Wednesday, September 30

9 st 2 (vg) alcohol units 5 cigarettes 15, calories 3,845 (bad but girls’ night in)

6.30pm  I am an assured, mature and responsive woman.  I am able to control my emotions, my impulses and my thoughts.

I am an assured, mature and accomplished woman.  I am able to control my emotions, my impulses and my thoughts.

Really want a fag.  Ooh goody, telephone.

6.55pm  Hurrah.  Jude and Sharon are coming round for telly!  Happy and do not mind that was not Mark, even though still has not called me back from yesterday.  Everything has changed for me since reading Emotional Confidence and Mars and Venus on a Date in conjunction.  What is good in life is when you keep learning and changing.  You see, there are five stages of dating—attraction, uncertainty, and...something else.  You have to control your emotions, impulses and thoughts so you do not fantasise yourself farther ahead than you are e.g. as when Shaz got asked out to dinner by the Indian anaesthetist and immediately started worrying about how she would cope with having mixed race children.

7.15pm  Why hasn’t Mark rung back?  Why?  The other day I said it was getting a bit cold and he pointed out maybe I should get the hold in the wall fixed.

(V. Man from Mars—immediately offering practical solution to problem.)

“Do you think I should just get it blocked up?” I said.

“No, no you should get the infill extension done then when you sell it it will be worth a lot more.”

7.16pm  “When you it”! “When you sell it”!!!  Maybe he is going to ask me to move in with him?!!!

7.18pm  The thing is, though, if we got married in Grafton Underwood where would we have the reception?

7.25pm  Maybe we could have a marquee but there isn’t really enough room on Mum and Dad’s lawn.  Gaah! Doorbell.  Jude and Shazzie and flat is terrible pigsty.

Midnight  Argor.

Thursday, October 1

7pm  V. interesting discussion last night.  Found selves watching programme with supermodels interviewed at weird angles by David Bailey about getting older.  Jean Shrimpton saying, “It isn’t fun”, Isabella Rosellini saying she was sad when she got dropped from Lancôme because she was in her forties, and a weird/beautiful older woman drawling: “You’re looking at a face full of silicone.”

“Bastards!” bellowed Shazzer, pouring a glass of Tesco Mâcon Villages straight down her throat.  “This whole programme is sexist, ageist, anti-women propaganda.”

“But Shaz, “ said Jude, mildly, flicking through a copy of October Vogue, “we’ve only seen three minutes of it.”

“Oh I can see what it’s about.” growled Shazzer in a gutteral, Henry Kissinger-type voice.  “How can they shove up all these women talking about getting into their forties—as if they’re dealing with the loss of all four limbs?”

“Well, they are supermodels,” said Jude.  “Appearance is what their entire life has been about.”

“ ‘Sexistential despair,” I said, through a mouthful of chicken satay.

“Shut up, Bridge,” said Shaz.  “It’s completely irresponsible not to offer an alternative line of thought.  Where, for example, is our very own Mo Mowlam?”

“She’s at the Labour Party conference and she isn’t a supermodel,” said Jude.

“Exactly,” snapped Shaz, coldly.  “Where is Madeleine Albright?”

“Lebanon?”

“But where is the counter-argument?  It’s a nightmare from the jaws of Beelzebub and all his sub-devils.  Turn it off.  What about character, wisdom, kindness, experience—the strengths women gather as they go older?  Why present a world where these things appear to count for nothing?”

“Well, to make you question it like you are,” said Jude.

“Maybe they’re going to do Mo Mowlam later.” I added.

“Yeah, right,” snarled Shaz.  “We women have to break out of this whole female sell-by-date nightmare or everyone’s lives are going to be ruined.”

“Shaz, you do overreact. It’s just a daft TV programme” said Jude.

“I agree with Shaz,” I said as she jumped up to snap the programme off.  “Our culture is too obsessed with appearance.  If you consider other religions such...”

“Such as?” said Jude.

“Well, I began thoughtfully.  “Buddhism or, self-help books.”

“Self-help books?  They’re not a religion.”

Looked worriedly from side to side.  Actually do consider self-help books a new form of religion.  As I tried to explain, is almost as if human beings are like streams of water sowhen an obstacle is in their way they find another path.

“Look.  You’re drunk,” said Sharon.

“No.  What I mean is if organised religion collapses in society then human beings immediately start trying to find another set of rules for living.  And actually if you look at self-help books they have a lot of ideas in common with other religions.”

“Yeah, right” sneered Shaz.  “You are a child of the universe...”

“They do!” I said.  “Positive thinking.  They have that even in Christianity. Faith HOPE and love! and um.”

Unfortunately the theory is not very well developed as yet.  But sure there is major consensus.  For example living in the moment, i.e. not fatasising.  Yes! Damn.  Why did not think of that last night? Hmm.  Am really going to study theory and that will show them.  Right, am going to meditate.  You see—that is another one.

Am an assured, responsive, positive, meditative...Cannot believe Mark still has not rung.  How am I supposed to be responsive if phone does not ring?

7.30pm  Hah!  After a few minutes of calm meditation phone itself responded to meditative vibes and rang bearing forth Mark.

“Sweetheart! I’m so sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been completely up to my eyeballs with the yen and just fell into bed when I got in.  It would be so much easier if you lived here.  I mean this is what you get with financial globalisation.  Didn’t I say that?  We’re looking for another Wall Street crash, I’m telling you.”

Yessss! “So much easier if you lived here!”

Maybe Una and Geoffrey would let us put a marquee on their lawn.

8 st 11 (yessss!) alcohol units 4 (vg) cigarettes 17 (poor) calories 4,825 (better)

Got into work to find Richard Finch in a foul mood; petulant, obsessively chainsmoking whilst chewing Nicorette gum.  The channel controller had turned down his proposal to replace the Breakfast News with live “warts and all” coverage of the Sit Up Britain team’s morning meeting.  Considering yesterday’s morning “meeting” was an argument about which of our presenters was going to cover the lead story about which presenters were going to be presenting the BBC and TV news, I don’t think it would have been a very interesting programme; but Richard was really pissed off about it.

“Do you know what’s the trouble with the news?” he was saying, taking his gum out of his mouth and flinging it in the vague direction of the bin.  “It’s boring.  Boring, boring, bloody boring.”

“Boring?’ I said.  “But it’s the Conservative Party conference!”

“My God,” he said whipping off his Chris Evans-type glasses.  “the Conservative Party conference?” Is it really? Everyone! Gather round.  Bridget’s got a scoop.”

“And we’re about to invade Kosovo,” I said coldly, ignoring his insulting sarcasm.

“We are not invading anyone, my darling.”

“And President Clinton’s about to be impeached.”

“Oh wake up and smell the de-caf cap,” whined Patchouli “So he splashed out on a dress—so? It’s just so, like five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Richard, with mounting excitement.  “People don’t want dead Albanians in headscarves, they want people.  I’m thinking Nationwide.  I’m thinking Frank Bough.  I’m thinking skateboarding ducks.”

My phone rang.

“Bridget have you got a min, min, mini-bombom bom?” Was my Dad.  Oh dear.  I’ve been a bit worried about Dad since I went to Una and Geoffrey’s Olde English Supper last week.  When I arrived he was standing with an elderly couple I didn’t recognise.

“Ah Now! This is my daughter Bridget,” he said to the couple, “And this is,” he turned to Penny Husbands Bosworth and a strange look came into his eye.  “My dear.  I’ve known you for 40 years and I’ve completely forgotten your name.  Does anyone want a glass of wine, wine glug, glug, degluweinwein?”

