Thursday 23 March 9st
(liposuction soon?), cigarettes 19, alcohol units 2, fat units 8
(unexpectedly repulsive notion: never before faced reality of lard
splurging from bottom and thighs under skin. Must revert to calorie
count tomorrow). I
know for certain that Daniel and I will sleep together tomorrow given
that we have kissed passionately on company premises three times in the
past four days: twice in the lift and once in the books cupboard (does
this mean he will have to resign?). Hints at a weekend in Prague suggest
he has thought better of his no-relationship caveat. So why do I feel
not happy but as if I am on a self-improvement assault course? Surely it
is not normal to be revising for a date as if it were a job interview? I
suspect Daniel's enormous well-read brain may turn into a bit of a
nuisance if things develop. Maybe I should have fallen for someone
younger and mindless who would just, like, cook for me, wash all my
clothes and agree with everything I say. Since
leaving work I have nearly slipped a disc wheezing through a step
aerobics class, scratched my naked body for seven minutes with a stiff
brush; smeared myself with, effectively, salad dressing; cleaned the
flat; filled the fridge; plucked my eyebrows; skimmed the papers and the
Ultimate Sex Guide; put the washing in and waxed my own legs, since it
was too late to book an appointment. Ended up kneeling on a towel trying
to pull off a wax strip firmly stuck to the back of my calf whilst
watching Newsnight. My back hurts, my head aches and my legs are bright
red and covered in lumps of wax. Meanwhile,
I'm frantically trying to drum up some incisive new woman opinion about
the ex-mistress's vengeance on the ex-deputy governor of the Bank of
England. In panic all I can think of is that Mary Ellen Synon looks
exactly like Jennifer Saunders. It seems bizarre that this should be so
overlooked amidst endless speculation as to why she took such immoderate
revenge. I see her slumped over a bottle of Bolly with a fag on, 15
denier legs akimbo slurring, "I schlowed 'im, sweetie, I shnot
gonner take it lying down, schlowed the whole bloody world," and
Joanna Lumley going, "Course you bloody did, darling, quite right.
Wife's a bloody hag." No
wonder Mary Ellen is crazed with rage if she has to go through all this
to start another affair, as well as wandering round pantless trussed in
a suspender belt. Wise
people will say Daniel should like me just as I am, but I am a child of
Cosmopolitan culture, have been traumatised by supermodels and too many
quizzes and know that neither my personality nor my body are up to it,
if left to their own devices. I can't take the pressure. I am going to
cancel and spend the evening eating doughnuts in a cardigan with egg on
it. Saturday 25 March 8st
10, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories 200 (at last have found the
secret). 6pm.
Oh joy. Have spent the day in a state I can only describe as shag-
drunkenness, mooning about the flat smiling, picking things up and
putting them down again. It was so lovely. The only down points were 1)
immediately it was over Daniel said, "Damn I meant to take the car
into the Citroen garage" and 2) when I got up to go to the bathroom
he pointed out that I had a pair of tights stuck to the back of my calf. But
as the rosy clouds begin to disperse, I begin to feel alarm. What now?
No plans were made. Suddenly I realise I am waiting for the phone again.
How can it be that the situation between the sexes after a first night
remains so agonisingly imblanced? Call me old-fashioned, but I think it
is biological. For a man, some part of him, however tiny, will be saying
"Hah!", feeling that a quest has been fulfilled and wanting to
back off. Simultaneously, in the female camp, no matter how cool the
woman believes herself to be, age-old practical needs and
vulnerabilities rear up inappropriately, demanding twigs, feathers and
cosiness. It is a hideous blunder of nature. Now I feel as if I have
just sat an exam and must wait for my results. Oh my God, it's Mother's
Day tomorrow. Monday 27 March 9st
(4 lbs in one day? how?), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 17, calories
3,000. The
last remaining tiny bathmat of security has been pulled from under my
feet. Called my parents yesterday to say Happy Mother's Day and offer
magnanimously to pay surprise visit to deliver enormous gift (not yet
purchased) only to get odd sounding Dad on end of phone. "Er... I'm
not sure. Could you hang on?" I reeled. Part of the arrogance of
youth (well, I say youth) is the assumption that your parents will drop
everything and be thrilled the second you decide to turn up. He was
back. "Bridget, look your mother and I are having some problems.
Can we ring you later in the week?" Problems? What problems? I
tried to get Dad to talk, tried to help, understand, but got nowhere.
What is going on? Is the whole world doomed to emotional trauma? Poor
Dad, poor Mum, poor me. Am I to be the tragic victim of a broken home,
now, on top of everything else? As is the way these days, my mind turns
instinctively to thoughts of compensation. But who is to blame for the
emotional quagmire I find myself in? Cosmopolitan? Society? The feminist
backlash? Myself? Opening my paper it seems policemen are suing police
bosses for something which was the police's fault. Maybe that means it
would be all right to sue Daniel. |