Books: vg? Yeah...

Bridget Amis? Martin Jones? Bill Greenwell swaps heroines

Night Train by Helen Fielding

Thursday 1 January

Aaaargh! Jennifer Rockwell has topped herself. Went along to the flat and blimey, she's blown the back of her head off. Still, had good sense enough to wear turban on head. Not so much tissue on the walls that way.

Anyway. Managed to persuade myself not v. likely case of suicide. Actually, homicide an exciting idea. Was quite convinced, come to think of it, until watched video of autopsy, until buzz-saw removed her skull, and man in white coat found three bullets. Three! Suddenly just knew that the case was not open-and-shut (rather like Jennifer's head in fact).

Sunday 4 January

250 lbs (so what?), alcohol units 0, cigarettes 217 (vg), suspects 3 (OK), ejaculate 2, length of interrogation 5 hrs

Humph. Just visited scene of crime again. Actually, rather rattled. Wearing gorgeous parka coat, which is more than Jennifer was wearing. Since am victim of child abuse myself, v. unsure whether sex an important feature of the plot. Wish had not been called Mike.

23:15 Yessss! Yessss! Have sodding brilliant idea about motive! Slobbing about flat, fantasising about Jennifer blowing brains out, three times, in the nud, suddenly realise that could do it myself. America v. scrotty and depressing, after all.

23:18 Just had floods of tears. After all, if good cop like me down in dumps, what hope for society? Are we all dysfunctional? Bugger.

Bridget Jones's Diary by Martin Amis

Thursday 1 January

The diet is the highway, coasting you to karma. Like a life in a little black dress, hiding in your closet. In your closet. And still you eat the usual shit. The mortician's slab of Emmenthal. The profiteroles from M & S. The felafels from the late-nite deli. Sealed in that thin shimmering clingfilm.

I mean these are your calorific values. I can add them. So I add them. The page is littered with numerals. And then some. Today I messaged my Supervisor. He messaged me right back. Maybe he's got the hot spot for me. It freaks me up. Surely. It does.

Sunday 3 January

Back home I scrape the shit off my legs. It's a babe thing, the men say. It's pumice. Or wax. The epidermis is dead. Maybe on its last legs. Hah. There I am with my jojoba, my lemongrass. I must have done this, for, what, 17 minutes? Like I was in love with the fuckwit.

My legs are like baseball bats. And he buzzed me, right there. Hey. It could be a cohabitation thing. A cohabitation, yeah? Et cetera.