Ten minutes later he asked me if I wanted a tom, tom tomtepompomtomato.  Which was, ina  way a charmingly idiosyncratic figure of speech, but not one I’d ever heard him use before.

“Ooops.  Here’s your mum, mum, mumdebumbottomdooda,” he said, at which Mum burst on the phone like a display of meteorites.

“Oh hello, darling guess what?”

“What?” I said resignedly, glancing back at the meeting.

“I’ve got you a scoop! Archie Garside—you know—who used to be deputy spokesman on the governors.  He’s doing a sponsored parachute jump for the Rotary tomorrow and he’s 91. A 91-year-old parachute jumper! Imagine!”

After I’d put down the phone I set off towards Richard Finch with a cunning smirk playing about my lips.

Thursday 8 October

9am  Hurrah! Am completely back in Richard Finch’s good books and am going off to film a parachute jump.  Though not to direct it.  Humph.  Why aren’t I allowed to direct things?  Why?

9pm  Had forgotten what an intrusive nightmare from Beelzebub and all his sub devils TV crews are when allowed to interact with real life world.  When we arrived at the airfield Archie Garside was being photographed by the local paper wearing a wartime leather jacket and flying helmet with goggles.  He looked sprightly enough but worryingly, well, ancient.

“Are you sure this is going to be good for you?” I said, as I asked him to sign the release form.  “No problem my lovely , done it before”! he said biffing me playfully on the shoulder.  “I’ve got the physique of three 30-year-olds.”

The plane was terrifying, the crew and director yelling at Archie over the roar of the engines and a great gaping hole out to the world below, where Archie was perched staring worrriedly down like a frightened bird.  The crew, having exhausted their range of incidental shots were beginning to get fidgety.  Greg, the director, leant forward and yelled in Archie’s ear: “Ready to go, matey?”

“In a minute,” yelled Archie, defensively.  “I’m looking for a soft bit.”

Five minutes later the bird-like tableau was unaltered.

The cameraman was jerking his head aggressively at Greg.  “Come on mate, we’re losing the light.”

“OK, OK, like OK, right?” said Greg huffily, then crouched down next to Archie again.

“Ok, Archie? How ya doin’?” he said with ghastly false bonhomie.  “Ready when you are!”  Archie still stared nervously downwards and Greg retreated, muttering into his radio.

Five minutes later the cameraman starting to lose it with Greg.  “This is bloody ridiculous.  Just get him out of there.  We’ve got four minutes and that’s it.”

“You can’t make him jump if he’s not happy,” I said, horrified.

“Well what’s he waiting for?  He wanted to be on television.”

Greg crouched down again and bellowed in Archie’s ear, “We’re losing the light!”, as if that was going to mean anything to him.  “What about those ploughed field over there? They’ll be nice and soft won’t they?  Yeah lovely, come on, off we got then! Turn over!!”

The crew swung bullyingly into action and a terrified looking Archie gave a glance over his shoulder and jumped.  I watched as the parachute opened and the tiny figure swung down towards the field.  The landing seemed fine, the parachute spread beautifully over the field.  The only trouble was, there was no sign of Archie.

Frantic radio conversations ensued as the hatch was closed and the plane swung back to the airfield.  When we landed, the place was swarming with people, ambulances and panic.  The first person I saw striding towards me was my Dad.

“Is he all right?” I said rushing towards him.

“Well yes, I think probibombomprobablyprob,” he said.  “The only probibombom was it wasn’t a field he jumped into it was a soo soo sewerage works.”

8st 12 (vg) cigarettes 7 (vg) minutes spent worrying about the fate of the House of Lords 287 (v vg)

10am  Office.  Got in to find Sit Up Britain morning meeting—with freakish over punctuality—had already begun.

“Ah Bridget,” said Richard Finch sadistically.  “Nice you turned up.  House of Lords.  We breathlessly await your views.  Is that a bit of sewage on your chin?”

Grr.  Ever since my geriatric parachute jumper was forced to jump on to what he thought was a ploughed field and ended up to his neck in sewage, I have realised what an exploitative medium television really is.  Finch considered the item a triumph, the studio presenters falling about at shots of the frail old gentleman dripping with human effluent.  Was livid till visited him and found him over-excited by calls from local papers and fundraising events and asking if 15 per cent was too much of a cut for an agent/manager.

“Come on dolly droopy jaws.  What’s it to be: stand up for our heritage?  Lose the senile old gitfaces?”

“I am not going to give my opinion until I have carefully thought it through,” I said, hoity toitily wiping the traces of chocolate croissant off my mouth.  “There is too much ill-considered comment bandied around in the media.”

Hmm.  Obviously the sewage incident has done marvellous things for my professional standing.  House of Lords is, after all, a lead political item, and Finchie has given me 10 minutes to think up an opinion.

10.10am  Right.  This is my opinion.  The House of Lords is quite a good idea because it is not right that the country should only be run by politicians: since the sort of people who would decide to be a politician are not necessarily the people you would want to run the country.  Also too busy being politicians to understand other things.  But also it is not good if the House of Lords is just full of...Gaaaaah!

Appears am doing an item about the relative merits of sleeping with your husband or children.

7pm  Going to nightmare dinner party at over-furnished home of Mark’s colleague Nigel, but at least now have developed House of Lords theory sufficiently to sparkle in conversation.

Midnight  Evening got off to poor start when found self chatting to succulent, dark, very young girl whose surname was Bonowski.

“I had a tutor at Bangor called Mrs Bonowski!” I said.

“That must be my mother!” she said delightedly.  “I’ll ask if she remembers you!”

Stared at her, mind recoiling at hideous tutorial flashback.

“Mrs Bonowski used to breat-feed a baby in my tutorials,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.  “Would that by any chance...?”

“Oh God!” she shrieked, turning to the assembled company.  “It must have been me! Mum used to break-feed me in Bridget’s tutorials!”

Sat down to dinner, determined to overcome existential despair-style image débâcle by impressing assembled company with virtues of bespoke furnished mind of mature woman.

“What do you think about the House of Lords?” I said brightly to Mark.  A fleeting look of panic flashed across his face, as Nigel said, strangely, gleefully: “What do you think, Bridget?”

“Well, I began. “I definitely think they need more different kinds of people in it apart from the aristocracy, like Richard Rogers is definitely a good idea.”

“Christ alive, it’s just going to end up like one of Tony Blair’s drinks parties,” growled Mark.  “They’ll be Damon from Blur, Posh Spice and Grant from EastEnders impeding the progress of the UN’s invasion of Kosovo.”

“No, no, they should be elected.” I said eagerly.  “Think of the wise experience people from all walks of life we could have—like John Cole off the BBC and...”

“And?...” said Nigel.

“...and football managers and Helena Kennedy.”

“Already is one,” said Nigel.

“Well, any of the Lords who’ve been any good and, you know, charity chiefs and businesswomen, Princess Anne and Nelson Mandela.” (F---, why did I say him?)

“I think we might have to exclude foreign heads of state,” said Mark, dryly.  “How would these wise experienced people be elected?”

“With a clapometer perhaps?” said Nigel.  “In a special 15-minute slot before Blind Date?”

“It’s a good idea,” I insisted.  “A lot of people they’ve already picked are good, but it’s not right that people are running our land whom we have no say in.”

“If you put it out to the public we‘d end up with any popular celebrity who’s shown a perfunctorily passing interest in causes, or claims to have a handle on how ordinary people think because they’ve been ‘Been to Hell and back’ like Fergie,” said Mark.

“Oh exactly.  Hull.  Bloody nightmare, grimy and reeks of fish,” slurred Nigel’s new blonde girlfriend who was already dazzlingly drunk.

