Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

Sunday 3 February 2013

9.15 p.m. Has been a wonderful rest-of-weekend. The kids were happy because I was happy. We went out and climbed trees and then came back and watched Britain’s Got Talent. Roxster texted at 2 p.m. and said it had been wonderful apart from the sick he’d found on the sleeve of his jacket. And I said it had been wonderful apart from the mess he’d made on the sheets. And we both agreed our mental ages were very low and have been demonstrating it in text form ever since.

I’m so lucky, at this time of my life, to have had that one night, with someone so young and gorgeous. I’m so grateful.

9.30 p.m. Oh God. Suddenly, for some reason, reminded of a line in the movie The Last King of Scotland where someone says, ‘I prefer sleeping with married women. They’re so grateful.’ Think it was Idi Amin.

BACK IN THE PRESENT MOMENT

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

Saturday 20 April 2013

Texts from Roxster 0, number of times checked for texts from Roxster 4567; nits found on Billy 6, nits found on Mabel 0, nits found on me 0; minutes spent thinking back about Mark, loss, sadness, death, life without Mark, trying to be a woman again, Leatherjacketman, dating disasters, child-rearing and whole of last year 395; thoughts prepared for Monday screenplay meeting with Greenlight Productions 0; minutes of sleep 0.

5 a.m. But it wasn’t only the one night. Roxster and I just hit it off and a week turned into two weeks, and six weeks, and now it has been eleven weeks and one day.

The thing is, although in theory it was practically difficult with Roxster, it was also been surprisingly easy. Practically it was tricky because Roxster lives with three other boys the same age. So obviously we couldn’t really go back there, with me plunged into some Beavis and Butt-head-type situation, trying to deal with crispy sheets and sinkfuls of washing-up, whilst pretending to be a family friend of Roxster’s mother, who had come to stay with him in his bed in his crispy sheets.

Equally I didn’t want to introduce the kids to Roxster so soon and certainly didn’t want them to find me in bed with him. But – thanks to the hook on the bedroom door – we found our way. And it was so lovely. It has been so lovely. So lovely having a separate adult life, and meeting in pubs and little restaurants and going to movies and for walks on the Heath and having fantastic sex, and someone who cares about me. Although he hasn’t met the kids, they’ve become part of our dialogue, and part of the texting that is the running commentary on both our lives, what we’re doing, what we’re eating, what time I’ve got them to school, what Roxster’s boss has done now and more about what Roxster’s eating.

Looking back, I think I’ve been almost delirious, permanently shag-drunk, in a haze of happiness. And now it is five on Saturday morning, I have been awake all night thinking about all these things, the kids will be up in an hour, I’ve got the film meeting on Monday and have done no preparation, I probably have nits and there is still no text from Roxster.

10 p.m. Still no text, am melting down again. Have left messages and texts for Jude, Tom and Talitha but nobody seems to be there. Jude is on her date with PlentyOfDance or perhaps PlentyOfDoctor Man whilst simultaneously standing Vile Richard up with an imaginary girl. Oh, telephone!

Was Talitha, coming to the rescue. Refusing to listen to my wails of: ‘It’s because I’m middle-aged!’ She said, ‘Nonsense, darling!’ reminding me how in Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, it says men of any age need to retreat to their caves sometimes.

‘And also, darling,’ she added, ‘you did see him on Thursday night. You can’t expect to have the poor boy every other day.’

Then just as I got into bed the phone pinged. Leaped at it hopefully.

Was Talitha again.

Sunday 21 April 2013

136lb (oh no, this has to stop), calories 2850 (ditto, but is Roxster’s fault), minutes spent playing with children 452, minutes spent worrying about Roxster while playing with children 452 (hope Social Services not reading).

3 p.m. Still no sex. I mean, text. But feeling much more composed about Roxster today. Calm, Buddhist, almost Dalai Lama-like. When he comes, we welcome. When he goes, we let him go.

3.05 p.m. FUCK ROXSTER! FUCK HIM! Suddenly doing death-by-texting after all that, that CLOSENESS. It’s inhuman. I didn’t like him anyway. I was just . . . just . . . USING HIM FOR SEX . . . like a, like a TOY BOY. And it’s a REALLY good job the children didn’t meet him – because now it is all over, so at least it won’t affect them. But where am I going to find someone I just get on with like that and who is so funny, and sweet and gorgeous and—

‘Mummy?’ Billy interrupted. ‘How many elements are there?’

‘Four!’ I said brightly, snapping back into the reality of the messy Sunday afternoon in the kitchen. ‘Air, fire and wood. And um—’

‘Not “WOOD”! Wood isn’t an element.’

Oh. Suddenly realize ‘wood’ came from a book I read about Elemental Design – when I had the fantasy of redoing the house into a Buddhist Zendo – and it said the house had to have water, wood, earth and fire. No problem with the last one anyway!

‘There are five elements.’

‘No, there aren’t!’ I said indignantly. ‘There are four elements.’

‘No. There are five elements,’ said Billy. ‘Air, earth, water, fire and technology. Five.’

‘Technology isn’t an element.’

‘Yes, it is!’