Bridget Jones's Diary

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Indy Lifestyle Online
Monday 16 April

9st 0; alcohol units 7 (poor); cigarettes 17 (poor); negative thoughts about mother, 845 per hour (conservative estimate).

7.45am. The phone just rang.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" My mother.

"What?" I muttered wondering whether to impale myself on a fork now or wait until the conversation was over.

"Just seen a story in the paper about a grandmother who conceived her own grandchild."

"What?"

"Don't keep saying `what' Bridget, say pardon. She had her granddaughter popped in her womb as an egg, and now she's pregnant in the Daily Mail! Imagine!"

"Why?"

"Now, don't start with `why?' again darling. I remember Uncle Geoffrey saying when you were in the paddling pool if you asked `why' any more times he'd end up having to explain what a molecule was!

"I mean why did the grandmother have the daughter's granddaughter," I hissed murderously, wondering if 7.45 was too early to have a Bloody Mary.

"Well," she said, suddenly switching to her wounded Princess Diana voice. "Because she was a career girl, darling, and and was far too busy even to give her own mother a granddaughter."

I breathed deeply through my nose, thinking, "Inner poise".

"Anyway how are you?" she ploughed on. "Did I tell you they're thinking of expanding my role in Suddenly Single? Yes. Marvellous."

"Expanding? That's great, Mum! Congratulations."

"Well not expanding exactly, darling they're taking it off air for the summer. But they said they'd be very interested in turning it into something bigger. Sort of presenter-led fly-on-the-wall-testimonial documentary series. Isn't that exciting?

"Mother. Have you been sacked?"

"Don't be silly, darling. Of course I haven't been sacked! Anyway how are you? Ooh. I've left the iron on. Byeee!"

7.30pm. Right. Back from work, am going to gym to avoid becoming cellulite- ridden in alleged manner of Princess Diana. Thing is, only reason anyone noticed alleged Princess Diana cellulite was because she had gone to the gym. If she had stayed at home consuming toxins in sedentary position, matter would never have come to light. Hmm. Maybe will plump for middle course and go to gym via 192 to see if Jude or Shazzer are in having a drink.

4pm. Husblurryrah! Bumped into Jude in bar and blurry rang Shazzer come round for bolChardonnay. Blurry good fun, can tell you. Oops.

Tuesday 16 April

9am. Ugh must get up. Sharon and I shamelessly bullied Jude last night into agreeing to leave Vile Richard. The latest reason he has come up with for being unable to commit is because Jude has a career; so the only way poor Vile Richard will be able to weigh up whether or not he would be able to commit is if Jude gives up her hundred-grand-a-year job in the City. Then he'll let her know. Prat.

Hurrah. All three of us are going to go on springtime razzle together like old days. Plans as follows.

All agree way to meet non-vile new boyfriends is not through parties, Tesco Metro, etc, but through testing situations where character, moral fibre, integrity or vileness, madness etc, come to fore rather than during fifth glass of wine with toe on his thigh under table.

Proposed methods therefore:

1. Subject self to minor "accidents" or similar in order to spend long periods of time in casualty depts with doctors. (Pros: medical profession caring, intelligent and integrity-full. Cons: all doctors alcoholics, permanently shagging nurses.)

2. To become victims of, or suspects of, committing crimes in order to have long question and answer sessions with detectives and whippersnappers in uniform. (Pros: uniforms; thrilling formality with sexual undercurrents. Cons: difficult to organise.)

Ooh. Telephone. Possibly detective already, inviting me to identity parade.

"Darling?" My mother.

"Pardon?"

"Don't be silly Bridget, please. I've just had an idea." There was a strange beeping noise on the line. "You know what I was saying about the surrogate grandmother getting pregnant because her daughter was a career girl?"

"Mother. I've seen that story now. She did it because her daughter didn't have a womb."

"Oh shut up, darling; same thing. Anyway. I was just thinking, wouldn't it make a super documentary series?"

The first twinges of dismay began to form themselves in my mind.

"Of course, it's far too late to do that particular pregnant grandmother now. You'd have to start way before the conception with all the arguments and so on." Another beep. "But if a different grandmother were to do it, and maybe present the programme herself ..."

"Mother," I exploded, "there is no way I am letting you be a surrogate grandmother with one of my ...

"Oh please Bridget, darling," she gabbled, "It'd only be one little egg. I'm sure Mark Darcy wouldn't mind fertilising it. I always remember his mother ... beep ... and I used to say wouldn't it be super if ..." Another beep.

"Mother," I panicked. "Are you recording this conversation?"

"Ahahahaha," she tittered nervously. "Not to play to anyone, darling, but I thought, Imagine how marvellous! Three generations of `Suddenly Single Women!' - or four if we got an egg from the baby!"

Find myself wondering if it might be possible to conceive one's own mother. And if so, would it be morally justifiable, through a Woman's Right to Choose, to terminate the said mother? (Huh. Just called Shazzer who said if I did the egg thing maybe I would meet a nice doctor. I suppose she thinks that is amusing.)

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