Monday 8 May

8.45am. Daniel's Flat. Hurrah. Now Daniel and I are back together am feeling much more confident about desirability as a woman. Have even started to rifle through clothing collection for attractive garments - eg, wearing floaty babydoll nightie which looks quite nice with bump, even though say it myself. Actually starting to feel a bit like Demi Moore posing pregnant on cover of Vanity Fair!!

9am. Humph. Shuffled into kitchen to find Daniel left for work and tabloid page fastened to fridge, blaring headline - "I'm NOT too old to be a mother" - with self's head superimposed on photo of pregnant 63-year-old.

9.05am. Actually, Daniel is just picking up on own irrational insecurities as usual. Everyone is having babies later these days. If he really thought was unusually old to be a mother would not make jokes about it.

9.06am. Yes he would. Oh God... Am going to be dead before baby is teenager. Other children at school gates will say "Is that your granny?" Will end up ringing up Saga holidays and asking if any of their hotels have high chairs in the dining rooms

9.20am. Look, had better go to work and stop imagining self like one of old ladies impregnated in Italian clinic with weird frizzy hair and long teeth in babydoll nightie.

10.15am. Office. There, you see! Everything seems nice agai... gaaah!

11 am. Was Richard Finch, trotting across the room on his chipolata-like legs. "Right. I'm thinking Bridget Jones. I'm thinking Granny-Mummies. I want you with six other older mothers, arguing with an expert who says you're self-indulgent orphan-makers. I want six little kids to guess whether you're grannies or mummies and a Daily Mail photo-shoot tie-in. Oh, and find out if anyone's come up with a pram which doubles as a Zimmer frame and get that in as well."

"But..."

"And while you're at it, ring up No 10 press office and get an interview with Blair."

"What?" I said, insane, "About Granny-Mummies?"

"No, stupid - about the smooth and orderly transition to Brown, and - oooh! See if you can get Cherie in the Zimmer-pram photo as well."

Surely this is not how the journalistic profession ought to be conducted? I mean... Gaaah!

Was Richard Finch yelling at me again. "Come on, Granny-Mummy, you've been staring into space for three minutes...."

"Actually," I said, drawing myself up to my full height, "I think the whole line you're taking is pernicious and bad. Men have been able to have babies any time they like for centuries without everyone complaining. You didn't complain about John Humphrys having a baby did you? Or Paul McCartney? Hmm? Everyone just assumes, 'Oh, oh, it's fine because the women look after the children anyway.' The only reason you're being so horrible is that it threatens your invented notion of women having a sexual sell-by date and men being able to pull girls when they're geriatrics. If women can have kids whenever they want to, men won't be able behave like smug fuckwits and torture them all the way through their thirties, will they? Hmmm??"

"Look," said Richard Finch, pulling a hair out of his nose. "Shut up. When's the grandchild due, anyway? I hope you're not going to plop it out in the office."

Next thing, my mother rang. "Oh hello, darling. Did you see about that lady having a baby at 63! You see!"

What did she mean - "You see!" - like she'd been backing older motherhood for years instead of going "tick-tock, tick-tock".

"Anyway, I was just ringing up about arrangements for Una and I coming to the hospital."

"You mean visiting hours?"

"No, darling. For the birth."

"But..."

"You can't give birth on your own, Bridget," she hissed. "In traditional communities, it was always the elder women of the tribe who...."

Suddenly had hideous image of Mum and Una, cross-legged on the floor of St Mary's in tribal dress emitting primal moaning.

"Got to go, we're on the air!" I lied.

9pm. Fortunately Granny-Mummy item was dropped in favour of fashion policeman slagging off Gordon Brown's hair. Managed to get off in time to meet Jude and Shazzer in the Electric. Daniel said he would come later. Turned out, horrifyingly, I'd been duped into weird American-style "intervention", spearheaded by Magda, with Jeremy, Woney, Cosmo looking self righteous, with Jude and Shazzer sheepish in the background.

"Now Bridget," said Magda, creepily. "The baby's due in a few weeks now. You seem be in a denial bubble."

"We're perfectly ready," I said huffily. "I'm going to make a smooth and orderly transition into Daniel's flat."

"When?"

Just then, Daniel walked in. "Ah, lasagne anyone?" he said, then abruptly walked out again, at which Shazzer bolted after him.

"You've got five weeks to go," Magda went on on. "Have you got a changing table? A pram? Have you bought any nappies? Or bottles?"

"People in Africa manage without any of these things," I said. "They give birth in fields, wrap the baby in batik-print and they're absolutely fine."

"Jones, I will not have my child around garishly printed fabrics, even if you must give birth in a field," said Daniel, as Shazzer strong-armed him back in. "Trust me. Bridget will be moving into my flat before the birth. I'm simply trying to ensure a smooth and orderly trans...."

"She's already tried that one," said Shazzer, drily.

"It's all right, Daniel," said Magda, holding out a piece of paper. "We've ordered everything. Just give us a credit card number and sign here. It'll all be delivered in the next 10 days and installed wherever Bridget says."

"But how extraordinarily thoughtful," said Daniel. "May I take a look?" He glanced at the list: "Marvellous. Just one thing: Haven't you forgotten Bridget's Zimmer-pram?"