Bridget Jones's diary

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Friday 8 December

9st 5 (disaster); alcohol units 4 (g); cigarettes 12 (excellent); number of Christmas presents purchased 0 (bad); cards sent 0.

4pm Jude just rang in tears on her portable phone from the loos at work (Jude is Head of Futures at Salomon Brothers). She had just rung the Parisian hotel room of her boyfriend, Vile Richard, where he is trapped by the rising up of the oppressed masses, and been answered by a woman with an Essex accent who knew what time he would be back. Just before we said goodbye she said, between snuffles, "See you at Rebecca's on Sunday."

"Rebecca's? Sunday? What Rebecca's? What?"

"Oh hasn't ... ? She's just having a few ... I think it's just a dinner party."

"I'm busy on Sunday anyway," I lied, brittly. At last - a chance to get into those awkward corners with the duster. I had thought that Jude and I were equal friends of Rebecca, but everyone can't invite everyone to everything.

9pm Popped to Cafe Rouge for a refreshing glass of wine with Sharon and she said, "What are you wearing to Rebecca's party?" Party? So it is a party party, and Sharon hardly even knows Rebecca. Anyway, I'm not going to get upset about it. People should be able to invite whoever they want to their parties.

Saturday 9 December

5.30am Why hasn't Rebecca invited me to her party? Why? Why? How many more parties are going on that everyone has been invited to except me? I bet everyone is at one now, laughing and taking drugs. No one likes me. Christmas is a total party desert apart from a three-party pile-up on 20 December, when I am booked into an editing session all evening.

8am Woken by Mum at 7.45. "Hello darling - just rang quickly because Una and Geoffrey were asking what you wanted for Christmas and I wondered about a facial sauna. By the way, are you coming to the Vibrant TV party on Tuesday?" My heart clunked down like a big pebble in a glass of Ribena. I work for Vibrant TV, for God's sake. "I haven't been invited," I mumbled, ashamedly. There is nothing worse than having to admit to your Mum that you are not very popular. "Oh darling, of course you've been invited - everyone's going." "I haven't been." "Well, maybe you haven't worked there long enough. Anyway ...." "But Mum," I interrupted, "You don't work there at all." "Well that's different, darling. I'm in front of the cameras."

9am Brief moment of party oasis when an invitation arrived in the post but turned out to be party mirage: invitation to a Sale of Designer Eyewear.

11.30 Called Tom in paranoid desperation to see if he wanted to go out tonight. "Sorry," he chirped, "I'm taking Jerome to the PACT party at the Groucho Club." I hate it when Tom is happy, confident and shagging someone, much preferring him having a panic attack or in tears about being sexually repellent. "I'll see you tomorrow, anyway," he gushed on "at Rebecca's." Tom has only ever met Rebecca twice, both times at my house and I've known her for nine years. "It must have got lost in the post or something," he said lamely. Decided to go shopping and stop obsessing.

2pm. Bumped into Rebecca in Graham & Greene buying a scarf for pounds 169. (What is going on with the scarves? One minute they were stocking filler- style items that cost pounds 9.99, next minute they have to be fancy velvet, costing as much as televisions. Next year it will probably happen to socks or pants and we will feel left out if we are not wearing pounds 145 English Eccentrics knickers in textured black velvet).

"Hi," I said excitedly, thinking at last the party nightmare would be over and she, too, would say, "see you on Sunday". "Oh hello," she said coldly, not meeting my eye. "Can't stop. I'm in a real rush."

As she left the shop they were playing "Chestnuts roasting by the fireside" and I stared hard at a pounds 185 Philippe Starck colander, blinking back tears. I hate Christmas. Everything is designed for families, romance, warmth, emotion and presents, and if you have no boyfriend, no money, your mother is going out with a Portuguese tour operator and your friends don't want to be your friend any more, it makes you want to emigrate to a vicious Muslim regime. Anyway, I don't care. I am going to read a book quietly all weekend and listen to classical music.

8.30pm Blind Date was VG. Just going out for another bottle of wine.

Monday 11 December

Returned from work to icy answerphone message.

"Bridget. This is Rebecca. I know you work in TV now. I know you have much more glamorous parties to go to every night but I would have thought you could at least manage the courtesy to reply to an invitation from a friend even if you are too grand to deign to come to her party."

Frantically called Rebecca but no reply or answerphone. Decided to go round and leave a note and bumped into Bruce - the Australian guy from downstairs who I once snogged - on the way out.

"Hi. Merry Christmas," he said leerily, standing too close. "Did you get your mail?" I looked at him blankly. "I've been putting it under your door so you don't have to get cold in your nightie in the mornings." I shot back upstairs, grabbed back the doormat and there, nestling underneath like a Christmas miracle, was a little pile of cards and letters all addressed to me.

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