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Thursday, December 11 9st
1lb 8oz, alcohol units: (do not want to talk about it); cigarettes: 13,
calories: 3,251 (but was sick). 5am:
Aargh. Have just remembered what happened. Hope was not sick on new
coat. 5.03am:
Why did I do that? Why? Why? Especially after watching alcohol units on
News and telling self was never going to drink more than two units a day
and certainly not consume entire week's units at one party as
specifically instructed not to do by experts. Wish could get back to
sleep or up. 5.30am:
Weird how quickly time goes when you have a hangover. Is because you
have so few thoughts: exactly opposite to when people are drowning,
entire life flashes past and moment seems to last for ever because they
are having so many thoughts. 6am:
You see half an hour just went like that, because I did not have any
thoughts. Oof. Actually head hurts quite a lot. 7am:
Trouble is they never tell you what will happen if you drink more than
two units a day. Does it mean you will get a magenta face and gnarled
nose in manner of gnome or that you are an alcoholic? But in that case
everybody at the party last night must have been an alcoholic. Except
that actually the only people who weren't drunk were the alcoholics,
because they weren't drinking. 7.30am:
Maybe am pregnant and will have harmed newborn child with alcohol. Oh my
God, might have given it leukaemia. Hmm, though. Cannot be pregnant, as
have not had sex. 8am:
Worst of it is being alone in middle of night without anyone to ask how
drunk I was. Keep remembering increasingly hideous things that I said.
Maybe was not that drunk but... Oh no. Have just remembered giving
beggar 50p who, instead of "thank you", said: "You look
really pissed." Suddenly also remember childhood mother saying:
"There is nothing worse than a woman drunk." Or - aargh -
"You know what they'll say if you sleep with a man before you're
married. 'She's easy meat'." Am Yates' Wine Lodge-style easy-meat
gutter floozy. 8.15am:
Think will open curtains. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Surely
is not natural for sun to be that bloody bright in morning. 8.30am:
Anyway. Am going to gym in a minute and am never going to drink again,
therefore is perfect moment to start Scarsdale diet. So actually what
happened last night was VG because this is start of totally new life.
Hurrah! People will say... Oooh, telephone. Was
Shazzer. "Bridge, was I really pissed last night?" For a
moment, I could not remember her at all. "No, of course not,"
I said nicely to cheer Shazzer up, as sure if she had been really drunk
I would have remembered. I "No,
you were lovely, you were really sweet." There
you see. It was just hungover paranoia. Noon:
Doom. When got to work Richard Finch was already in full auto-witter.
"Right, I'm thinking women MPs complaining about sexist behaviour
in the House, I'm thinking Blair's whingeing crybabes. Bridget," he
said, pretending to hold two melons in front of him, "get me
Nicholas Soames to do his John Prescott cruise steward gag and say, if
these stupid birds can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, because
slagging each other off is what parliamentary debate is all about, cor
look at the tits on that," he said at a passing PA as if he thought
he was amusing. "No,"
I said, clenching my fists and noticing a big cardboard tube which I
wanted to hit him with. "Why,
pray?" he said, fondling the imaginary ever-huger melons with an
evil smirk. "Because,"
I said, grabbing the tube and holding it up like an enormous penis,
"Parliament is meant to represent everyone and, just because the
men like braying at each other with cheap putdowns, it doesn't mean
women have to be able to argue like that to have their say." We
stared at each other with our jaws jutting out, he still holding his
melons and me the cardboard tube. "Fine,"
he said, evilly glancing out at the lashing rain. "Oxford Street...
You can stay out there till you find me a shopper who supports the
IRA." 7.30pm:
Futile wet afternoon producing only videotaped hours of incoherent
anti-Irish ranting, and Oriental killer flu in head. Clearly needed
company, so called Magda, who is having a terrible time since she found
unexplained payments to the Ann Summers shop on her husband's credit
card statement. Stupidly, forgot it was feeding time. "Bridget,
hi!" she said. "Look, if you want to do a poo-poo, you ask to
go on the potty." "How's
the Jeremy crisis?" I asked through gritted teeth. "Adulterous
bastard! He still won't tell me who she... Mummy will smack! She will
smack! Can't talk. He's just back and I've got to do the shopping. Now
eat it up!" Next
Jeremy grabbed the phone. "Shopping?"
he bellowed. "Shopping? She means write the ******* shopping list
and fax it to the au pair. And who pays for it? Muggins." Blimey.
Got off the phone asap. Shazzer was out, but found Tom. "So
how's your head today?" he quipped. "Why?"
I muttered, blushing. "Well,
you were pretty far gone last night." "Shazzer
said I wasn't." "Bridget,"
said Tom, "Sharon wasn't there. She was at the Strident TV party
and, I gather, considerably farther gone than you." Humph.
Anyway, goody. Tom is taking me to his works Christmas party tonight and
am not going to drink anything. Hurrah. Friday, December 12 9st
1lb (vg); cigarettes: 12 (vg); alcohol units v.bad. |