“It’s be like the cast of Spitting Image,” said Nigel.  “There’d be McCartney, Caine, Jagger...”

“All with country estates, passing on their celebrity to their offspring...We’d be back where we started.”

Suddenly a terrifying American girl with a sticky-outy scarf thrust a piece of paper under my nose.

“Write down 10 slobbedies,” she ordered.

“Ten slobbedies,” she said coldly, handing out paper.

As everybody obediently started writing, seemed as if world had turned into strange land of Mr Blobby or Bill or Ben.  “Would that be slobbedies with blopplebloobums?”

“Celebrities,” hissed Mark.

“Ten slobbedies you think should be in the House of Lords, said the American girl, “and then we’ll have a voad.”

This were the 10 who were chosen: Stephen Hawking, Jeremy Paxman, Germaine Greer, Gary Lineker, Emma Thompson, Michael Buerk, Alan Bennett, Princess Anne, Judy from the Richard and Judy Show and Des O’Connor.

Am definitely going to do top lead item on same tomorrow.

9st (vg) cigarettes 16, alcohol units 5 (pressure of not being smug married, obviously) husbands 0 (non ideal according to government while respecting right to make own intimate decisions)

9.30am, Sit up Britain office

“OK you lot...”  It was Richard Finch bursting into the office with a pile of boring-looking documents under his arm.  “We’re doing the Government’s Green Paper on the family.  How many of you are married?”

Everyone stared sheepishly at the table.  “So it’s just me is it?” he said.  “Just me who’s holding together the tattered shreds of the fabric of British society?”

Everyone tried not to look at Saskia, the researcher Richard had been shagging all summer till he abruptly lost interest and started on the sandwich girl.

“Mind you, I’m not surprised,” he went on.  “Who’d marry any of you? You’re incapable of committing to fetching the cappuccinos let alone to one person for the rest of your lives.”

Upshot of it is, have been given Green Paper to read, already plainly fraudulent as not green.  Apparently the Government wants views on how to get everybody to be Smug Marrieds.

10am  Green Paper in inner turmoil; going on about how is not Government’s business to interfere in people’s intimate lives, at same time giant official version of Geoffrey and Una Alconbury, Magda and Jeremy etc: going “Why aren’t you married?”

10.30am  Hmmm. Recurring idea is to give people relationship counselling at every turn but when Magda and Jeremy went to counselling about his infidelity, Jeremy just spent the whole time flirting with the relationship counsellor woman so she just agreed with everything he said and Magda walked out.  Also when Jude tried to get Vile Richard to go because of his commitment problem, he stood her up.

11am  Wonder if it has occured to Government that simple bribery might be the answer?  Mind you, would not find it particularly romantic if Mark Darcy went down on one knee and said, “Darling, I’ve been looking at my tax break situation and...”

Noon  Goody.  These are my opinions as follows.

1. Is no point Government trying to get everyone to be Smug Marrieds unless they understand why people are Singletons, e.g.

a) Last time went round to Magda’s she was really hacked off because sick of having given up career to look after two children all day who can’t speak English language yet.  When Jeremy gets home exhausted at 8, she is exhausted too but he just sits in front of the telly and won’t even load dishwasher, in hideous 19th-century gender-role throwback (apart from telly and dishwasher).  Also, she thinks if she went back to work he still wouldn’t load it.

b) If look at celebrity Smug Marrieds: President Clinton, Liam Gallagher, Royal Family, Ron Davies etc is not very good advertisement for getting married.  At same time car adverts, movies etc present unrealistic romantic Happy-Ever-After-with V.Good-Looking-Prince-Charming-Person ideal.  Not much in-between to aspire to so safer, surely, to just be Singleton with unrealistic dreams.

c) Whole old male/female dynamic disrupted by girls’ economic power.  Marriage no logner necessary economic arrangement for comfortable life so girls looking for something more sexily romantic, yet supportively wife-life from a man.  Meanwhile men going mental as still think are bread-winning cave-men and want loving silken creature to load dishwasher at end of busy day.

d) Commitment phobia epidemic due to eclectic rule-free culture.  Vile Richard and Jude classic examples.  Vile Richard constantly changing jobs, world views etc.  Only consistent belief is own right to be happy.  Rights bring duties so whenever Jude gets on his nerves he thinks it’s his duty to chuck her.  Meanwhile Jude goes out with Vile Richard as secretly likes independence and knows does not have to commit to Vile Richard as commitment phobic.

e) Once people have divorced, or left getting married till grown up with series or relationships behind selves, everyone confused, men and women second-guessing each other behind complex defensive structures like opposing armies.

f) Singleton life blurry good fun, really.  Are free as a bird, can just do thinks when want to, e.g. lying in bed on Sunday mornings fantasising about romantic marriage instead of having to feed egg into other people.  Not always talking re: potties, schools, nannies etc but re: boys relationships, fuckwits etc.  Always possibility of thrilling new liaisons without being slyly adulterous.  Never know what’s  round corner (if nothing else—shop with Chardonnay in).

g) Instead of nuclear family, have fantastic Singleton Urban family of varied friends who don’t live in same house so don’t annoy with domestic habits, don’t have mad expectations of self and support self over phone, e-mail etc at all times of day and night.  And if get fed up of same just back-off for few weeks, no need for bitter divorce, counselling, etc.  There.  Once Government have taken these matters on board, propose following Smug Marriage promotional suggestions.

1) Teach Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus in schools so both sides of opposing armies understand each other.

2) Teach all boy-children that sharing the housework doesn’t mean twiddling fork under the tap.

3) Form giant Government Matchmaking Agency for Singletons, with strict Code of Dating Practice, Mate-seekers Allowance for drinks, phone-calls, cosmetics etc and rule that you have to go on at least 12 government-arranged dates before you can declare yourself a Singleton; and only then if have reasonable grounds for rejecting all 12.  If unreasonable, then have to declare self a fuckwit.

4) Produce propaganda adverts contrasting rosy Smug Marriage with terrifying-anti-heroin-esque campaign of horror images of Singleton life: cowering neurotics sitting in semi-darkness dialling 1471, lying dead on kitchen floor being gnawed at by alsatians and...actually, think might be better for government just to shut up and let everyone get on with it.

Tom popped into the coffee bar this morning on his way to work.

“Darling!” he shrieked, making the assembled hungover breakfasters flinch. “You’ve lost so much weight! And guess what? I’ve bought you a new self-help book.”

He flipped a tiny red book on to the table, grabbed his take-away cappuccino, fluttered his eyelashes at a startled-looking businessman and clattered off.  Book is similar to Little Book of Calm, but called Little Book of Stress.  Interesting, freeing new philosophy, whole idea being: instead of trying to be good and better, simply try to be bad and worse. e.g: “If at first you don’t succeed, it must be somebody else’s fault.  Find them, blame them, make them pay.”

“Recognise your limitations.  Then ignore them.”

“The Three ‘P’s—Patronise, Patronise, Patronise.”

There are rules for every area: love...

“Constantly choose the wrong partner.  Always turn to the same friend for support when things go wrong” (have tried that one.  Is indeed v. stressful).

“Make a list of all the people you’ve ever dumped.  Contact them once a year and try to restart the relationship.”

...emotional life:

“Never cry.  It is far better to bottle up your unhappiness inside you where it can grow like a giant fungus deep within a rotting tree stump.”

7pm  Hugely enjoying the new book.  Wonder why find it so liberating?  Maybe it is because spend so much effort trying to do things right, then suddenly think, why? Why? What would happen if just said, sod it and were bad?  Bridget Black Bitch the Devil’s Own...Oooh, doorbell.

