Bridget Jones's Diary (Bridget Jones 1)
Simon
Rebecca Martin Crashing Bore
Woney Cosmo
Joanna
Daniel? Perpetua? (eek) and Hugo?
Oh no. Oh no. What am I going to do?
Friday 17 March
Just called Tom who says, very wisely, 'It is your birthday and you should invite exactly and only who you want.' So am just going to ask the following:
Shazzer
Jude
Tom
Magda and Jeremy
– and cook supper for everyone myself.
Called Tom back to tell him the plan and he said, 'and Jerome?'
'What?'
'And Jerome?'
'I thought, like we said, I'd just ask who I . . . ' I tailed off, realizing if I said 'wanted' it would mean I didn't 'want' i.e. 'like' Tom's insufferable, pretentious boyfriend.
'Oh!' I said, over-compensating madly. 'You mean your Jerome? Course Jerome's invited, yer ninny. Chuh! But do you think it's OK not to ask Jude's Vile Richard? And Sloaney Woney -even
though she had me to her birthday last week?'
'She'll never know.'
When I told Jude who was coming she said perkily, 'Oh, so we're bringing other halves?' which means Vile Richard. Also now that it's not just six I will have to ask Michael. Oh well. I mean nine is fine. Ten. It'll be fine.
Next thing Sharon rang. 'I hope I haven't put my foot in it. I just saw Rebecca and asked her if she was coming to your birthday and she looked really offended.'
Oh no, I'll have to ask Rebecca and Martin Crashing Bore now. But that means I'll have to ask Joanna as well. Shit. shit. Now I've said I'm cooking I can't suddenly announce we're going out to a restaurant or I'll seem both bone idle and mean.
Oh God. Just got home to icy offended-sounding answerphone message from Woney.
'Cosmo and I were wondering what you'd like for your birthday this year. Would you call us back, please?'
Realize I am going to spend my birthday cooking food for sixteen people.
Saturday 18 March
8st 13, alcohol units 4 (fed up), cigarettes 23 (v.v. bad, esp. in two hours), Calories 3827 (repulsive).
2 p.m. Humph. Just what I needed. My mother burst into my flat, last week's Grasshopper Who Sang All Summer crisis miraculously forgotten.
'My godfathers, darling!' she said breathily, steaming through my flat and heading for the kitchen. 'Have you had a bad week or something? You took dreadful. You look about ninety. Anyway, guess what, darling,' she said, turning, holding the kettle, dropping her eyes modestly, then looking up, beaming like Bonnie Langford about to embark upon a tap-dancing routine.