrust in there and get on with it, but . . .'

"There are so many people around," I finished.

'. . . and then as Christmas approaches, you're in and out all the time.'

"Up and down."

'It really is very, very hard,' he murmured.

Una looked from one to the other of us perplexedly 'Well! You can't have too many cheese-boards!' she said. 'Just going to sort out the gravy.'

Lunch was an agony with Mark's toe touching my leg under the table. Afterwards went up to improve make-up and was just coming down the stairs when he appeared in the hall closing the door behind him. For a second we stared, then fell upon each other like beasts, kissing each other wildly against the telephone table.

Suddenly the door opened again with a burst of noise, and Mum appeared, going: 'Bridget, can you remember where I put that box of chocolate brazils . . .?'

We turned and looked at the assembled family, gaping with their mouths open. What were they going to do? Burst into spontaneous applause? Shoot us?

'Chocolate brazils,' said Mum, coldly. 'The Cadbury's one,' - like the house was filled with a range of missing chocolate brazils from rival confectionery manufacturers.

I stared fixedly ahead. "I think you might have left them in my room," I said, then bolted up there and leaned against the door, breathing unsteadily. When I slunk back downstairs entire Darcy family were leaving and everyone was pretending nothing had happened. Thought heart was going to break when saw Mark going away with no plan to ever meet again and no present. Then everyone just sat down in front of telly.

When I left the room just now Mum bustled out after me and hissed: 'In my day a kiss meant something.' Oh God. Am doomed, doomed evil slut from . . . Oooh.

8.30pm: Was Dad yelling, 'Bridget! telephone!'. He gave me a conspiratorial little smile and pat as handed me the phone.

It was Mark. 'Darling, I'm so sorry I left you in the lurch . . .'

"No, I'm sorry I . . ."

Heaven-sent conversation. Both agreed did right thing to escape and let grown-ups take over with "pretend nothing has happened" parallel universe which is maybe how married people survive.

Am going to spend whole day with him tomorrow and he has bought me a present. And now I am going to break the news to Mum.

Week Eight: New Year resolutions

Resolve not to drink at moment when drink is offered rather than morning after

Cigarettes smoked 3,242 (v. irresponsible use of gift of life).
Cigarettes not smoked 47* (v.g.). * ie nearly smoked but remembered had given up so specifically did not smoke those particular 47. Number is not, therefore, number of cigarettes in entire world not smoked as would be ridiculous over-large-style number.
Calories 747,000 (strange, impossible-to-imagine number).
Fat units 3,874: lard-like repulsive notion.
Alcohol units 1,364 = 3.73 per day = 26.15 per week. Quite good.
Weight lost 4st 5lb (excellent).
Weight gained 4st 6lb.
No of correct lottery numbers 147 (better, but still useless as all on different tickets).
No of days had boyfriend 29.5 (not counting 3 weeks before Christmas when did not know whether had boyfriend or not. Actually maybe should include this period divided by 2 = 10.5. So in real terms: no of days had boyfriend 40 (g.).
No of times went to gym 11. Cost, therefore, per visit of gym membership £36. Oh God.
No of resolutions kept from last year 0.33 (poor).
 

Thursday, January 1

9st 4lb, alcohol units 0 (v.g.) cigarettes 0 (v.g.) calories 1,000.

7pm: Hurrah, am perfect saint-style person with boyfriend who is coming round in 1 hour. This will be year definitely stick to resolutions, so am going to do them now so as not to be ready over-early and nervous.

New Year's Resolutions
I WILL

• Eat food for correct reasons e.g. because hungry as opposed to bored, or depressed about being fat.
• Go to gym first thing in morning instead of spending all day grumpy about having to go to gym, then not going anyway.
• Reduce cost per visit of gym membership to less than £4 i.e. go at least three times a week.
• Not be so obsessed with gym.
• Make relationship work with Mark Darcy.
• Get rid of all unnecessary stuff from flat so have only such minimalistic possessions as need, and cherish them, thus travelling light in manner of feng shui.
• Perhaps light fragrant candles or even floating candles in bowls.
• Have separate drawers for socks, pants, tights and bras so do not have to wrestle with snake-like mass of bras hooked into tights, thereby becoming late for work.
• Have regular manicures in order to create sense of nails as decorative items rather than foodstuff. 
• Listen to Today programme instead of lying in bed thinking about sex.
• Make body into something am proud of instead of disgusted by.
• Have less sedentary lifestyle and take up badminton.
• When get home alone at end of evening, no longer do thing of chain-smoking fags, glugging wine then lurching around to "I Will Survive", bursting into tears and calling Shazzer, but instead sip camomile tea, press and prepare clothes for next day.
• Resolve not to drink at moment when drink is offered rather than morning after.
• Learn how to do washing machine so does not always stop with water left in tub.
• Read more books and less travel brochures.
• Read such books all way to end.
• Finish The Famished Road by Ben Okri.
• Drink sensibly.
• Get ready for things in good time rather than believing can wash hair, do make-up, choose outfit in negative amount of time, as being late annoys Mark Darcy.