Midnight  Was Mark, post-work exhausted.  “Hi love,” he said, giving me a perfunctory kiss before flinging himself on the sofa.  “God, I’ve had such a day.  I thought I’d just pop round for a spot of nurture before I play squash with Giles.”

He looked up expectantly.   Normally by now, would have poured him a glass of wine and curled up beside him, asking him to tell me all about it.  Thing is, though, I am not allowed to turn up unexpectedly at his house when have had a bad day so...The three ‘P’s popped into my head—“Patronise, patronise, patronise”.

“It’s been a nightmare,” he was going on.

“Yes, it must be awful being in a job you’re not up to.”

It was out before I had time to think.  I stared at Mark, waiting for him to walk out of the flat or chuck me.

Instead, he glanced up with a surprised, slightly amused expression.

“I suppose I am being a bit of a whinger,” he said.  “Shall I blow out Giles for Squash and take you to a movie?”

Was about to tell him he couldn’t do such a thing to a friend, and also that I was supposed to be going to see the Truman Show with Jude.  But then I remembered: “Come to terms with the undeniable truth that a friend is only an enemy you haven’t upset yet.”

“Okay,” I said, glinting evilly.  “Fine.”

“You really should fix that hole in the wall,” said Mark, staring at the flapping polythene over the uncompleted in-fill extension.

No matter how often I call Gary the Builder, patiently remind him that I’ve paid half the money, and ask him to come and complete the task, he never turns up.

I flick surreptitiously through the Stress book.

“Recognise other peoples limitations,” it said, “then tell them what they are.  Always have the last word.  Make sure that word is dickhead.”  I dialled Gary’s number.

“It’s Bridget,” I said.  “You’re a lying cheating manipulative idle dickhead,” and I banged down the phone.

During the movie, I tried to follow the book’s instructions to sit near other people, then talk loudly, but unfortunately the guy in front had got there first and kept bellowing: “The ending’s crap.  This bit’s okay, but the ending’s crap.”  Fortunately, however, my mobile rang.

“Hi,” I said loudly, at which the guy turned round and glared.

“It’s Jude.  I’m really sorry I blew you out tonight.  I got caught in a row with Vile Richard and didn’t notice the time.”

Stopped myself in the nick of time from fessing up and replied: “The trouble with you, Jude, is you’re neurotically self-obsessed, unreliable and a complete...dickhead!” I beamed at the guy in front.

“Will you shut up?” he yelled.

“You started it, dickhead!” I shot back.  After that he was quiet as a mouse.  Hah!

When got home, instead of going through ritual of giving Mark camomile tea to help with his sleeping problem, I made us both a double espresso and jumped into bed with pen and paper.

“What are you doing?” said Mark, looking at me oddly.

“I’m making a list of all my worries,” I said.  “Then I’m going to read them all out before we go to sleep.”

Had just got to number 32: “I’m worried that the notion that good is better than evil may be a giant philosophical mistake”, when noticed Mark was sleeping like a baby.  Feel a bit sleepy, self, to be honest.

Thursday, November 12

9am  Blimey.  Gary the Builder arrived at 7am and new exterior wall is already two bricks high.  Was about to praise Gary and offer him tea, but then remembered, “Forgiving is a sign of weakness.  People will despise you for it.”  Instead, I said: “Can’t you do it faster?” and now am going to go out and buy some fruit, put it in a bowl and let it rot over the next few weeks, which will, apparently, make me feel bad because—

1) I’ll be wasting money.

2) I’ll be failing at something that’s good for me.

Hurrah! Bad is good.  Am going to carry on like this now, and see what happens.

8st 13lb (hurrah, fat consumed by evil), cigarettes: 15 (must smoke more); good things done: 0 (excellent); bad: 4 (g).

7pm  Hurrah! Evil is the new good.  since reading new self-help book Little Book of Stress,k advocating striving to behave worse rather than better, have never felt so liberated from straitjacket of good behaviour.  Fascinating thing is, own research is proving that, when you behave according to the New Evil, people are nicer to you.  Gary the Builder, for example, has turned into a model of good working practice.  Apart from threatening legal action, I have told him I am not making him any more tea and he must bring a flask, which is great, because it means no more singleton guilt about the milk being off and meangless tea-drinking conversations about coarse fishing on a pond near Hendon.  Pom,, pom, pom.  Bad, bad, bad.  How bad can I be?

7.15pm  Think will ring up ex-nightmare boyfriend Daniel and pretend I want to re-start the relationship.  Or maybe will leave a message on Mark’s answering machine and pretend to be pregnant.  Lie.  About everything.  All the time. Hah! Telephone.

7.30pm  Was Mark.

“Hey, I called you last night and you were out.  Where were you?”

If I asked him that question, he’d say I was getting clingy.  Truth was, I was out with Jude and Shazzer, but the important thing about a made-up lie is it must be worse than the truth.

“I went out with Daniel.”

“Daniel!” exploded Mark.  “You went out with Daniel? What for? Where to? Why?”

Could not quite manage embellishments to the lovely lie so soon after inventing it, so I merely declared: “I went out to dinner with Daniel.  I didn’t ‘go out’ with Daniel like you ‘went out’ with Rebecca.”

(Try to replace lovemaking with arguments, says the book.  If you find your arguments getting a little routine, try spicing things up by arguing in unusual locations.)

There was a pause.  “Fair point,” he said eventually. “Maybe I’ve been neglecting you lately.”

This was completely extraordinary.  He hasn’t been neglecting me lately at all!  “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Thank you,” I said.  “That would be lovely.  Will you pick me up about 8?”

Was I being too nice?

Wednesday, November 18

9am  New Evil wave crest has crashed.  Am awake and uncertain.  Spent dinner frowning, being surly and uncommunicative as possible, with the result that Mark was more playful, flirtatious and attentive than he’s ever been.  This was all very well, but it made me feel disgusting and manipulative inside.  Maybe being bad makes people nicer to you, but then they feel nicer about themselves and you feel...Gaah.  Doorbell.  Must get out of this anti-evil frame of mind and resume horribleness to Gary the Builder, while remaining depressed by remembering that every cloud doesn’t have a silver lining, it has a lead lining which will drink into our reservoirs and poison all our water.

7pm  Have arrived home, shaken at sight of new Oxford Street Christmas lights: giant illuminated signs of the Birds’ Eye logo.  This is taking bad-is-good philosophy too far, surely.  On top of that, was message from Mum saying:

“Oh hello, darling, I was just ringing to see what day you’re coming home for Christmas.  It’s on a Friday this year, so Una and I thought you’d probably want to come the Friday before.  And we wondered if you’d like one of those big revolving plates with compartments in, to serve your Chinese take-aways.”

Hmm.  Christmas.  I could, for example, just not turn up.  Or give everyone videos of German porn.  I could slump, drunk across the turkey, going: “You’ve ruined my life, you f------ bitch” at Mum, I could...oooh doorbell.

It was Jude.  In floods of tears. “Oh God, Jude, not Vile Richard again...” I began, when Jude shot be a vicious look through her tears.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “You’ve turned into a complete monster.  All the things that were nice about you have gone and you just boast about how you’ve got everyone to do what you want by being horrible and...and...”

“What?”

“I’ve got a lump,” she said.  “On my breast.”

10pm  Jude only found the lump this morning.  Apparently she went to a sadistic doctor, who prodded it and said: “Well, it could just be a cyst, but frankly I can’t tell if it’s cancer or not.”  She’s got to have a scan next Tuesday and get through not knowing till then.  Vile Richard is not being very nice about it and her mother is obsessed with the fact that, because she got stung on the same breast by a jellyfish in Corfu in September, it must be something to do with that.  Like a giant jellyfish egg.  Now Jude is asleep in my bed.  We spent the evening going through all her books about it and it does seem maybe it’s just a cyst, because it’s squashy, and she seems a bit calmer and is going to stay here.

