Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

Her husband put his hand on her arm: ‘Darling . . .’

‘These boys need to be rounded. They need their flutes. They need their fencing. Furthermore,’ she continued, ‘I do not see social engagements as “play dates”. They are team-building exercises.’

‘THEY ARE CHILDREN!’ Mr Wallaker roared. ‘They are not corporate products! What they need to acquire is not a constant massaging of the ego, but confidence, fun, affection, love, a sense of self-worth. They need to understand, now, that there will always – always – be someone greater and lesser than themselves, and that their self-worth lies in their contentment with who they are, what they are doing and their increasing competence in doing it.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Nicolette. ‘So there’s no point trying? I see. Then, well, maybe we should be looking at Westminster.’

‘We should be looking at who they will become as adults,’ Mr Wallaker went on. ‘It’s a harsh world out there. The barometer of success in later life is not that they always win, but how they deal with failure. An ability to pick themselves up when they fall, retaining their optimism and sense of self, is a far greater predictor of future success than class position in Year 3.’

Blimey. Had Mr Wallaker suddenly been reading Buddha’s Little Instruction Book?

‘It’s not a harsh world if you know how to win,’ purred Nicolette. ‘What is Atticus form position, please?’

‘We don’t give form positions,’ said Mr Wallaker, getting to his feet. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, his French,’ said Nicolette, undaunted. And then they all sat down again.

10 p.m. Perhaps Mr Wallaker is right about there being always someone ‘greater and lesser than yourself’ at things. Was just walking back to car when posh, exhausted mother trying to wrangle three overdressed children suddenly burst out, ‘Clemency! You fucking, bleeding little c***!’

FIFTY SHADES OF OLD

Friday 22 November 2013

137lb (helpless slide back towards obesity), calories 3384, Diet Cokes 7, Red Bulls 3, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, exercise 0, months since did roots 2, weeks since waxed legs 5, weeks since painted toenails 6, number of months since any sexual experience whatsoever 5 (Born-Again Virgin again).

Am letting self go to seed – un-waxed, un-plucked, un-exercised, un-exfoliated, un-mani-pedicured, un-meditated, roots un-touched-up, hair un-blow-dried, undressed (never, worst luck) – and stuffing face to make up for it. Something has to be done.

Saturday 23 November 2013

3 p.m. Just came out of the hairdresser’s where my roots were restored to their youthful glory. Immediately came face to face with a poster at the bus stop of Sharon Osbourne and her daughter Kelly: Sharon Osbourne with auburn hair and Kelly with grey hair.

So confused. Is looking old the new bohemian floaty scarf now? Am I going to have to go back, have the grey roots restored and ask the Botox man to add some wrinkles?

Was just pondering this question when a voice said, ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Wallaker!’ I said, fluffing up my new hair coquettishly.

‘Hello!’ He was wearing a warm, sexy jacket and scarf, looking down at me in the old way, cool, with the slightly amused twitch in the corner of his mouth.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I just want to say, I’m sorry I said all that at the school concert and was so lippy with you all those times when you were just being kind. But I thought you were married. And the thing is, I know everything. I mean, not everything. But I know about you being in the SAS and—’

His expression changed. ‘What did you say?’

‘Jake and Rebecca live across the road and . . .’

He was looking away from me, down the street, the muscle in his jaw working.

‘It’s all right. I haven’t told anybody. And the thing is, you see, I know what it’s like when something really bad happens.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said abruptly.

‘I know, you think I’m an awful mother, and spend the whole time in the hairdresser’s and buying condoms, but I’m actually not like that. Those gonorrhoea leaflets – Mabel had just picked them up at the doctor’s. I don’t have gonorrhoea or syphilis . . .’

‘Am I interrupting?’

A stunning girl was emerging from Starbucks, holding two coffees.

‘Hi.’ She handed him one of the coffees and smiled at me.