• Be so rubbish this year.
• Smoke butt ends from bin when have run out of cigarettes.
• Smoke at all, in fact.
• Put things under bed when people are coming round.
• Ring 1471 when have already rung once and not been out of flat since or heard phone ring.
• Take part in any of the following organised by my mother: Easter egg hunts, slide shows of members of the Rotary Club going up or down rivers or mountains, fancy dress events of any kind.
• Go round flat putting everything edible can find in mouth even if actually mouldy.
• Believe things e.g. that washing machine man will come when stay at home all day waiting for him or true love exists.
• Keep changing mind about things.
• Worry all the time.
• Get existential despair a month before birthday.
• Mind if do not get any Valentine's Day cards.
• Flirt with random men during approach to Valentine's Day in order to increase possibility of cards.
• Dislike other girls who get Valentine's Day cards.
• Obsess about Valentine's Day cards.
• Allow more than two hours to elapse between waking up and getting out of bed.
• Get newspapers delivered then not read them.
• Allow piles of unread newspapers to overrun house.
• Put piles of newspapers in cupboards which then crash out when people come.
• Wake up every morning swearing will not drink again because of hangover then as soon as it is the evening think: "Hurrah, time for a little drinky."
• Be much more calm around Mark as greatest gift woman can give to man is tranquillity. 

7.50: Bursting with unperformed tasks. Have got to have fag as too sudden to just give up like that, better to go to Alan Carr or be hypnotised. Then will quickly wash and dry hair.

7.55: Goody. Have found quite long fag-end in wastebin.

7.59: Right. Have washed hair now. Doom—papers have fallen out of cupboard.

8pm: Aaargh, doorbell. Why does he have to come so bloody early?

9st 5lb (total emergency) cigarettes 6 (v.g.) alcohol units 0 (but 8am) calories 2,340 (midnight feast)

8.15am: Mmmm. Has been so lovely freakishly having boyfriend over festive season. Is funny week, though. Feel as if have been away to North Pole for 2 years and everyone has forgotten me. Also cannot believe number of celebrities who have skied into trees. Surely they must notice the trees ahead of them? Must not, however, judge as on self's only skiing trip accidentally got on button lift without skis, to be dragged scurrying puzzled uphill whilst three-year-old international downhill racers whizzed by yelling sniggeringly: "Ca va?" Love the way the News has started calling Mo Mowlam "Doctor Mowlam".

V. respectful. Ooh. Mark Darcy just moved. Maybe he will wake up and talk to me about my opinions

8.30am: Mark Darcy has not woken up.

8.35am: Still has not woken up. Love looking at him asleep, though.

8.37am: Still he has not woken up. Must not make noise, but maybe could wake Him subtly by thought vibes.

8.40am: Still has not GAAAAAH!

8.50am: Mark Darcy sitting bolt upright yelling: "Bridget, will you stop. Bloody. Staring at me when I am asleep. Go find something to do."

Huh. Have spent so much time lonely, fantasising about having someone to talk to in the mornings and now this. Also yesterday got lecture about foolishness of using Service Wash instead of washer-dryer: totally dismissing argument that washer-dryer is too complex for human use. Romantic dream has turned into harsh domestic reality. Wonder if that is reason people are Singletons, preferring fantasising about imaginary relationship to actually having one? Oooh, telephone.

Was Mum. "Oh hello, darling. Guess what? They've found a 2,000-year-old woman in a cave. Actually I think it was a whole family. And a wolf. Ooh, I've left the oven on. Byee."

Hmm. Well better go to work.

Tuesday, January 6

7pm: Right. Super. Whole evening to tackle washing.

8pm: Bloody, bloody stupid machine from jaws of hell. Keeps stopping with water left in drum and door will not open. Also dial is not in alphabetical order so keeps going past.

9pm: Have got door open now but drying a few pants is like trying to launch solar space Challenger or trying to find the Cottesloe theatre from the signposts: "You can wash and dry by selecting G or H, depressing the button dry and setting a drying time in either the green or blue section of the dry dial. To select dry as a separate programme turn the programme dial to J (blue) or K (green). Following the indications in the chart on page 10 turn the time selector dial to the appropriate setting and colour. Depress the dry button. Depress the on/off button. Check that the pilot and door locked lights have illuminated. The machine will start operating."

Except it doesn't. Have just ripped huge hole in tights out of pure rage, and bitten own hand.

Wednesday, January 7

8.30am: Have got Service booklet now. Must first look up area on chart to find matching code. Then look up code on separate chart to find Service number and get engineer.

9am: Right. Have got code and number.

9.05am: Dialled number and Indian voice said: "Helloyes Khyber Tandoori."

9.45am: After 9 minutes in voice-mail jail finally got head office and had emotional hijacking rage at startled telephonist, threatening to write to the chairman and Esther Rantzen after which she said the engineer would come on Friday but they couldn't say when.

Why not? Why? Why? How can domestic appliance companies get away with this clinging to dinosaur- like 50s idea of homes full of nuclear wives in aprons and pointy bras. Could you imagine making an appointment in any other business without saying a time and expecting the person just to hang around for you all day? Pah. Pah. Am going to have to take entire day off now.

Friday, January 8

11am: Washing machine man has not come.

Noon: Still has not come.

4pm: Still has not come.

5.30pm: Right.

5.45pm: Just called Service number to eventually get petulant girl snapping: "Look, we've got two engineers off sick. There's nothing I can do. You can wait in on Monday and we might be able to fit you in." Completely drained after threatening to report her to Tony Blair and expose company on national TV. Need drink.

