Monday 30 January

Days since scan: 7. Calls or e-mails from baby's father: 0. Answerphone checks over weekend: 200. E-mail checks: 0 (BT high speed line broken).

9.15am. Hurrah! At last feel able to draw a line under past and be calm, mature, self-sufficient single parent. E-mail supposed to be back on today. Will be mildly interested to see if Daniel e-mailed over the weekend - but otherwise calmly detached.

Realise, now, was ridiculous ranting with Jude and Shaz on Friday, as if Daniel and I had had sex together, not a pre-natal scan: ridiculous to debate non-dating-co-parent version of dating etiquette: how many days after pre-natal scan should a man call? Is it OK to ask a man to come on a second scan? Honestly! Chuh!

9.30am. Hurrah. E-mail is back on.

9.31am. He hasn't e-mailed. Bastard! Baby is going to be scarred for life and... gaah! Was supposed to send Y/E April 2004 e-mail to accountant from Mail Waiting to be Sent box before 8am.

9.35am. Right. Dunnit. Oh God. Am so late. Ooh, goody! Mobile ringing!

"Jones?"

"Yes, Daniel," I said excitedly, trying simultaneously to convey detached pregnant serenity, intense sexual allure, and scathing disapproval at his non-contacting behaviour.

"Everything all right?"

"Fine, thank you." There was silence. "Why?" I said eventually, starting to panic and wonder what I'd done: driven off with petrol pump attached to car again? Walked down Portobello Road trailing long piece of toilet paper from back of jeans?

"This e-mail you just sent."

"What e-mail?" I gabbled. "I haven't sent you an e-mail."

"30th Jan. 9am. Subject: Fuck off you Fucked-Up Toss-Pot."

I froze, something bad stirring in my memory.

"Shall I read it?" he said, pleasantly. "'Dear Daniel. Your behaviour is beyond the PAIL' - spelt wrong, corrected to PALE. 'Hmm, though, what does that mean? Beyond the bucket?' Interesting musings, Jones. Easier to resolve, I imagine, if you knew how to spell. Anyway, shall I go on? 'Oh fuck it, stupid pointless tosser. Daniel, you are not fit to be a father. You are completely dysfunctional and need to go rehash...'. I assume you mean rehab? 'Yours disgustedly, Bridget. PS: don't bother contacting me again. Ever. You will not even be invited to the birth. Hahahahahahaha!'."

Bit own hand hard, realising what had happened. Wrote tosser e-mail after I told Daniel I was pregnant and he put the phone down on me, then left it in Mail Waiting to be Sent box. Have got into habit of venting feelings in e-mails and leaving in Mail Waiting to be Sent - like writing letters you're never going to send to ease psychological turmoil.

"I realise I haven't called you since the scan, Jones," Daniel was going on. "But even so, it seems a bit extreme."

I must have pressed SEND ALL instead of SEND. What else was in Mail Waiting to be Sent box?

"Just because we go to a scan together, it doesn't mean we're going out together."

Suddenly, through my panic, I heard what Daniel was saying. "What?" I burst out, hypocritically. "I can't believe you've got the same attitude to going to the scan with me as having sex with me."

"Oh come on, Jones."

"No, it's exactly the same. You were carried away with emotion at the time, and now you're denying it had any meaning whatsoever."

"I can't do anything right, can I?"

Grrr. Can't STAND it when men say that after horrible behaviour. "That's like Osama bin Laden knocking down the World Trade Centre and then saying 'I can't do anything right'." I exploded.

Daniel snorted: "a) that's an absurd comparison and b) there's still no reason to send an e-mail like that."

"Actually," I said, "a) I sent it by accident, but b) I wrote it after I told you I was pregnant and you put the phone down on me."

"I never put the phone down on you."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid!"

"Oh, shut up, Jones. What knickers are you wearing?"

Just then the landline rang and the answerphone clicked on. "Bridget. It's Mark. I just got your, er, e-mail."

"Is that that boring old bastard Darcy?" said Daniel. "Look. OK. I did put the phone down. But I was just kidding."

"Well maybe you should stop, 'just kidding'," I hissed, trying to listen to Mark at the same time, whilst frantically pulling up my Outgoing Mail box. "I've no idea what's real and what isn't real."

"To be honest, Jones, neither have I."

"Exactly. That's why you should be in rehab."

Gaaah! Had just sent hundreds of Waiting to Be Sent messages: to Mark Darcy (before I knew I was pregnant, drunkenly blathering about getting back together), Jude, Richard Finch, Dr Warthead...

"I do appreciate your so, er, passionately wanting to re-unite," Mark was saying on the answerphone. "But, you are pregnant by another man..."

"Daniel. I've got to go."

"Wait, look..."

"It's an extreme emergency. Bye."

Mark Darcy had rung off, but phone rang again.

"Bridget." - Shazzer on answerphone: tone glacial - "Just got your e-mail. Thank you for sharing what you really think about me, bitch. Goodbye forever." Click.

Oh no! What did I put? I've got to go. Richard Finch will sack me.

Noon. Walked in to find Finch yelling: "I'm thinking Michael Barrymore. I'm thinking dead-gay-guy-in-swimming pool's father. Get me a list of dead gay celebrities who've, ah... Bridget. Come to clear our desk, have we?"

"What?" I said, panic-stricken.

"Gather round, boys and girls. I'm going to read you Bridget Jones' resignation e-mail. 'Richard. I have absolutely had enough of this disgusting lowest-common denominator form of television. I studied English at Bangor University and really feel I deserve better. Every thought in your head is common and reduces everything to the worst aspects of human behaviour. I do not want to spread cynicism, sexism and prurience through my work, but positivism, serenity and joy. Even though I am pregnant with no money you can stuff your stupid job up your fat arse. Harharhar!'."