Feel very ashamed of whole bad-is-good flight of fantasy.  And yet there were some things about it that did seem to work....Think will ring Mark.

11pm  Mark was very concerned about Jude and agreed I should drop everything and take Tuesday off to go to the hospital.  I confessed to him about the whole Little Book of Stress philosophical interlude.  At first he thought it was funny, then he said: “The thing is, Bridge, you didn’t actually do anything very bad.  The reason it worked was you just stopped worrying so much about getting everything right and put your foot down a bit.  That’s not bad.  It’s just normal.”

Understand now.  Bad is the new good in parts.  But maybe best reserved for Gary the Builder and Mother.

8st 11lb; alcohol units: 4; cigarettes: 0 (vg) calories: 3,824

By 10am Jude had lost patience with the five-day NHS wait till she could find out whether her breast lump was malignant and ended up rasping her credit card number down the phone to a private hospital like Joan Crawford, yelling: “I want a scan and I want it now.”

“I’ve never felt more like my most treasured sexual accoutrements were scrawny bags of M&Ms,” said Jude, as I met her afterwards in a depressing sandwich bar.  “Squashed between tin plates like 2lbs of tripe.”  She took out a Silk Cut and started to light up.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” she said sheepishly, putting the cigarettes away.

“So what did they say?”

“They said it’s just a harmless cyst and, if I leave it, it’ll probably go away, but I have to make a decision whether to keep it or have it taken out.  Also there just might be something underneath it.  Oh God, I’ve got to have a fag.”

9pm  Realise Jude is in crisis, but she is starting to drive me round the bend.  She’s been walking round the flat for two hours going: “Maybe it’s more natural and less invasive to let it drain away.  But the thing is, if I don’t have it taken away, how will I ever know? I hate the thought of surgery, but what if they’ve made a mistake.  Maybe I could make them draw a line where they were going to do it under my Wonderbra.  Or maybe there’s a holistic remedy.  I think there’s someone up in Newcastle who makes you just eat carrots.”

Clearly the scenario is not a healing one.  Maybe it is better to get Jude out of the house and distract her.  Maybe we should go shopping tomorrow.

Saturday, November 21

Shopping, which was hopeless disaster.  Walked into Fenwicks to find lingerie department immediately facing us, at which Jude burst into tears and we had to go back home.  Mark got a doctor friend to call up Jude and he said she should definitely keep the NHS appointment on Tuesday, which just set her off worrying again.

Have decided the best thing is to get Jude right out of London.  We are going to Mum and Dad’s for lunch tomorrow, where she can completely relax.

Sunday, November 22

Walked into Mum’s kitchen to find her in bossy, bustling mode.

“Oh, hello, girls.  I’m just playing the answer-phone back.”

Jude sat down exhausted while the answer-phone boomed out.

“Hello, Pam! Margo! On the scrounge! Have you got a six-inch Swiss roll tin I can borrow?”

“Pam, it’s Una.  You know that chap who lives up round the corner from the garage.  Well, he’s committed suicide because of the noise from the clay pigeon shooting.  Oh, by the way, can I put a couple of dozen mince pies in your freezer?”

“Eileen here, Pam! Bill’s trying to get the council to skim his drive, because they didn’t grate the top off it and that’s why they’ve got potholes, so will you tell them the water used to run down from your drive until they put the grate in?”

As Jude stared wildly round at all exits, I marvelled at the different worlds that would be revealed by playing back people’s entire answer-phone tapes.  Maybe someone should do it as an installation at the Saatchi Gallery.

“Now, what can I get you?” Mum was saying gaily to Jude.  “Bit of poached salmon?”—it was 11am—“There’s pavlova in the fridge if you fancy it.   Now, what are we going to do about this tin?”

She clattered about in the cupboards, then dialled a number.  “Margo. Pam.  I’ve got a sponge ring tin if that’s any good.  Well, can’t you use a Yorkshire pudding tin and just line the bottom with a bit of greaseproof paper?”

“Er...Mum, I said worriedly, looking at Jude.

“Hello, hello bomdibombom,” said Dad pottering into the kitchen, “Does anybody know the postcode for Barton Seagrave? Do you think it’s KT4 HS or L?  Ooh, hello, Jude.  Where are you living these days, Jude doodidomdidomdom?”

Shared at Dad in horror.  In the space of a few weeks he seems to have gone from a dry, long-suffering, retired gentleman to a potty old man.

“Hello, Mr Jones,” managed Jude, weakly.  “Queen’s Park.”

“Ah, Queen’s Park, now is that NW6 or NW19?  Actually I think KT4 U is north Kettering tingtetootoo.”

“Colin, will you tip that oil out of the chip-pan,” said Mum.  “Geoffrey says, when you’ve brought it up to a high temperature 10 times, it should be thrown away.”

Eventually managed to get Jude out of the kitchen and into the village, at which she slumped against a wall, shaking violently and saying: “Take me home.”

Tuesday, November 24

Hospital. Waiting for Jude.  Complete mental turmoil—what if she has it taken out, and the surgery goes wrong, like that man with a gangrenous penis, or what if she leaves it and it grows bigger and bigger till they can’t take it out, and it ends up like those men in India with enormous deformed testicles which they have to push in front of them in a wheelbarrow, or what if...

Though process was interrupted by emergence of Jude, reeling, eyes pointing all over her head.

“Oh God, oh God,” she said.  “I was just lying there when this bloke came in and started poking and squeezing my bosom without so much as a ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘have you come far?’ Next thing, he takes this giant needle and plunges it right into me, like Pulp Fiction.”

“So...what?” I said.  “What does he think you should do?”

“It’s done,” she said. “That was it.  He drained it away.  It’s gone.”

9st 1lb; cigarettes 12; alcohol units 5 (slow training burn towards Christmas); eiderdowns 0; puppies 0; pre-pubescent model’s daughters 0 (bad, very bad).

7pm  Calmly determined, this year, not to engage with traffic-choked, hysterical London festive panic but to re-plan, relax and enjoy. Tonight, for example am going to relaxedly read festive Vogue in front of fire.

7.15pm  Attracted yet massively undermined by Vogue world-of-Christmas.  Realise own fashion look and gift ideas grimly outdated and ought to be cycling wearing slippy Dosa petticoat with eiderdown on top and puppy slung over shoulder, posing at parties with pre-pubescent model daughter and planning to buy friends cashmere hot water bottle covers, silver flashlights from Asprey, fragrant stuff to put in laundry instead of stench from service wash and something called a pashmina which do not know what it is—with Christmas lights reflecting sparklingly off teeth.

Am not going to take any notice.  Just imagine if Pompeii-style volcano erupted south of Slough, and everyone was preserved in stone on bicycles wearing puppies, eiderdowns and daughters, future generations would come and laugh at spiritual emptiness of it.  Also reject mindless luxury gifts which say more about showy-offiness of giver than thought for receiver.

7.30pm  Still feel should know what pashmina is, though.

7.35  Pom, pom, pom. Bored, now.

Christmas gift list: Mum: cashmere hot water bottle cover; Dad: cashmere hot water bottle cover...

Hmm. Think will call Sharon and casually mention pashmina.

7.45pm  Called Sharon and got strange noise.

“Shaz?” I said.  Technology so mad now that could be anything: e-mail got on to wrong wire etc. etc.

Noise was sob.