8pm: When got into 192, felt real rush of relief that life was back to normal. Jude was talking very urgently and seriously to Shaz.

"They're black suede with a three-and-a-half-inch kitten heel. Then low at the front with a Pradaesque black buckle. And I thought sheer black tights—or maybe Wolford Velvets."

"Jude," said Shaz. "Do the words shallow, airheaded and bimbo mean anything to you? It's a board meeting, you're the chairman."

"Chairperson," Jude corrected. "And then bloody Vile Richard. I was just trying to get him to listen to me about my therapy for five minutes - I mean I've been listening to his for five bloody years - and then he said, 'Look, I'd find this much better if you could e-mail me about it'. I couldn't believe it. I said, 'I suppose you'd prefer it if the whole bloody relationship was done over e-mail?' And he said, 'Well, the telephone as well. But actually yes'."

"Bastards" growled Shaz. "Bloody bastards."

"Well, not all men are complete bastards," I said, thinking about Mark Darcy's Christmas present. "But what about me? I can't get my washer to work. I've been waiting in all day for the engineer and he didn't come."

There was a cold silence.

"Bridget," said Shazzer." Has it occurred to you that you might be turning into an extremely dull, Smug-Going-Out-With-Someone after a mere two weeks?" Stared at them with tears starting to prick eyelids. Just when you get one area of life sorted out, everything else seems to go wrong.

9st 3lb (continuing good work), alcohol units 4 (but Bloody Mary, so healthy), cigarettes 22, thoughts about self per hour 32

"The thing is," said Tom, striding around the kitchen and helping himself to my Hob nobs, "how many thoughts about yourself is it normal to have?"

Grr. It really annoys me the way Tom just eats everything in the flat but then maybe that is what is wrong with me. When I'm on my own I feel lonely but then if I have someone round the flat all the time they really get on my nerves. Maybe I am becoming…

"What I want to know," Tom interrupted, opening the fridge, taking out a piece of Brie, tearing the end off it and shoving it in his mouth, "is am I self-obsessed? Does living on your own make you self-obsessed? How many thoughts do you have about yourself each hour as opposed to thoughts not about yourself?"

"I don't think I think about myself much at all!" I said airily, trying to work out whether what he'd just done with the Brie was genuinely disgusting or whether the fact that I found it disgusting—even though I often do that myself to the Brie or actually just scoff the end straight off before it's hardly out of the fridge - shows that I'm mean and unable to share, and that actually the real reason I was disgusted was because it was my Brie. Mine mine mine.

"So what were you thinking about before I came round?" Tom said.

"Mind your own business."

"Tell me," he hissed, getting hold of my ear. Hate it when he gets like this, but on other hand partly like it because it is like having an older brother and I need to be Ow. He was really twisting.

"Robin and Margaret Cook, for your information."

"Yes but that actually is thinking about yourself."

"No it's not," I said, crossly reaching for a Silk Cut. Wonder if the reason I am unable to stop smoking is that I am an addictive person or because I am emotionally unbalanced and use the cigarette for soothing like a baby's dummy or …

"What were you thinking exactly about Margaret Cook?"

"Well, it's very interesting because she's so young and modern-looking, like the lead singer of Texas and therefore you can really imagine what it was like when she and Robin first started going out at university—like me and Waspy. So now I can understand how furious she is at suddenly being cast as a sad dumped 50-something wife when she is the same age as bloody him and 500 times prettier and probably funnier and just as bright and v. successful in her own field and—bloody well Humph. And also I really like the way she is so inconsistent. It's like when Daniel left me for the rooftop giantess: one minute you decide to be all saintly and magnanimous then next minute you just go mental with rage and jealousy and want to get everyone to gang up against them, then next minute you have a few drinks and get all jolly and think, 'Har har make mine a large one, oops it's down me trousers'."

"I rest my case."

"What?"

"You were thinking about yourself."

"I wasn't. I was thinking of the feminist cause."

Tom made a hideous scoffing noise and started snuffling around in a packet of Alpen.

"I was. It's to do with the poison notion that women have a sell-by date and men don't so they're entitled to a new young one every so often like Bruce Forsyth or Des O'Connor. I mean how horrible is that? Is like Hutus and Tutus in Rwanda and one tribe being in serfdom to another."

"Tribes, Bridge? Serfdom?" said Tom.

"Shut up. People shouldn't think like that any more. Look at Francesca Annis and Ralph Fiennes and Margaret Cook's really great because she's just not having it and not letting everyone ignore the fact that she's got a character and her own allure and…"

"Oh God, shut up Bridge. Let's go get a Bloody Mary."

Tuesday, January 13

9st 2lb (but what is point of being slim if am self-obsessed?), thoughts about self per hour 32 (average), thoughts about other people but at root about self per hour 14, thoughts about how many thoughts am having about self per hour: 67.

Hmm. Surely am not self-obsessed, as often think about all sorts of things. Only reason am unable to stop thinking about self-orientated thoughts is that Tom has set me off. Good thing is am having lunch with Magda, who has made special effort to escape the children so will be able to talk without her carrying on simultaneous conversation with tiny person who can't speak English yet about poo poo. Or maybe that is just my interpretation as am subtly resentful of people with children in manner of tragic barren spinster. But I can find out how many thoughts Magda has about herself and, if as many as me, then self-obsession is definitely not merely the product of single living.

