10.35 p.m. Frantic now. Have rung Shazzer, Rebecca, Simon, Magda. Nobody knows how to programme their videos. Only person I know who knows how to do it is Daniel.
10.45 p.m. Oh God. Daniel fell about laughing when said I could not programme video. Said he would do it for me. Still, at least have done best for Mum. It is exciting and historic when one's friends are on TV.
11.15 p.m. Humph. Mum just rang. 'Sorry, darling. It isn't Newsnight, it's Breakfast News tomorrow. Could you set it for seven o'clock tomorrow morning. BBC 1?'
11.30 p.m. Daniel just called. 'Er, sorry, Bridge. I'm not quite sure what went wrong. It's recorded Barry Norman.'
Sunday 8 June
8st 12, alcohol units 3, cigarettes 17.
After sitting in semi-darkness for the third weekend running with Daniel's hand down my bra, fiddling with my nipple as if it were a sort of worry bead and me occasionally feebly saying, 'Was that a run?' I suddenly blurted out, 'Why can't we go on a mini-break? Why? Why? Why?'
'That's a good idea,' said Daniel, mildly, taking his hand out of my dress. 'Why don't you book somewhere for next weekend? Nice country house hotel. I'll pay.'
Wednesday 21 June
8st 11 (v.v.g.), alcohol units 1, cigarettes 2, Instants 2 (v.g.), minutes spent looking at mini-break brochures 237 (bad).
Daniel has refused to discuss the mini-break any more, or look at the brochure, and has forbidden me from mentioning it until we actually set off on Saturday. How can he expect me not to be excited when I have been longing for this for so long? Why is it that men have not yet learnt to fantasize about holidays, choose them from brochures and plan and fantasize about them in the way that they (or some of them) have learnt to cook or sew? The singlehanded mini-break responsibility is hideous for me. Wovingham Hall seems ideal – tasteful without being over-formal, with four-poster beds, a lake and even a fitness centre (not to go in), but what if Daniel doesn't like it?
Sunday 25 June
8st 11, alcohol units 7, cigarettes 2, calories 4587 (ooops).
Oh dear. Daniel decided the place was nouveau from the moment we arrived, because there were three Rolls-Royces parked outside, and one of them yellow. I was fighting a sinking realization that it was suddenly freezing cold and I had packed for 900 heat. This was my packing:
Swimsuits 2.
Bikinis 1.
Long floaty white dress 1.
Sundress 1.
Trailer-park-trash pink jelly mules 1 pair.
Tea-rose-pink suede mini dress 1.
Black silk teddy.
Bras, pants, stockings, suspenders (various).
There was a crack of thunder as I teetered, shivering, after Daniel to find the foyer stuffed with bridesmaids and men in cream suits and to discover that we were the only guests staying in the hotel who were not in the wedding party.
'Chuh! Isn't it dreadful what's happening in Srebrenica,' I chattered maniacally to try to put out problems in proportion. 'To be honest, I never feel I've quite pinned down what's going on in Bosnia. I thought the Bosnians were the ones in Sarajevo and the Serbians were attacking them, so who are the Bosnian Serbs?'
'Well, if you spent a bit less time reading brochures and more time reading the papers you might know,' smirked Daniel.
'So what is going on?'
'God, look at that bridesmaid's tits.'
'And who are the Bosnian Muslims?'
'I cannot believe the size of that man's lapels.,
Suddenly I had the unmistakable feeling that Daniel was trying to change the subject.