“Bloody Christmas,” she got out eventually.  “It’s just been an entire year of emotional f---ups, and...”

Grr.  Singleton Torture Season.  If Jesus had known how much heartache his birthday was going to cause Singletons, surely he would have shut up about same, especially being Singleton self.  Even he would not have wanted to be made to feel constant outcast and fool for not being in nuclear family, forced to sleep on family floor in sleeping bag and “talk nicely” to perverts with word uncle before name while they stare at breasts (even though man, so no breasts).

“I’m so confused,” Shazzie sobbed.

“What about?” I said sympathetically, wondering when would be right moment to bring up the word “pashmina” and suspecting this was not it.

“Simon,” she said eventually.

The thing about Sharon is, she never actually goes out with anyone, but exists in a world of quasi relationships with variable numbers of different men performing different functions: a lover who lives with someone else; an impossibly glamorous unattainable person who sort of loves her but not enough; some guy who’s obsessed with her and takes her out but she doesn’t fancy; and then Simon who is the classic platonic friend who behaves exactly like a boyfriend except that they’re not sleeping together and whenever they go to a party he goes off and sleeps with someone else.

Have fixed summit in 192 with Tom, Shaz and Jude.

9pm  Thought-provoking discussion v. pertinent to modern Urban Family.

“There’s no such thing as platonic friendship,” Tom was pronouncing.

“Of course there blurry is,” slurred Jude.  “You jus obsessed with sex.”

“No, no,” said Tom.  “All friendships between men and women are based on variations of the sexual dynamic.  The mistake people make is ignoring this and saying they’re ‘friends’ then getting upset when it doesn’t deliver what they expect.”

“I’m not getting upset,” said Sharon sulkily, slumped with coat pulled around her and mascara smeared all over her face.

“What about friends when neither fancies the other?” said Jude.

“Doesn’t happen.  The passion, whatever the strength or weakness or dynamic, is what drives the friendship and makes it more than casual acquaintance.  But ‘friends’ is a bad definition.  There should be more precise names for the different situations so everyone knows what they’re dealing with...

Pashmina,” I slurred, slurping on my chardonnay.

“That’s it!” said Tom excitedly.  “Shazzer is Simon’s ‘pashmina’ because she’s got more of a pash for him than him for her so he undermines her.” At this, Sharon burst into tears, which took 20 minutes to sort out until we could come up with the list of definitions, as follows:

Pasmina:  a friend who wants to shag you and go out with you and feels diminished because you don’t feel same.  Pashminas boost your ego.

Pashmaster:  a friend who you want to shag and go out with but has the upper hand because they don’t feel the same.  Pashmasters boost their own ego at your expense.

Pash married:  a friend who you used to go out with and is now married with children who likes having you around as memory of old life.

Ex-pashspurt:  an ex-partner wants to get back with you but pretends just to want to be friends then keeps making passes.

Ex-pashspurn:  an ex-partner who you are trying to get back with under the guise of friendship who keeps subtly disappointing you.

“What about ‘pash-hurts’?” said Shaz, sulkily.  “Friends who turn your own private emotional disaster into a sociological study at the expense of your feelings?"

10pm  Oh my God.  Mark just called.  Told him about pashmina conversation at which he went quiet.

“What? What?” I said.

“It’s just strangely prophetic.” he said.  “With Christmas coming round again, I’ve been thinking...look this is not going anywhere, Bridget.  I think it might be better if we were just friends.”

Cannot believe it.  Am cast out again on sea of singleton Torture Season at mercy of pashminas and Gaah! phone again.

“Just kidding.” (Was Mark.) “Can I come round?”

Humph. I suppose he thinks that is funny.

9st 1lb; cards sent: 0; cards received: 4 (BUT all from paperboy); presents bought: 0; but all on cusp of change.

4pm  Really on top of Christmas.  Tomorrow Mark and I are going to get all shopping done in one fell swoop, then come back to my place for festive evening in manner of Christmas advert.  Must care for Mark as Xmas shopping proved by surveys to be too stressful for men.  Think will leave work early, order Christmas tree on way home, get it delivered, then decorate it, so Mark will unexpectedly enter into Christmas casbah.  Hurrah!

7pm  As tree men staggered upstairs, feared may have underestimated largeness of tree, especially when terrifyingly filled entire doorway, then burst through, branches flapping like invasion of Macduff in woods of Dunsinane.  A spray of soil and two youths followed, going: “It’s a f---ing big’un, where do you wan’ it?”

“By the fire,” I said. Unfortunately, however, tree would no way fit, some branches poking into flames, others forced up vertically by sofa, rest burgeoning into middle of room, while top of tree bent against ceiling.

“Can you try it over there?” I said.  Men struggled to place tree between bedroom and bathroom doors, at which branches sprang out totally blocking both.

“Try the middle of the room?” I said with tremendous dignity, at the same time noticing an odd smell.

The boys sniggered at each other and manhandled tree monster into the centre of the room.  At which point I couldn’t see either of them any more.  “That’s fine, thank you,” I said in a high strangled voice, at which they departed, giggling all the way down the stairs.

Cannot ignore smell any longer; is pungent and repulsively reminiscent of pine-scented shoe insole that has been worn for several months.  Glowered at tree.  Only way to traverse room now would be to snuffle under tree in manner of wild boar.

7.30pm  Think will get out pair of kitchen scissors and glass of wine.

9pm  Yur, es blurry berrer now.

Saturday, December 5

Presents bought: 8, presents returned: 5; presents left in shop: 3 (bad).

Wildly overslept.  Had arranged to meet Mark in lingerie department and was determined to get new underwear first, to enhance forthcoming Christmas tableau.  Shopping for bras, though, is nightmare: all on little lines of plastic coat hangers that fall off at slightest touch.  Also is impossible to find out what size bras are, because size written on tiny labels and quagmire of 36B Eur8 US99, etc.  When Mark showed up was in jittery new-bra-less funk, having squeezed bosoms into bizarre shaped cups under sadistic down-lighting, horrified by newly lumpen, frittata-style body, while he looked contrastingly together and cheerful.  “OK, so where’s first, where’s your list?” said Mark.

“In my head,” I said grumpily.

“Whereabouts?”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Where in your head is it filed? Next to fat units?  The five stages of dating?  Who have you got to buy for, for example?”

“Jude and Shazzer,” I said belligerently.

“And what are you going to buy them?”

“Well, usually it’s something frothy: (Gaah! Hate word “frothy” as straight out of parlance of daytime TV in manner of TTK—“two tarts in a kitchen” for cookery demos etc.) “I mean jokey, but at the same time topical and desirable—e.g. when Chanel Rouge Noir nail varnish came out.  We bought each other that, and then Wolford Follow-me’s, but this year...”

“Oh God,” said Mark, suddenly standing still.  “Shopping isn’t supposed to be a mystical quest for inspiration in the teeming aisles of John Lewis.  It’s a systematic purchasing operation.”

“Well, what are you getting, then?”

“Father—Archangel by Robert Harris and A Man in Full by Tom Wolfe.  Mother—Liberty’s silk nightie and dressing gown; ever so slightly Oedipal I accept, but as requested.  Debbie the secretary—Tiffany’s earrings.”

“Oooh,” I said excitedly, wondering what would be for me.

“Giles—bottle of scotch and that’s it.”

“That’s it?” I gasped.  How could four presents plus, hopefully mine, be “it”, when I’ve got to buy for Jude, Shaz, Tom, Magda, Simon, five godchildren, one nephew, one brother, one sister-in-law, Mum, Dad, Una, Geoffrey and Granny.