Thing is, it is quite interesting analysing own thoughts. There is v.g. bit in the self help book Emotional Intelligence where a woman goes to psychiatric hospital because she is worrying too much and the psychiatrists ask her to worry for one minute so they can observe her. So she immediately starts worrying that she won't be able to worry properly to order, but if she doesn't worry properly now she'll ruin her last chance to stop worrying and be happy so by the end of the minute she's worried that she's ruined her entire life by not being able to worry properly when Gaaaaaaaah! It's 1.15. I was supposed to be in Café Rouge 15 minutes ago. Am going to be 45 minutes late for lunch with Magda.

9st 1lb cigarettes 7 (v.g.) alcohol units 4 (excellent for Saturday) cappuccinos 13 No. correct lottery numbers 2 (better but still useless)

9am: Cafe. Man oh man!—new expression of consternation inexplicably adopted by Shaz, who is clearly having an affair behind the backs of me and Jude. Evidence is as follows: mysterious new expressions and interest in Irish Question, being too busy to see us, ducking all emotional discussions, and, two nights ago, appearing with a love-bite and refusing to discuss. Situation is plainly intolerable. Everyone knows girlfriends are like Indian women in harem and secrets and emotional truths must be shared whilst ring-fenced with steel from outside world and GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Was my mother, walking into my cafe bold as brass in a Country Casuals pleated skirt and Apple green blazer like a spaceman turning up in the House of Commons squirting slime and sitting itself down calmly on the front bench.

"Hello, darling," she trilled. "Just on my way to Debenhams and I thought I'd pop in and see when you want your colours done. Ooh I fancy a cup of coffee. Do you think they'll warm up the milk?"

"Mum, I've told you I don't want my colours done," I muttered, scarlet as the waitress bustled up, rushed off her feet.

"Hello, dear." Mum went into her slow, kindly "Let's try and make best friends with the waiters and be the most special person in the cafe for no fathomable reasonable" voice. "Now. Let. Me. See. D'you know—I think I'll have a coffee. I've had so many cups of tea this morning up in Grafton Underwood with my husband, Colin, that I'm sick to death of tea. But could you warm me up some milk? I just can't drink cold milk in coffee. It gives me indigestion. And then my daughter Bridget will have"

"Espresso? Filter? Latte? Cap? Half fat or decaf?" snapped the waitress sweeping all the plates off the table next to her and looking at me accusingly as if Mum was my fault.

"Half fat decaf cap and a latte," I whispered apologetically.

"What a surly girl, doesn't she speak English?" huffed Mum at her retreating back. "This is a funny place to live, isn't it? What do they think they look like?"

I followed her gaze. Notting Hill is so full of over-confident over-young-thin-beautiful-and-rich Trustafarians that they get over-competitive about making a fresh fashion statement and end up leaving the house in the morning wearing Prada slingbacks, a Rastafarian bonnet, a fleece and a swimsuit. At the next table a girl wearing pink stilettos, hiking socks, a floor-length llamaskin coat over a petticoat and a Bhutanese herdsman's woolly hat with earflaps was tapping on a laptop and yelling into her mobile: "I mean, he said if he found me smoking skunk again he'd take away the flat. And I'm like, 'FUCK Daddy',"—while her six-year-old child picked miserably at a plate of chips.

"Listen to that language," said Mum. "It's a funny world you live in, isn't it? Wouldn't you do better living near normal people?"

"They are normal people," I said furiously, nodding at the street, where a nun in a brown habit was pushing two toddlers along in a pram.

"I think it's very silly and bad for you, that's why you get yourself all worked up."

"It's not silly," I said, glaring, as a mobile started to ring and the assembled half-asleep breakfasters fumbled frantically around until 20 people were holding either a coat, rucksack, Prada handbag, or bicycle messenger boy's bag to their ear with the phone still ringing.

"Well, anyway," she said, sniffing. "About Mark. You're not going to you-know-what with him, are you, or he'll never marry you. Make sure he keeps that thing just for weeing with. Anyway, must whizz! I'll make you an appointment for Saturday," and she was gone.

11pm: Just got back from 192 with Jude and Tom: Shaz, surprise, surprise, being "too tired to come out".

"I love this thing about the 60-year-old having a baby," Jude was musing. "It means we've got a good 25 years of child-rearing ahead of us. I know if you leave it late you might die before the children are grown up, but they mature so quickly these days. Did you see about those two six-year-olds who got sent home from school for sexually assaulting a colleague?"

At this Tom made a big spurting noise and coffee started coming out of his nose.

"Oh God, don't do that, it reminds me of Shazzer," said Jude.

"Why?"

"She's started having coffee colonic irrigation."

"That's not all she's been having," sniggered Tom.

"Coffee colonic irrigation?" I said. "You mean, drinking?"

"No up yourœ like an enema. It's really good for your skin."

Tom crashed his head straight down on the table. "Would that be with milk and sugar? Cappuccino?"

"Who is Shazzie seeing?" burst out Jude. "Why won't she tell us? Why?"

"She told me," said Tom.

Jude and I stared in horror. It was an absolutely cut and dried case of provocative girlfriend betrayal.

"Shall I tell you?" said Tom. This exactly proved our point. Already he had broken his individual ring-fence and told the secret.

"She's been treated very badly," he said, sepulchrally. "He told her his marriage was over." Man oh Man! Tom looked up dramatically. "It's President Clinton."

