Wednesday
11 January Weight:
10st 2lb; Lbs gained more than should at this point: 8(bad); Alcohol
units: 0 (torture); Babies: 1 though (vg). 8pm.
My flat. Nightmare day at work. Richard Finch started off, bouncing
round the room yelling: "Right! I'm thinking Blair's 'Respect'
initiative, I'm thinking graffiti, I'm thinking council-estate thugs, I'm
thinking respect... I'm thinking respect... I'm thinking respect..." He
ground to a halt like a wind-up toy winding down. The assembled team
stared at him, mildly interested. Found self wondering if repetition of
so alien a concept had short-circuited his brain. "Respect!"
Freddo burst out, in his Cambridge falsetto, stepping valiantly into the
breach like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music when Captain Von Trapp
loses all heart for "Edelweiss" during the Salzburg talent contest. "Where
has it gone? What has happened to it? Where are our English values? -
cucumber sandwiches, Thomas the Tank Engine, the red pillar box, the
thud of tennis balls, the vicar on his bicycle, we shall fight them on
the beaches, an Englishman's word is his bond?" "Jesus
Fucking H Christ, shut up, Freddo," interrupted Richard Finch, wiping
snot off his nose. "I've just realised something earth shattering. The
question we've all been asking ourselves is answered." Everyone
stared at me. "What?" I hissed. "Oh
come on, Bridget. You are, aren't you? Up the duff? Why else would a
woman not drink at the office Christmas party!" The
said "Christmas party" - held only last Thursday - consisted of the
trusty team, festivitied-out, slouching reluctantly to the upstairs room
of the pub and drinking crap white wine ferociously on empty stomachs to
ease the pre-Christmas deja vu. Two people had thrown up by 7.30.
Patchouli was sent home comatose in a taxi at 8 and the whole sordid,
strip-lit, wilted-decoration affair was over by 9.30. I was, it is true,
the only person sober. "It's
scientifically proven! And I'm here to announce our New Year Special
Strand! Older Motherhood: Bridget Jones's pregnancy and childbirth -
live on camera." Grrr.
I mean: what kind of schizophrenic, split-personality culture do we live
in? On the one hand, if a woman doesn't get plastered at the office
party, the only possible explanation is that she's pregnant. On the
other hand, the leader of the Liberal Democrats is obliged to resign for
- as far as can see - being bit of a pisshead in manner of everyone else
in the country. He's certainly not as much of a pisshead as Winston
Churchill, who used to start the day with two scotch-and-sodas in the
bath and carry on drinking till bedtime. What
has Charles Kennedy done exactly? He hasn't been pictured falling out of
a taxi with lipstick smeared all over his face and a strap falling of
his shoulder. I
mean we're not in bloody California, are we? We're not in the land of "
Oh look, you've had a glass of wine at lunchtime - better go to rehab."
Hmm. Maybe I should start writing a newspaper column with my opinions.
Oh goody, telephone! "Oh
hello, darling, did you see?" - my mother - "Elizabeth Hurley is buying
her wedding dress from Debenhams." Grrr.
This is the latest thing with Mum. Having subjected me to years of "
When are we getting you married off?" to make me have babies; now that I've
got pregnant, in a sickening, last-ditch, far-too-old attempt to have it
all, she's trying to get me married before I have the baby. I mean: as
if Daniel is going to marry me. He can't even manage to speak to me. "There's
no need to go all quiet, Bridget," she said huffily, adding, lyingly, to
disguise her passive-aggressive "get married" as something less
sinister. "I was only showing you that Debenhams isn't as unfashionable
as you think." "I
think you'll find Elizabeth Hurley's point was precisely the opposite,"
I said through grinding teeth, "ie she's friends with so many
fashionable designers that the only way to avoid offending them is to
get her dress from somewhere completely unfashionable." There
was only a second's alarmed hesitation, and then: "Don't be silly,
Bridget. Elizabeth Hurley wouldn't say something like that about
Debenhams. Anyway don't you think what Tony Blair is doing about Respect
is marvellous? I only wish Daddy and I had had access to those parenting
classes when you and Jamie were small." I
took a deep breath. "You think I have no respect?" "Well,
I'm not saying you don't have any respect darling. But when it comes to
certain things... I mean Debenhams is a very long-established department
store." "I
don't think Tony Blair was talking about respect for Debenhams, Mother."
"Well
what does he mean, then? He should make himself more clear." "He
means... er..." I
tailed off. Respect for not doing graffiti? Respect for politicians who's
main thing is spinning everything? The problem is, it's the wrong way
round. You can't tell people to respect people - people respect people
for behaving in a ways they respect. As
I said at work only this afternoon: "The only leader I see people really
respecting is Prince William. I can see him shaping up to be a
spectacular new kind of global leader, insisting on going to Iraq to
fight like all the other boys at Sandhurst, making speeches thundering 'If
a country cannot send its heir to the throne to field of conflict, if
politicians will not send their own sons to die on that field, then let
us ask ourselves - is that a conflict we ought to be fighting?'" "Iieeuw,"
Finch interrupted leerily. "Bridget wants to shag Prince William while
she's pregnant!" "I
think Bridget's confusing Blair's concept of 'respect' with 'want to
shag'," snorted Freddo, with a high-pitched whinny. I
mean, honestly. At least "want to shag" nails it down a bit. You don't
want to shag people you don't respect, do you? Oh, though. What about
Daniel? And come to think of it... actually, I think I'll just go to
sleep now. |