Ended up trailing around Mark, who was having a shopping roll, casually finding odd extra surprises—a game of the original American Monopoly for Nigel, hilarious meditation balls for Jude and Shazzer—while everything I tried to buy was the wrong size or out of stock apart from the one o display which was shop-soiled.  Ended up copying his idea for his Dad and his Mum, then buying loads of overpriced cosmetics with Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff self-help book slogans on, deciding they were too expensive for a joke, sneaking off from Mark to take them back, then getting caught while organising the refund on my credit card.

In taxi on way home, as Mark reflected smugly o how all his shopping was done, realised had left presents for Mum and Dad in self-help book cosmetics department, had to ring them from Mark’s mobile and discovered they had been nicked.

“There’s a surprise at home, anyway,” I said, to cheer us up.

8pm  Burst open door to flat and looked at Mark’s face expectantly.  “Pooh.  What in the name of arse is that?” he said.

Tree in truth did not look as good as remembered.  Had chopped off top and tried to trim rest into traditional triangular shape, but now, in middle of room, was tall thin shorn thing with blunt edges, like very bad cheap pretend tree from discount store.

Slumped miserably on sofa.  Am just no good.  Every time think get everything sorted out, all just goes wrong again.

11pm  Argor.  Was blurry goofun.  Mark and me got out scissors again and did festive topiary, turning tree into tiny cracker.  Also we have made list and are going back to do my shopping tomorrow.  Love blurry Christmas.  Celebration of goofun life, surely not perfection.  Hurrah.

9st 2lb (g); alcohol units 6 (poor); cigarettes: 12 (disgusting); presents bought: 2 (pathetic); cards sent: 42 (absolutely fantastic festive breakthrough).

9pm  Just got back from horrible drunk party and sneery man told Shazzer she was a glib media whore.  Anyway.  Do not blurry care; am going to create own spirit of Christmas.  Tree is twinkling and will write Christmas cards, then post them, instead of buying then not writing or posting.  Hurrah! This is what Christmas is about: love, not nasty drunk people, traffic jams and race against time to fulfil festive tasks.

9.10pm  Think will just have festive glass of wine and maybe chocolate off tree.

10pm  Argor is lovely warm thing to send cards and express things.

11pm  Off to postbox now.

Wednesday, December 16

8.30am  Bit confused.  Has just taken an hour and seven minutes to get dressed am still not dressed, having realised there is splodge on front of skirt.

8.45am  Have got skirt off now.  Will put grey one on instead, but where the f--- is it?  Ooof.  Head hurts.  Right, am not going to drink again for...oh, maybe skirt is in living room.

9am  In living room now, but everything is such a mess.  Think will have some toast.  Cigarettes are evil poison.

9.30am  Gaah.  Have just found card that got missed.  This is what it says:

Happy Christmas to my dearest, dearest Ken.  I have so appreciated all your kindness this year and feel very close to you now, both as a professional and a man.

I love you.

Bridget

Gaaaaah! Card is to accountant.  Have only met him once and then we had row about sending my VAT late.  Oh my God.  Cards are at large in the world and do no t know what put in them.

Thursday, December 17

No feedback from cards.  Maybe the others were fine actually.

Friday, December 18

9.30am  Was just on my way out when doorbell rang.  Was a smirking Gary the builder.  “Thanks for the card,” he said.

“Oh that’s fine!” I said gaily.

“So do you want to come to the pub tonight?”

“What?”

“You know—the card.”

“Have you got it with you?” I said in a high, strangled voice.

“Yeah,” he said shyly, removing it from inside his shirt.  This is what it said:

Dearest Gary

I know that your job as a builder is very different from mine.  But I really respect that, because it is a real craft.  you make things with your hands and get up very early in the morning and together—even though the infill extension isn’t finished—we have built something great and beautiful together, as a team, two different people, and even though the hole in the wall is till there—after a whole year!—I can see the growth of the project through it.  Which is wonderful.

I feel very close to you now.  Both as a craftsman.  And a man.  And if anyone deserves joy and a real creative change in the coming year it is you.

With love, Bridget

“Creative change,” he said in a throaty voice.  Oh God.  Managed to get away by explaining was late for work but, oh God.  Who have I sent them to?

7pm  Back home.  Walked into office to find whole team smirking at me.  Richard Finch, beer belly squeezed into a canary yellow nylon polo neck, was swaggering around with a card in his hand.

“Ah, Bridget,” he said leerily.  “I was just about to read this out.”  He cleared his throat: A merry, merry Christmas, dearest Richard—“Isn’t that nice?” There was a spurt of laughter—I know our relationship has had its ups and downs.  But now it is Christmas I realise it is very strong—challenging, vigorous, honest and true.  You are a fascinating, fascinating man, full of vigour and contradiction.  I feel very close to you now it is Christmas.

With real love, Bridget

Oh, oh it was just...Gaah!  Doorbell.

11pm  It was Mark.  With a very odd expression on his face.  He took a card out of his pocket.

My dear, dear Nigel—he began—I know we have only met once.  But now it is Christmas, I realise, through being Mark’s closest colleague, you have in a strange way been close to me all year too.  I feel—he paused and gave me a look—very close to you now.  I know you have had a hard year with Frances leaving, but always remember you are a lovely man: attractive—“This, I remind you, is Nigel we’re talking about”—vigorous, brilliant, creatively, because being a lawyer is actually a very creative job, so lots of girls would like to go out with you instead of Frances.  In fact—he started laughing—in fact, if I wasn’t going out with Mark, I would probably like to go out with you myself.

Merry Christmas, dearest Nigel.

Bridget

I slumped on the sofa.

“Now come,” he said, sitting down beside me.  “Everyone will know you were pissed.  It’s funny.”

“I’m going to have to go away,” I said sorrowfully.  “I’m going to have to leave the country.”

“Well,” he said gently.  “Funny you should say that.  They’re sending me to LA for six months.”

“What?” It was all getting worse and worse.

“Will you come with me?”

I gaped at him.

“Will you?” he said, suddenly passionate.  “I need you Bridget.  I know you’re always getting squiffy and into a mess, but I love you just as you are.  And, when I think of being without you, life would be just so, so lonely and...dull.”

I didn’t know what to say.  It was all too enormous and sudden.  Then I remembered the Christmas cards.  And I looked at his eyes.

“Yes,” I said softly.  “I’d love to come with you.”

“That’s great,” he said.  “We’ll go in the New Year.”

Merry Christmas everyone.  I love you and respect you creatively. Bye, bye.

This week there is no Bridget Jones's Diary. Instead, her creator Helen Fielding went to Japan as part of a promotional tour for her book. This is her diary:

Sunday

In air, en route to Tokyo. Fretful and under-prepared. First visit to Japan and not sure what to expect. Air steward tells me it's the most alien culture he's ever visited. Friends have given me bizarre advice: it's rude to cross your legs or show the sole of your shoe; you mustn't blow your nose; everything is disposable, including knickers, and that Japanese people work so hard they wear nappies to avoid going to the loo and that, if you do, the loo plays a tune to disguise the noise.

10.17:  Arrive at Narita airport, suddenly entirely surrounded by Japanese people, and, for the first time, feel tall. Fantastic. Am big in Japan. Am met by publishers. My editor, Masa, says: "Welcome to our cruel country." I panic, remembering a line in the book from Bridget's mother talking about Mark Darcy: "Wife was Japanese, apparently—very cruel race." Oh God. Have offended entire race before even arriving. Vision flashes of cruel-race executives hacking at me going "Hail! Hail! Hail!"