At that moment I spotted a familiar figure emerging from a car. It was Magda's husband, Jeremy. I watched in horror as a woman emerged from the passenger side who was a) not Magda, not yet 25 and d) wearing a lurex evening dress with Timberlands, a basebell jacket and a plastic rain bonnet.

Maybe—horror concept—just for once, Mum might be right.

9st 1lb (vg), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 12, minutes spent imagining people having oral sex with President Clinton: 48 (better)

1pm: Horror magazine-quiz-style dilemma. No matter how much Jeremy has told Magda he was not having an affair, and that the purchases from the Ann Summers shop on his December Access bill were for her Christmas present, last Thursday night I saw him getting out of a car with an Other Woman.

Am having tea with Magda today and do not know what to do. Instinct says I should not meddle but then how dare the bloody bastard do that to my friend? Hmm. Wonder if it is true, as implied by Clinton situation, that oral sex does not constitute actual infidelity: in same way that at school everyone thought as long as you did not go all the way you were pure, so got up to every worst kind of depraved . . . Gaaah! doorbell.

5pm: Was Mark Darcy bearing a present. Opened it to find an expensive-looking box which looked as though it might have contained jewels. Obviously am not Material Girl but idea of jewellery gift unbelievably heady and Marilyn Monroe-esque. Also, it says in the Rules if a man gives you jewellery or underwear he is claiming you and it really means he loves you. Daintily I pressed open the little catch then gaped. It looked like a weird alarm clock.

"Don't you know what it is?" he said fondly. "It's a Persona, 'contraception that works with your body'."

I groped for the appropriate response and facial expression. What was he saying here? Did he want me to have a baby? Did he want to stop using condoms? Or was he just mad?

"Aha. Ahahahaha," I trilled maniacally, pressing repeatedly on a button with M on it, at which an electronic display of eggs, books and toothbrushes appeared.

"I've got the instructions in my bag," he said, pleased, and then dropped his bombshell: "I've been offered a pretty good job back in Japan or a slightly less good one here. I don't know what to do."

7pm: Just back from Magda's where conversation was completely typical. "Of course you're not a love pariah, hon, open your mouth! Open it!!" I was trying to talk to her about me and Mark as a precursor to the trickier Jeremy conversation but Harry, aged three, was on the point of swallowing a Mac eye shadow.

"Until you find the right one," she said forcing open Harry's mouth, "relationships don't work because they're not it, not because there's anything wrong with you. Now that was naughty, wasn't it?"

"Call me a megalomaniac," I grumbled "but you would have thought he would have mentioned me as having at least some relevance to whether he goes back to Japan. And why . . . "

Magda looked dreamy. "Some day, Bridge, you'll meet the right man and then it'll be as easy as leaves falling off a tree."

Grrrr. Sometimes Smug Marrieds can be so so . . . smug. Everyone knows that in relationship crises girlfriends must say what you want to hear, i.e. "Obviously Mark is so in awe of you that he's waiting for you to ask him to stay," not to imply your relationship is rubbish and over while they have everything perfectly sorted out.

Truth is, someone like Magda, who has been with Jeremy since the age of 23, would be eaten alive if turned out from domestic care into the vicious limb-from-limb jungle of current dating world. Which was exactly why I was finding it impossible to prick her confidence bubble even though she was doing it to me. My plan, therefore, was simply to find out what Jeremy had said he was doing that night.

"Last Thursday," I began, "I nearly rang and asked you to come out with us all." I paused, teetering on the edge of a precipice. "Were you and Jeremy doing anything?"

"God. I wish you had. He was entertaining Koreans. I was just in on my own."

Hah!

"Where's Jeremy now?" I said casually.

"Playing squash. Oh dear, Bridge, poor you," she said stroking her wedding ring smugly.

On the way back to my car, who should I bump into but Jeremy.

"Bridget!" he joshed. "Still hanging on to that chap of yours? Must be a record."

"Where've you been?" I glowered.

"Squash," he said. "Phew, exhausted."

"And last Thursday night, outside 192?"

For a split second I saw the suave Jeremy panic. "Did you say anything to Magda?" Then he recovered. "Because don't be so silly. I was dropping off a colleague after entertaining clients."

"Yeah, right," I muttered.

"Bridget!" It was Magda. "You've forgotten your keys. Oh darling! Hello!" As I drove away, watching them wave me off, the picture of domestic bliss, I felt really fed up. Maybe that is just life, I thought, what with President Clinton and Robin Cook. I once read an article which claimed there are certain times in history when nations get swept by depression epidemics. The last time was in the 17th century due to preachers going round preaching hellfire and damnation and apparently the newspapers are performing the same function now. Or maybe we just expect too much of love, and actually nobody really minds what President Clinton does with girls, it is just an entertaining diversion and once he has been impeached they will think "So what?" and want to peach him again.

Back home I fiddled miserably with my Persona, jabbing distractedly on the M button. I opened the-PhD-style 60-page instructions. "The M button is pressed to tell the Monitor your period has started," it instructed, "DO NOT press the M button until you are ready." Great. So Persona now thinks I have started 14 periods in the space of six hours . . . ooh doorbell.

It was Mark. "You don't love me," he burst out. "I spent all day talking about going back to Japan, and not even once, not once, did you say you wanted me to stay."

