Saturday 10 December

Alcohol units: 0 (vg); cigarettes: 0 (vg;) glühwein fumes: extensive; gherkins: 27 (eerie).

10am. Ugh. Last thing feel physically or emotionally able to do is to drive to Grafton Underwood for Christmas Market on the Alconburys' Roman Patio (unfinished DIY carport which became Roman when Una hosted toga party in it). But have no choice, as promised. Am not going to tell Mum re: baby until Christmas. Will simply don camouflaging winter coat, purchase couple of festive toilet roll covers, and come straight back.

10pm. In single bed in parents' house, Grafton Underwood. What was I thinking? In hindsight, was like a murderer wanting to lurk around the funeral of his victim. I wanted to lurk around my mother drinking in her mummyish warmth and fantasising that she approved of geriatric, fatherless pregnancy.

Arrived to glühwein fumes, raucous laughter, and strains of Cliff Richard's "Mistletoe and Wine". The Roman Pillars (aka roofless car-port supports) had really come into their own with lanterns strung between on paper streamers, illuminating the festive stalls. Was initially startled to see some guests in togas. Maybe memory of last summer's party had confused them or perhaps they had simply remained on the Roman Patio, drinking and reminiscing every since.

Geoffrey Alconbury, blindfolded and dressed as Santa, was brandishing a basketful of white moustaches trying, for unexplained reasons, to stick them on people's bottoms. Penny Husbands-Bosworth, clearly plastered, wove past in a plunging red top and white paper hat which said "George Best", asking: "Am I Gary Glitter?"

"No you're not, You're Georgie Best," snapped Mavis Enderbury, whose own hat said: "Kate Moss's drug dealer".

"But I asked Malcolm if I slept with little girls and he said yes."

"Well you didn't. You're Georgie Best. and you're dead."

"But Colin said I wasn't dead."

"Oh do shut up, Penny," said Mavis, whipping Penny's hat off, and thrusting it into her face. Just then, Mum and Una teetered into view, in outfits I recognised from Camilla Parker Bowles' US tour. At first I thought their faces were frozen in horror, then realised it was something eerier. "Oh there you are, darling," said Mum, lips clenched like a ventriloquist's dummy. "Have a glass of glühwein!! We've had to heat it up in the slow-cooker. It's not alcoholic, darling, it's just some orange juice and cloves. Prost!"

"Did your mummy tell you she'd had botox?" slurred Penny Husbands-Bosworth.

There was a commotion on the patio. A lantern had set fire to a streamer which in turn had ignited someone's guessing-game paper hat. I watched, aghast, as my father hurled himself at the literally flame-haired guest, wrestling her to the ground. There was a shocked silence, then Dad arose, gallantly handling the lady to her feet. It was Mark Darcy's mother. Her elegant, bouffed hairdo had a large black crater on top.

"Oh my goodness, am I all right?" It was fortunate that the words "Grafton Underwood" and "lawsuit" are relative strangers to each other.

"Absolutely fine! You look wonderful," boomed Dad, dusting unsuccessfully at the burnt patch as Mum and Una bustled up with scissors.

Took advantage of the distraction to escape into house, remove coat and boots and stretch out on sofa. Was just stuffing face with gherkins and cheesy cubes when heard voices.

"I don't know what she thought she was doing with her hair all bouffed up like that. She looked like a mousse, or an elk."

"Well that's Elaine Darcy for you, isn't it? She's like something out of the ark."

Froze as Mum and Una appeared in the doorway, taking in enormity of my coatless frame

"Bridget! What have you eaten. You're like a balloon!" said Mum, as if I'd caused the whole thing in one sitting, by eating a sheep.

"I don't think it's eating that's done it," said Una pointedly.

They stared, then turned away, whispering. When Mum looked back she could equally have been furious, delighted, or constipated.

"Bridget," she hissed. "Are you preggy?" (Ugh - unexpectedly disgusting word.)

They stared at my body as if I was brood mare. Toyed briefly with whinnying but plumped instead for horse-like silence.

"I told you. She is!" said Una.

"Well, I mean, I..." stuttered Mum. "You're going to have to have it looked at, Bridget because it could easily come out a mongol at your age."

Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she didn't mean to say it. But she still said it and I will never forget. People are supposed to be pleased and congratulate you when they find out you're pregnant, even if you are an older mother. Here is a list of the reactions I have got.

Baby's father: You are going to get rid of it, aren't you?

Baby's Auntie Magda: It's completely irresponsible.

Baby's Auntie Shazzer: Try not to leave it in a shop.

Baby's Granny: It's going to come out a mongol at your age.

(Mind you, suppose own initial response: "Gaah! Am having the menopause," was not that great either.)

Bravely drew self up to full height (which, these days, is nearly the same as my width) and hissed. "If 'it' is, as you so offensively put it, 'a mongol', then I shall love her more than ever."

"You see, Pam! She is pregnant."

"Who's the father? Is it Mark? "

"No," I said, kicking the coffee table sulkily.

"Well then, who is it?"

"It's a virgin birth."

"Don't be silly, Bridget," snapped Mum. "You're going to have to stop eating, you know. Or you'll end up like Penny's daughter. Mind you, she enjoyed being grotesque."

There are many things I wish I'd said, but all I managed was: "Excuse me, I've to go and puke up."

Anyway am going to go to sleep, get up early and drive back to London and sanity. Should only take 1 /₂ hours if leave at 9.

Sunday 11 December

1.30pm. Bedfordshire. Have been sitting in traffic jam for 5¹/₂ hours looking at billowing flames and black smoke. Hope is not in some way connected with glühwein or Mark Darcy's mother's hair.