Personal Blogs

Dunno about other people, but I have a small shelf in my smallest room where I keep a selection of ‘dippable’ books for those occasions when time and motion are a little out of sync and boredom sets in. One such ‘dippable’ is Bridget Jones’s diary, which thanks to its generally short entries and uncomplicated plot lends itself to casual perusal and irregular, if you will excuse the unintentional pun, acquaintance.

Anyhow. I was flipping through said tome t’other day when I happened to notice that it was first published around fifteen years ago, and I got to thinking that even for a social tread-water like Ms Jones time and tide must move forward...

*

January 1

12st 4 (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 43 (but effectively covers whole day as was woken early by insatiable mother achieving orgasm in next bedroom), cigarettes 58, calories 8, 962 (have not counted chocolate Santa given by mother as this proved to be diabetic chocolate purchased at last minute from chemists when she popped in to buy new batteries for her lady massager).

Noon. London: My apartment.

Ugh. The last thing I need today is another of Una Alconbury’s Turkey Curry Buffets, but mother has already promised we will both be attending and my head is too fuzzled to even contemplate the argument that will ensue if I try to wriggle out of it. Horror of horrors, The Bastard is going to be there too with that miserable bitch Pamela and his mother and father – my ex in-laws, the Darcys – because he’s been staying with them over Christmas and they’re close friends of Una and Geoffrey.

 Thankfully Oliver is away skiing with a classmate until school reopens, so at least we don’t have to play happy families for his sake. I will snub them all – could never stand the Darcys anyway and Pamela is a frightful snob who’s too busy looking down her nose to be worthy of my attention. I’ll flirt with The Bastard for a few minutes, just to let him know what he’s missing, but apart from that they can all take a flying leap into Una’s basmati rice ‘n’pea cold collation.

I wonder if The Bastard will be wearing one of those ridiculous jumpers his mother always buys him? Something of an in joke, but they’ve failed to realise the rest of us stopped laughing years ago.

Mother and I – or should that be mother and me now? I get so confused these days; one never knows quite what’s expected anymore... Let’s see, would I say ‘I’ or ‘me’? Yes. Mother and I went to Les Mis again last night as Philip, her new man (hideous – wears pink shirts and gold accessories. Sells cheap jewellery from a small, dark shop that smells of leather and furniture polish) hadn’t seen it and it’s mother’s favourite. I paid for the tickets weeks ago using the card The Bastard gave me for school outing emergencies (they never let me know until Oliver gets home on the Friday before with a permission slip, and I’m certainly not paying for them out of the settlement money), but Philip paid for the champers and the meal beforehand.

I think Philip would have been happy with one of those chicken bucket thingies from the high street, but I took them to this fabulous new Vietnamese fusion place Jude recommended. We had to wait ages for a table and missed the start of the show but it was worth it. Lucky to get in at all, really, they said, without an advance booking, but they managed to squeeze us in because of a last minute cancellation. I was surprised to find a hair in my Gȯi Cua Tȏm Hùm – not what you expect when you’re paying those kind of prices – but the waitress was very apologetic. The manager offered to comp us our whole meal but I told him not to be so silly. I hate making a fuss. Phillip looked annoyed, but I saw him wince so assume mother had corrected him under the table. I really do dislike people who are tight with money. I mean, what’s the point of having it if you don’t enjoy it?

God, he’s just come into the kitchen – best shut down for now. He’s wearing mother’s housecoat which barely ties around the middle. Gosh, he’s very hairy – like a bear in a baby-doll. Ugh. Something just walked over my grave...