Mmmm. Dreamy romantic evening. Even if love always seems to end up in a mess, maybe at least you have to try.

Minutes worked out in gym: one. Minutes read magazine in gym: 20. No. of booster pads put in Wonderbra to create passable cleavage: four (total)

11am: Office. Last night at gym read hideous article in old magazine by Alex Renton calling thirtysomething girls "Re-treads". When they were in their twenties, he "argued", you wanted to go out with them, but couldn't. Now they're in their thirties, you can, but you don't want to any more: his conclusion being, "nothing over 25". Suddenly felt cold, clunking depression that maybe that is reason for all. . . Gaaaah!

Was Richard Finch, bulging out of a Jarvis Cocker-style nylon T-shirt and jigging up and down.

"Wake up, dolly dum-dum," he was saying. "I'm thinking Age Concern poster. I'm thinking droopy tits. Get me six women in the studio—twenties to seventies—I want them all wearing Wonderbras without showing their heads."

"The Daily Mail has done that, Sir," piped up Creepy Hugo.

"Not like we're going to do it, my son," leered Richard, revoltingly. "We're gonna get a panel of experts to guess the ages from the cleavages, then . . ."

He let out a horrible, gurgling laugh.

"Instead of revealing the ages by showing the heads, we'll take the Wonderbras off. Get on to it, Bridge, will you?"

I stared at him in utter disbelief.

"Do you really think I'm going to work on an item like that?" I exploded. "You can't put that out on daytime TV."

"You can on cable," he smirked.

"Do you just hate women?" I asked, incredulously. "Don't you understand what that poster is saying?"

"What? Come on Susie Orbach, Lesbian Greenham Common. What?"

"Well, that. . . that. . ." God, I wished I could call Shazzer. "That women are fed up of being treated as if they've got a sexual sell-by date. As if their only value is sexuality, and they're only sexually viable if they're young." 
"So why's that woman pretending to be young in her uplift bra, then? Why didn't they put a picture of Madeleine Albright?"

I thought about this, thoughtfully.

"Isn't that woman just doing the same for your average fiftysomething as Kate Moss does for your average twentysomething? Most fiftysomething women don't look like that in their bras."

"How do you know?" I growled.

"I've seen them in bikinis in Barbados."

I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Richard Finch in swimming trunks.

"Well," I began, "the first thing that campaign's trying to say is that people shouldn't think middle-aged women stop being sexy after a certain age, any more than men do. And then probably the next poster will be one of Madeleine Albright or Betty Boothroyd with some sexist git asking, 'Did she throw herself into her career because she Lost Out In Love?' "

Richard Finch stared at me for a long time, tapping the table with his pencil. "Do you want me to put you on Gardener's Corner?" he asked. "Toddlers' Tea Time? Katie's Kitchen Tips?"

I breathed through my nose, dangerously. "If you do that item œ"

"Oh come on. I'm not saying all the old tits are going to droop when we take the bras off. It's just an experiment."

"If you do that item. . ."

"What?"

"I'll. . . I'll resign." Just then the phone rang.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" - my mother.

I looked nervously towards Richard Finch. who had started giving Hugo a crash course in how to persuade 70-year-olds to take their tops off.

"Una and I are going to the NSPCC Olde English Supper," Mum trilled, "and we're going to go in Wonderbras! Imagine! What do you think Daddy and Uncle Geoffrey will say!"

Oh God. Mark Darcy's parents live in the next village and are bound to turn up at the supper. I don't think our embryonic re-relationship can take the strain.

"Hahaha!" I laughed playfully, then hissed. "But you will be wearing something over the Wonderbras, won't you?"

"No," she said in a petulant "me wickel girlee" voice. "The Spice Girls go out in their cleavages, why shouldn't me and Una?"

"Because you and Auntie Una are not members of a twentysomething girl band. And the NSPCC Olde English Supper is not an Acid House Rave."

"I see," said Mum icily. "You're an ageist. I've given birth to an ageist."

"Why don't you go in matching gold dressing gowns and nighties like Cherie and Hillary?" I cajoled.

"Dressing gowns! I suppose you'll be suggesting that we go in bedjackets next. With Zimmer frames. Or wheelchairs. Haven't you seen that poster?"

"Yes," I said patiently. "But I don't think what Age Concern is trying to do is to encourage 67-year-olds to socialise topless."

"That's what you think of me, isn't it? You think I'm some sort of geriatric."

"No! I just don't want Mark's parents to think you're mad," I blurted catastrophically, as Richard Finch bore down on me with a potted petunia.

8pm: My flat. Total panic. . . The item was dropped, but only because the women wouldn't do it. Have got till tomorrow to decide whether to resign. Gaaaah! doorbell.

Was Mark Darcy. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

There is nothing like someone being nice to you to make you cry. Ended up gulping out the whole story in sheeps-voice. "I'm just a Re-tread," I sobbed, "and don't even look like that in a Wonderbra now!"

Mark Darcy burst out laughing and put his arms round me.

"Re-tread!" he scoffed. "That's the most miserable, stupid, joyless, life-denying argument I've ever heard in my life. It ignores character. It ignores love. I don't care how old you are or how bouncy your cleavage is, I just love you. Now why don't you start looking for another job and then resign. And while you're at it, write to that Alex Renton and say you hope he loses his hair."

