Bridget Jones's diary

Darcy is an egomaniac who will rise up on a crane like Michael Jackson and force the guests to be healed
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The Independent Online
Friday 23 February

9st 2 (fair to middling). Alcohol units 9 (bad). Cigarettes 38 (vb). Calories (public interest immunity certificate).

Mum just rang, gabbling, "Now darling, you have replied to the invitation to the Darcys' Ruby Wedding at Mark's house in Holland Park next Saturday, haven't you? Six bedrooms, enormous conservatory, full gas central heating, caterers, black tie and everything."

Oh no. Can face neither going to horror-party nor telling Mum am not going. "Just doing it, Mummeee, must whizz byeee!" I said gaily. Oh God, though. It is one of those mad invitations written in the third person. Seem to remember from childhood am supposed to reply in same style as if am imaginary person employed by myself to reply to invitations from imaginary people employed by others to issue invitations. What to put?

Bridget Jones regrets that she is unable ...

Devastated does not do justice ...

Miss Bridget Jones is totally destroyed ...

Oh God, will do it tomorrow, want to get ready for girls' night out. Fear, however, censure from Jude and Shazzer for accidentally sleeping with Daniel after the Kafka's Motorbike party (sort of thing that could happen to anyone). Must stay sober and give bullish account of scenario, turning all to triumph in manner of Ian Lang, even though Daniel does not seem to have rung me since.

2am. Gor es wor blurry goofun tonight, es wor ... Ooof. Tumbled over.

Saturday 24 February

Hah! Attention totally diverted from self's shame by Jude, who arrived in vixen-from-hell fury because Vile Richard had stood her up for Relationship Counselling. "I said to him, 'Listen, you don't have a monopoly on commitment problems. Actually, I have a commitment problem. If you ever deal with your own commitment problem, you might be brought up short by my commitment problem, by which time it'll be too late'."

"Have you got a commitment problem?" I asked, intrigued.

"Of course," snarled Jude. "It's just that nobody ever sees it because it's so submerged by Richard's commitment problem."

"But just because you don't go round wearing your commitment problem on your sleeve like every bloody man over the age of 20 ..." exploded Sharon.

"Exactly my point," spat Jude.

"The whole bloody world's got a commitment problem," growled Sharon. "It's the three-minute culture. It's typical of men to annex a global attention span and turn it into a male device to reject women to make themselves feel clever!"

"Bastards!" I shouted happily. "Shager nother bol wine?"

Managed thus to avoid subject of Daniel but still perplexed about what he told me re Mark Darcy.

"Listen, I don't want to bad-mouth the guy..." he said.

"But ...?"

"I've known him since we were at Cambridge. He's the biggest ..." Daniel was smoking really nervously. "He spread a lot of very unpleasant rumours about me."

"What?"

"That I'd treated an ex-girlfriend of his badly. That I owed money. That I cheated. None of it true. He tried to block my career. He made me lose a legal job. He did everything he could to discredit me."

"But why?"

"He's a deeply arrogant man. He needs to be so utterly confident of his own intellect, good looks, ability, that he can't stand anyone else to be richer, more attractive or more successful."

"But I thought he was a top worthwhile human rights lawyer."

"Yeah, well ... apparently his brilliant career in New York wasn't going all that brilliantly. So, you know if you can't cut it with the hard hitters, go for the sympathy vote and the moral high ground. Anyway, come," he growled. "Let's go back to your place."

Mark Darcy is clearly an egomaniac and will rise up from the party on a crane like Michael Jackson then force all the guests to be healed by him. At which point Daniel will burst in, dancing, and be arrested for assaulting children. Definitely not going to party.

It is with deep regret that we must announce that so great was Miss Bridget Jones's distress at not being able to accept the kind invitation of Mr Mark Darcy that she has topped herself and will therefore ...

Ooh: telephone.

Dad: "Bridget my dear, you are coming to the horror event next Saturday, aren't you?"

"Er, well not really ..."

There was a muffled sob. Dad was crying. I think he is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if I'd been married to Mum for 43 years, I'd have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator. Poor Dad.

"Dad, what is it?"

"Oh it's just ... Sorry. It's just ... I was hoping to get out of it, too."

"Well, why don't you?" I said eagerly. "Let's go to the pictures instead."

"It's ... " He broke down again. "It's the thought of her going with that greasy bouffant wop and all my friends and colleagues of 40 years saying 'cheers' to the pair of them and writing me off as history."

"But they won't ..."

"Oh yes they will. I'm determined to go. I'm going to get on my glad rags and hold my head up high and ... but ..." Sobs again. "I need some moral support, Bridget. I need you to come with me."

11.30am Ms Bridget Jones thanks Mr Darcy ...

It is with great delight that Miss Bridget Jones...

Oh for God's sake ...

Dear Mark

Thank you for your invitation. Would love to come.

Yours, Bridget Jones.

Yours, Bridget.

Yours, Bridget (Jones).

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