Bridget Jones's Diary (Bridget Jones 1)

Cannot help but feel sad about the brutal trampling on the pink silk shoots of romance burgeoning between me and Mark Darcy by Marco Pierre White and my mother, but trying to be philosophical about it. Maybe Mark Darcy is too perfect, clean and finished off at the edges for me, with his capability, intelligence, lack of smoking, freedom from alcoholism, and his chauffeur-driven cars. Maybe it has been decreed that I should be with someone wilder, earthier and more of a flirt. Like Marco Pierre White, for example, or, just to pick a name totally at random, Daniel. Hmmm. Anyway. Must just get on with life and not feel sorry for self.

Just called Shazzer, who said it has not been decreed that I must go out with Marco Pierre White and certainly not with Daniel. The only thing a woman needs in this day and age is herself. Hurrah!

2 a.m. Why hasn't Mark Darcy rung me? Why? Why? Am going to be eaten by Alsatian despite all efforts to the contrary. Why me, Lord?

Friday 8 December

9st 5 (disaster), alcohol units 4 (g.), cigarettes 12 (excellent), Christmas presents purchased 0 (bad), cards sent 0, 1471 calls 7.

4 p.m. Humph. Jude just rang and just before we said good-bye she said, 'See you at Rebecca's on Sunday.'

'Rebecca's? Sunday? What Rebecca's? What?'

'Oh, hasn't . . . ? She's just having a few . . . I think it's just a sort of pre-Christmas dinner party.'

'I'm busy on Sunday, anyway,' I lied. At last – a chance to get into those awkward corners with the duster. I had thought that Jude and I were equal friends of Rebecca so why should she invite Jude and not me?

9 p.m. Popped to 192 for refreshing bottle of wine with Sharon and she said, 'What are you wearing for Rebecca's party?'

Party? So it is a party party.

Midnight. Anyway. Must not get upset about it. This is just the sort of thing that is not important in life anymore. People should be allowed to invite who they want to their parties without others pettily getting upset.

5:30 a.m. Why hasn't Rebecca invited me to her party? Why? Why? How many more parties are going on that everyone has been invited to except me? I bet everyone is at one now, laughing and sipping expensive champagne. No one likes me. Christmas is going to be a total party-desert, apart from a three-party pile-up on December 20th, when I am booked into an editing session all evening.

Saturday 9 December

Christmas parties to look forward to 0.

7:45 a.m. Woken by Mum. 'Hello, darling. Just rang quickly because Una and Geothey were asking what you wanted for Christmas and I wondered about a Facial Sauna.'

How, after being totally disgraced and narrowly escaping several years in custody, can my mother just plop back into being exactly like she was before, flirting openly with policemen and torturing me.

'By the way, are you coming to . . . ' for a moment my heart leaped with the thought that she was going to say 'Turkey Curry Buffet' and bring up, in a manner of speaking, Mark Darcy, but no ' . . . the Vibrant TV party on Tuesday?' she continued brightly.

I shuddered with humiliation. I work for Vibrant TV, for God's sake.

'I haven't been invited,' I mumbled. There is nothing worse than having to admit to your mum that you are not very popular.

'Oh, darling, of course you've been invited. Everyone's going.'

'I haven't been.'

'Well, maybe you haven't worked there long enough. Anyway – '

'But, Mum,' I interrupted, 'you don't work there at all.'

'Well, that's different, darling. Anyway, Must run. Byeee!'

9 a.m. Brief moment of party oasis when an invitation arrived in the post but turned out to be party mirage: invitation to a sale of designer eyewear.

11:30 a.m. Called Tom in paranoid desperation to see if he wanted to go out tonight.

'Sorry,' he chirped, 'I'm taking Jerome to the PACT party at the Groucho Club.'

Oh God, I hate it when Tom is happy, confident and getting on well with Jerome, much preferring it when he is miserable, insecure and neurotic. As he himself never tires of saying, 'It's always so nice when things go badly for other people.'

'I'll see you tomorrow, anyway,' he gushed on, 'at Rebecca's.'