Mmmm. Love Mark Darcy. Unfortunately, however, as he bent over to open the fridge, could not stop self noticing his bald patch is getting bigger. Am awful person, as well as small-breasted Re-tread.

9st 1, cigarettes 1 (vg) Nicorettes 20 (v.bad) No. of early Valentines 0. huh.

5pm office. Mark Darcy just called.

"Bridget, I'm really sorry, I've got to go over to New York for this Holdern case for four or five days, so I won't be able to make it tonight."

"Oh, marvellous, don't worry," I trilled, sitting on hands and shoving entire lump cheese in mouth to stop self yelling BUT IT'S VALENTINE'S DAY ON SATURDAY. IT'S VALENTINE'S DAY. WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

Fraudulent calm poise went pretty well until Mark said: "By the way, I met your friend Rebecca."

"What?" I stammered.

"She's great isn't she?"

Humph. Rebecca is not "great"; she is a Jellyfisher. Talking to her is like swimming in a lovely warm sea, then suddenly something stings you and next thing everything is back to normal except a bit of you really hurts.

"I didn't know you knew Rebecca," I said, trying not to squeak.

"She was at Barky Thompson's drinks last night and introduced herself."

I mean: a) What was she doing there if I wasn't?

"Yes," he murmured, "I thought she was extremely nice and intelligent."

b) What was she doing being "Nice and Intelligent" to Mark Darcy and not telling me about it?

"What. . . what did you talk about?"

"She seemed interested in my work and was very nice about you. You've got great friends."

c) If Jude or Shaz had met him they would have been on the phone to me actually during the party with a full account.

"What nice things did she say?"

"She was saying what a free spirit you are."

d) In-Rebecca speak "free spirit" is tantamount to saying "Bridget sleeps around and is going to chuck you".

5.10pm Managed to be nice and calm till end of conversation but oh, oh; maybe Rebecca is going to New York too. Mark and Rebecca are having a secret tryst in New York. He's in love with her.

5.15pm You see, men are a bit stupid and do not notice such qualities as Jellyfishing when flattery and thinness is going on.

5.30pm Have summoned Jude and Shazzer for emergency summit 192.

7pm Valentine's Day, is nearly as bad as Christmas. On way home even washing machine shop had red hearts hanging above the vacuums. Honestly would rather not have Valentine's Day gift than vacuum. What would that say about your man's feelings for you?

7.30pm Actually, would rather get vacuum than just nothing.

Thursday, February 12

1am Back home. Had secretly hoped girls would dismiss whole Rebecca issue as paranoia but air of War HQ hung heavily above 192.

"The point is," Jude was saying tersely, "if Rebecca had even a rudimentary grasp of the spirit of Girlfriendom, she would have rung you by now."

"Man oh Man," shrieked Shazzer.

Rebecca was coming in, looking hideously thin, beautiful and elegant, mobile phone to her ear.

"How's it going?" she said, kissing us all. "Bridge, how's it going with Mark? You must be really pleased to get a boyfriend at last. Is it heaven?"

"At last"—first jellyfish of the evening.

"Fine," I mumbled.

"So!" said Rebecca. "What are we all doing for Valentine's Day?"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"What are you doing?" said Shazzer aggressively.

"I think I might go away for a few days." My heart did a great big clunk down through my stomach.

"With Paul?" said Sharon, looking ill.

"God no. I've just got to get away from him, he's too all over me. He leaves messages all day, saying 'Hello, gorgeous girl, just longing to talk to you.' And he's planning all this embarrassing stuff for Saturday. I don't know what's wrong with me—I should be flattered, but. . ."

I trod sympathetically on Sharon's toe. Four months ago Rebecca kept going on about how she didn't fancy Paul but he really fancied Shazzer and claimed she was trying to fix them up. Shazzer got all excited but Paul just kept blowing her out for dates. Next thing Rebecca was going out with him.

"He's handsome, he's successful, he's funny, he's crazy about me," Rebecca went on. "So why aren't I in love with him?"

"I hear you met Mark the other night." It was out before I could stop myself.

"Oh yeah. God, aren't that Barky Thompson set hard work? If I were you I'd just be yourself, don't try to keep up with them. You're great just as you are."

As Shazzer said in the loos later, it wasn't so much a jellyfish as a Portuguese Man of War. First, she glossed over the Mark meeting suspiciously; second, she implied I was stupid; and third, she made it seem like Mark had said I was trying too hard with his friends. Unfortunately, Shazzer could not help me as too jellyfished herself. Why do we let Rebecca do this to us? Why? Why? By the time she had flicked a few tentacles at Jude—"I don't know why you call him Vile Richard, he's always really nice to me. . ."—we were all slumped staring into space, nursing our stings.

"Where are you thinking of going?" I managed at one point.

"I dunno, Paris maybe. . ." she began. "Or New York. . ."

Friday, February 13

1am Must keep everything in proportion, especially as we are practically at war with Iran.

5am Cannot bear it. Just when have found someone I love who loves me Rebecca is going to steal him.

7am Hurrah. Love mornings! Do not care about Rebecca or anything. Boys always forget Valentine's Day anyway.

7.05 Why am I love pariah? Why? What am I going to do on Saturday? Am going back to sleep.

9am Gaaah! Doorbell.

9.05am Was Federal Express envelope from America. Inside was card which said, "Have a bag (small) packed and be ready tomorrow at 9am. Markxxxx"

Hurrah!