Noon:  Emerge from train to find architecture anti-climatically Birmingham Shopping Centre. Is crowded but not as ant's nest-like as imagined. Youths thrust things into our hands—not language school flyers a la Tottenham Court Road, but sex chat-line numbers printed on packets of tissues. How eminently practical. Hope this is not what has become of the Geishas.

1pm:  Hotel room is not plastic capsule as anticipated but luxurious suite. Western, yet full of oriental surprises. Bath is a square wooden box—I'm going to bathe in a Bento box! Biggest surprise is toilet seat—is warm. Realise is an entire control panel to adjust the temperature of the seat and all manner of water sprays and hot air. Wonder if bed will have a control panel too, and bend and buck, flip over and flap the covers if get too hot? No. Is just bed.

4pm:  First interview immediately. Beyond exhausted from missing entire night. Put contact lenses in and eyes go mad, belching tears. Nose going crazy too. What to do? Is rude to blow it. Interviewer arrives and everyone bows and hands out business cards. Don't have any. Massive social gaffe, clearly. Bowing continues beyond all sense. Slightest inclination of the head is enough to set it off again. Weird thing is, these are all young media people wearing Donna Karan. I offer interviewer a drink; he looks at my glass of water hoping it is gin, that I am Bridget Jones, and will fall over insensible with liquor and try to get off with him. Offend him, instead, with repeated sniffling.

9pm:  Back from dinner in restaurant on top of office block. Love Japanese food at home but this is in a different league of strangeness. Put appetiser in mouth and hafve distinct sense of centipede. Also, we have to wear bibs. I get up to go to the loo and geisha-style waitress looks at me with appalled dismay rushing as fast as gliding will allow to accusingly remove my bib. World full of etiquette land-mines.

Tuesday

3am:  Sleep disaster. Hopeless jet-lag eight-hour time difference. Wake every two hours. Try to work out where in world would be OK to ring someone. If LA is seven hours behind London and we are eight hours ahead, does that mean...? Decide on another bath in Bento box.

9am:  Sleep seemed so unlikely that failed to book reminder call and now rushing to get ready but is like having birthday party: doorbell going and endless people arriving to clean room. Retreat into Bento box and find a fish in it. Gaah! Turns out to ba mark on the wood. Next, realise man in full evening dress has come into the bathroom with an ice bucket. I let out a noise. He looks so mortified I think he is going to commit hara kiri.

Start long series of interviews. Assume Bridget concept will be met with blank incomprehension, particularly calorie-counting, as everyone thin as sticks and just eat little bits of fish. Bemused therefore to find, even here, even high powered female journalists claim to identify with Bridget's constant sense that no area of her body, mind or soul is good enough if left to its own devices.

They talk too of conflict between wanting to love and finding opposite sex increasingly difficult to relate to and live with, if you want to set up your own life and career first. Is bizarre travelling around globe promoting a book which began as flippant column and now find analysed as major treatise on state of womanhood.

Am grilled—as traditional—on "insult to feminism" tack. Accept, if reader not keen on irony as form of expression, book which contains the line: "There is nothing so unattractive to a man as strident Feminism" is likely to appall. Point is not that women are retrograde ditzes, but feel that they have to be so perfect in every area that become incredibly hard on selves: trying to live life of non-independent and independent woman at same time, haunted by media images of anorexic teenage models running from gym to board meeting to nuclear family and cooking elaborate dinner parties for twelve.

Vision of someone else—Bridget—trying so hard and spectacularly failing, ending up when guests arrive, in underwear with wet hair and one foot in pan of mashed potato is comic release from pressures of overreaching role models. If women really are equal, surely allowed to laugh at selves, mark of confidence etc, etc. Not sure how well point went in translation.

Dating issue seems different in Japan though. One interviewer tells me you are obliged to put up with being set up with at least 30 by your parents before you're allowed to give up. My interpreter, Micky, tells me Tokyo is so crowded, you jostle so many people every day, that it follows that a proportion of them will be attractive. One of the most common ways for couples to meet is by literally bumping into each other. So much the opposite of Los Angeles where everyone drives everywhere, and the only way you could bump into anyone would be by hitting their car. Not sure believe Micky, though. Nor Masa, who claims the polite greeting when answering the phone is "Moshi moshi"apart from the members of the emergency services who must just say "Moshi" to save time.

Noon:  Lunch with chairman of Sony publications. Food is getting stranger and stranger. Thing in mouth seems like large, soft spider.

3pm:  Hate not understanding what everyone is talking about amongst themselves. Feel like visitor to Papua New Guinea tribe, assuming they are making social chit-chat when, actually, they are planning to eat own head.

3am:  Hopeless sleep scenario. Dimly remember a time before all this travelling when used to go to bed, fall asleep, then wake up in the morning. It seems so long ago. Tried to get off by having yet another bath in Bento box. Then found Vietnamese poem in coffee table book: something about accepting that the little boat was my destiny and going forward ont he river of Eternity with an open heart to a radiant future but kept getting distracted by thinking I should have brought my other Nicole Farhi suit.

Wednesday

Midnight:  Hurrah! First night out on town with Masa, Micky and publicist Yumi. Streets are hot, humid and crowded. Exciting and unfathomable culture—seems modern, eclectic and ersatz. We go to a basement and play with machines that turn out our photos as stickers with Winnie the Pooh. Then on to a gay karaoke bar. Sweet gay waiters talk coquettishly of type of men they would like to marry. Love the karaoke. Initially, am embarrassed and low key but realise, after Masa's emotional Bridge Over Troubled Water, that the secret is to go over the top. Resolve to try Bohemian Rhapsody next time.

3am:  Awake again. Must have been asleep as thought was in snake shop selecting which snake to buy. Fact that realise am not in snake shop means that was asleep but have lost it. Doom! More interviews tomorrow. Have answered same questions in so many places that fine self becoming increasingly philosophical and mad.

"Are you Bridget Jones?"

"'Are?' What do you mean by 'are'? Do any of us know who we 'are', asssuming 'are' exists? Excuse me, I'm going to get in my Bento box."

See self in years to come, wandering globe banging on and on about Bridget long after anyone has remotest idea who she is.

Thursday

Hurrah! Interviews over and off exploring. We drive past the Imperial Palace and have in-depth political discussion.

Me: Is it still the Emperor Hirohito?

Masa: (with great confidence) No Emperor Hirohito is dead. The new emperor is... (tails off, to Yumi) Do you know who he is?

Yumi: (sheepishly) No.

We ask the taxi driver who the emperor is. He has no idea either. Masa takes us to an old restaurant which is so atmospherically Japanese you would think it was designed by Anouska Hempel.

There are bells, bamboo, miniature bridges and a wooden barrel with running water instead of a washbasin. Bridget woudl naturally assume it was the toilet. We remove our shoes, replacing them with wooden flip-flops and sit on mats on the floor. Our dishes arrive with a delicate wooden birdcage on top of each one. Tiny strips of meat are cooked on small eathenware brazier. Only after I've eaten them do I learn they are cow's tongue. Masa says he used this place for pulling as a student and it never failed.

On then for a final night of karaoke. We take a little room and are served with drinks and chocolates which, my hosts point out with hoots of amusement, are in the shape of female pudenda. Love this about Japan. All day everyone, even the young trendy people, are so formally polite, bowing and "hai, hai-ing"; then in the evening so casually vulgar, out to get plastered and belt out Je t'aime at top of voice at professional colleagues. The four of us sing at each other, obsessively, for two hours and 40 minutes.

Friday

6pm:  Back in London: whole trip has happened so quickly, all seems like fantastical dream. Keen to experience sleep again, but miss karaoke partners and Bento box. Hope book works in Japan so can go back, get to the bottom of Imperial Identity and perfect my Bohemian Rhapsody.