Monday 4 August

8st13 (yesss!), alcohol units 5, cigarettes 40

Determined now to stop smoking. Someone from Labour party said if they tried to introduce such a product now - hopelessly addictive and kills people - they wouldn't have a hope in hell. That is right. Is mad to smoke. Actually, I hate smoking. Right am non-smoker. Hmm. Feels quite nice actually. Also how come when Tory politicians had affairs, was repulsed considering them hypocrites but now just find self thinking incessantly about Robin Cook in bed: so terse and strict. Can just imagine him making you want to go all silly and sit on his knee in a little short skirt and ask him to jiggle you up and down singing "The Galloping Major" then send him out in the street with rubbish bags to do naughty errands like fetching ice-cream, as indeed she did. Why think this, though? Why? Is awful and anti-feminist to go off with your younger secretary. But then selfishly love idea that 41 seems young in papers as massive hope for self.

Also when Tony Blair says these things happen and it does not affect Cook's ability to be Foreign Secretary it makes one feel rather sophisticated and European and as though reality of serial relationships is accepted with regret in manner of National New Labour Adults. But if it was, say, Cecil Parkinson who made her sit in the dark would think he was a paternalistic fascist bastard, but with Robin Cook think "Gaynor" might have been lying in a scented bath or maybe even hiding so he would come in and stride around the room growling Scottishly "You're being very silly. Come out at once," then she would tumble out giggling in a little frilly nighty. Wrong sick thoughts. Maybe have been indoctrinated by Peter Mandelson. Or maybe it is because there is no way Robin Cook would make his wife sit on a gate. Also cannot imagine his wife as a victim, mainly because she looks just like the lead singer of the pop group Texas, currently on front cover of GQ: attractive in a very modern, unmade-up androgynous sort of way. Funny their song is called "Boy With a Black Eye" and I bet she would like to give him one. Also she is clearly cool chick, though 50 has top job and bet she will find ... Aargh, Aargh. Is 9.45. Is meeting in 45 minutes had better get out of bed.

9.50am Oh f*** oh f***. Cannot remember where put contact lenses last night - maybe on arm of sofa? Oooh goody, answerphone is flashing.

10am Was icy message from Shazzer. "I would like you to return my flat keys. Jude and I will be in 192 tomorrow night. Drop them in, will you?"

Feel as if great cold machinery part is clunking down through self. When I tried to talk to Jude about the Shazzer row she said she didn't want to get "stuck in the middle" but now clearly she has ganged up with Shazzer and I will have to face an industrial tribunal. How was I supposed to know Shaz was going out with Simon if it was a secret? Also it was Simon who kissed me not the other way round. But weird thing is because my former friend is able to instantly decide I am hateful person after years of friendship, seems to have confirmed own secret belief about self. Am going to have cigarette. Only friend left.

10.20am Beyond late now. Will have just one more cigarette to calm nerves then go to work.

7pm Day from hell particularly as wearing jam-jar-bottomed glasses. Forty minutes late for meeting and Richard Finch was vile about Robin Cook opinions saying I was a moral sexual incontinent. Now terrified re: tribunal. Convinced they will just snatch keys off me then carry on with their conversation and I will have to go home on own. Alone. No boyfriend and now no friends so cannot even comfort self with pleasing urban surrogate family notion.

7.30pm 192 toilets. Hiding in panic. Jude, Shaz and Tom are sitting there with Simon. Am going to be publicly shamed and ostracised in manner of Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons. Am cross between that and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Soon will have affair with married man and boil his children's rabbits. At least have found lenses. Were on magazine.

Midnight Argor. Es blurry. Juspurlenses on floor. sleeponsofa.

Tuesday 5 August

Hurrah! World seems fresh and new again through hangover. Jude came down to 192 loos and banged on door. "Bridget come out. We know you're in there." She marched me upstairs where I sulkily put the keys on the table. Then Shazzer got to her feet and took Simon by the ear.

"We have got to the bottom of who is the culprit in all this," she growled. "And as usual," she almost spat. "It's a man. Simon?"

Simon, stared down and mumbled. "I am an emotional fuckwit and apologise to you and Sharon for jeopardising your friendship with my disgusting behaviour." Sharon then grabbed his hair and jerked his head.

"Say it like you mean it, you low-down non-ringing toad," she rasped, at which Simon turned, took hold of Shazzer by her wrists in one hand, pulled her to him with the other and kissed her full on the lips, growling, "I love you, you vixen from hell."

Then Shaz, instead of slapping his face, went all smug and soppy and spent the rest of the evening writhing all over him. Any road up ... aaargh telephone.

Was Richard Finch. "Bridget, get out of your nightdress, put on an item of clothing that respectably covers your ass and get it round here. You're interviewing Robin Cook in 40 minutes."

Oh f***, oh f****. Cannot find contact lenses. Think had better have fagn

Bridget's vg novel, `Bridget Jones's Diary', is available from Picador direct on 0181-324 5707. Paperback costs pounds 4.99, audio tape pounds 7.99 + 99p p&p.