9.06am Hope is not going to be threesome.

9st 1lb (vg); alcohol units, 3 (vg); calories, 4,285 (bad); Instants, 4 (but at least am over 16); minutes not containing obsessive thoughts about Mark Darcy and Rebecca, 0.

TOMORROW Mark and I have got to go to ghastly people-collecting restaurant dinner hosted by jellyfishing "friend" Rebecca. Whole thing rekindles pre-Valentine's day paranoia that Rebecca is cunningly trying to get off with Mark.

"She's never asked me to dinner with all her posh friends before, so why now?" I obsessed, as Tom wandered round my flat eating things.

"Because she's one of those silly bitches who has A-list and B-list friends," he said, cramming soggy cream crackers into his mouth. "So, on your own, you're just for when she's bored or been blown out, but now you've got a rich successful boyfriend, you're a social commodity. Oooh, did I tell you I'm doing up the flat?"

Love Tom. The lovely insulting social scenario was infinitely preferable to the Rebecca-pinches-boyfriend one.

"It's going to be essentially Morocco with a hint of Provence!" Tom was going on. "Did I tell you I've met a footballer? Hon, are you listening to me?"

"Do you think Mark likes Rebecca better than me?" I wailed, finishing off an old custard cream from down the back of the sofa.

"No! She's a stick insect, she's got no soul she's a—what do you call her—a seahorse?"

"Jellyfisher," I said, miserably. "But men are stupid and do not notice things like jellyfishing when thinness and prettiness are at large."

"I'm a man and I'm not that stupid," said Tom. "I can't believe you haven't got anything in the fridge except four pots of cottage cheese with a December 4 sell-by."

"Well, if you're not that stupid, why did you go out with Pretentious Jerome?" I hissed.

"Shut up," said Tom, tucking into—unbelievably—the cottage cheese. "Wait till you see my builder. He's just so divinely domineering."

"Is domineering good in a builder?" I asked, suddenly starting to think maybe I should do my flat up, too: minimalist, perhaps?

"Oh, I hate you when you're like this. I'm going to get a Thai takeway," said Tom, flouncing out. Honestly, sometimes gay friends are so fantastic you want to marry them, then sometimes you feel you already have and want to do domestic violence.

Thursday February 26

9am. Doom. It was so nice on Valentine's Day with Mark. Had not seen him all week as he was in New York, but had been instructed to be waiting with bag. Car arrived at noon and whisked me along M4 to posh hotel in manner of top businessman or soap star.

Reception staff were v. friendly, almost laughing with happiness as they looked at me, ushering me into grand lounge. Mark was looking v. sexy, but instead of kissing me, he said, in an over-calm manner, as if I were a lunatic standing on a car holding an axe in one hand and his wife's head in the other: "What have you got on your face?"

Turned out, while doing make-up in car had put dark-blue eyeshadow on cheeks instead of blusher. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone, but initially destroyed market confidence in Valentine's weekend. Things picked up in our room, though, when Mark gave me short red silk Valentine's slip. Was really much too tight, but Mark did not seem to mind.

"Did you see anyone you knew in New York," I said casually.

"Of course I did, darling," he said. "That's why I went to New York, to have meetings."

"You didn't bump into Rebecca, then?" I said, almost in a whisper.

"Who?" he said, stroking my back.

"Rebecca, that friend of mine you met."

"Oh, her. Right, no. Why—does she live over there or something?"

So reality is am quietly confident on Mark front, but not at all confident that Rebecca is not plotting.

Midnight. Ugh. Dinner party was from hell: here a theatre director, there a merchant banker, there an international hair stylist, all going blarblarblar.

"I have to say she's sad," Rebecca was cawing. "Unable to sustain a relationship, drowning her sorrows in drink carouselling with friends in the Caribbean."

Eventually could stand disrespect no longer. "Just because she's a Singleton," I exploded, lighting another Silk Cut, "everybody's so blurry patronising about her. Why's being married for 50 years to someone who has affairs and doesn't make you feel pretty any better? Why doesn't being good friends with your mates all your life qualify as lasting happiness?"

"Yes, I've always suspected you might be Princess Margaret's secret love child, Bridget," purred Rebecca. "Blood will out."

Mark squeezed my knee sympathetically as a man called Alan with a beard started up about the Millennium Dome.

"Yup, yup, the statue must be a woman," Rebecca said. "Yup."

Sat on hands to try not to say anything else, but it blurted out.

"No, they should have a man and a woman," I said. "Also, they cannot have a statue without sex organs because that is what all the schoolchildren will want to see."

"Yar, right, but what about the male organ," said the beardy Alan man.

"Well, what about the chalk man at Cerne Abbas? No one minds that. It could be new Millennium fertility symbol to stem the decline in sperm counts."

"But how would they demonstrate the male erection?"

"Well," I said, excitedly warming to my theme. "I think it should have seats inside so people could get in like that funfair ride which goes up and down and waves everyone around."

There was a cold silence round the table. Then I realised Mark was laughing. He put his arms round me and gave me a kiss.

"I think you're absolutely right, darling, and they should sack Peter Mandelson and have you instead. Come on, let's go home and continue this most interesting discussion."

Har-har, you should have seen Rebecca's face. Am major social commentator. Still do not really trust her, though. Hmmm.