Bridget Jones's Diary (Bridget Jones, #1)

by Helen Fielding

books by unreadable literary authors to put impressively on shelves;

Sulk about having no boyfriend, but develop inner poise and authority and sense of self as woman of substance, complete without boyfriend, as best way to obtain boyfriend.

Not go out every night but stay in and read books and listen to classical music.

How’s your love life, anyway?” Oh God. Why can’t married people understand that this is no longer a polite question to ask? We wouldn’t rush up to them and roar, “How’s your marriage going? Still having sex?”

Love the lovely computer messaging. Must work on spelling, though. After all, have degree in English.

Sometimes I look around the office as we all tap away and wonder if anyone is doing any work at all. (Is it just me or is Sunday a bizarre night for a first date? All wrong, like Saturday morning or Monday at 2 p.m.)

Being a woman is worse than being a farmer—there is so much harvesting and crop spraying to be done: legs to be waxed, underarms shaved, eyebrows plucked, feet pumiced, skin exfoliated and moisturized, spots cleansed, roots dyed, eyelashes tinted, nails filed, cellulite massaged, stomach muscles exercised. The whole performance is so highly tuned you only need to neglect it for a few days for the whole thing to go to seed. Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if left to revert to nature—with a full beard and handlebar moustache on each shin, Dennis Healey eyebrows, face a graveyard of dead skin cells, spots erupting, long curly fingernails like Struwwelpeter, blind as bat and stupid runt of species as no contact lenses, flabby body flobbering around. Ugh, ugh. Is it any wonder girls have no confidence?

However, one must not live one’s life through men but must be complete in oneself as a woman of substance.

and is everything I am not.

But when they are together with their married friends I feel as if I have turned into Miss Havisham.

Wise people will say Daniel should like me just as I am, but I am a child of Cosmopolitan culture, have been traumatized by supermodels and too many quizzes and know that neither my personality nor my body is up to it if left to its own devices. I can’t take the pressure. I am going to cancel and spend the evening eating doughnuts in a cardigan with egg on it.

I know what her secret is: she’s discovered power. She has power over Dad: he wants her back. She has power over Julio, and the tax man, and everyone is sensing her power and wanting a bit of it, which makes her even more irresistible. So all I’ve got to do is find someone or something to have power over and then . . . oh God. I haven’t even got power over my own hair.

“I must say,” said Natasha, with a knowing smile, “I always feel with the Classics people should be made to prove they’ve read the book before they’re allowed to watch the television version.”

Eighteen years—wasted. Eighteen years of calorie- and fat-unit-based arithmetic. Eighteen years of buying long shirts and sweaters and leaving the room backwards in intimate situations to hide my bottom. Millions of cheesecakes and tiramisus, tens of millions of Emmenthal slices left uneaten. Eighteen years of struggle, sacrifice and endeavor—for what? Eighteen years and the result is “tired and flat.” I feel like a scientist who discovers that his life’s work has been a total mistake.

If there is a God I would like to humbly ask Him—whilst making it clear that I am deeply grateful for His suddenly turning Daniel inexplicably into a regular feature after so much fuckwittage—to stop him getting into bed at night wearing pajamas and reading glasses, staring at a book for twenty-five minutes then switching off the light and turning over—and turn him back into the naked lust-crazed sex beast I used to know and love. Thanking you for your kind attention, Lord, regarding this matter.

Vile Richard, with whom she is currently split up, keeps ringing her, dropping little verbal baits suggesting he wants to get back together to make sure he keeps her interested, but protecting himself by saying he just wants to be “friends” (fraudulent, poisoned concept). Then

Eventually he managed to slide his hand over my stomach at which point he said—it was so humiliating—“Mmm. You’re all squashy.” I couldn’t go on with it after that. Oh God. It’s no good. I am too old and will have to give up, teach religious knowledge in a girls’ school and move in with the hockey teacher.

“I was kind of hoping to get out of it.” The line went quiet at the other end. “Dad?” There was a muffled sob. Dad was crying. I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if I’d been married to Mum for thirty-nine years I’d have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator. “What’s wrong, Dad?” “Oh, it’s just . . . Sorry. It’s just . . . I was hoping to get out of it too.”

Oh God, I’m so depressed. I thought I’d found something I was good at for once and now it’s all ruined, and on top of everything else it is the horrible ruby wedding party on Saturday and I have nothing to wear. I’m no good at anything. Not men. Not social skills. Not work. Nothing.

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 missing Portuguese criminal and your friends don’t want to be your friend anymore, it makes you want to emigrate to a vicious Muslim regime, where at least all the women are treated like social outcasts. Anyway, I don’t care. I am going to quietly read a book all weekend and listen to classical music. Maybe will read The Famished Road.

“But it was so kind of you, taking time off work and everything. “Why did you bother doing all this?” “Bridget,” he said. “Isn’t it rather obvious?”