Saturday 4 March 8st
12, alcohol units 2, cigarettes 0, calories 998 (excellent, v.g.,
perfect saint-style person). A
week of ups and downs - on the Daniel Cleaver front in a depressingly
metaphorical sense. On Wednesday I slunk into the office, crippled with
embarrassment about inadvertently leaving a message on his answerphone
suggesting a drink. (Not my fault. He drove me to it by suggesting it
first, then not calling me.) I had resolved totally to detach myself
from him, but then he appeared looking unshaven, tall, lean, dark and
unnervingly sexy, and started making all the secretaries laugh so that I
went all to pieces. I
was all over the place. Perpetua, who has dumped all her work on to me
while she nurtures Hugo through his cauchemar with Barings, kept ringing
me up with more tasks and hissing about "that little shit, Nick
Leeson". Is it just me who has strangely positive feelings about
Nick Leeson? - more, funnily enough, than about Liam Neeson, even though
they wear the same spectacles. I so much wanted him not to be caught,
but to roam the Far East like James Bond, shooting at pursuers in a dark
suit, being firm and specific about his cocktails. Clearly I have lost
all moral sense and am unable to distinguish between right, wrong and
celebrities, even though I have not yet seen Natural Born Killers. Suddenly,
MESSAGE PENDING flashed up on the top of my computer screen. THANKS
FOR YOUR PHONE CALL. CLEAVE was
the message. The man is a sadist. The phone call was suggesting a date.
Who replies by saying "thanks" and leaves it at that? Had this
happened in the flesh I would have behaved like a fish. But the beauty
of the computer messaging system is that it gives you time to compose
yourself, and think out replies before you need them rather than after.
It removes all barriers of rank - the perfect medium for flirtation.
After a little thought, I sent back, PLEASE
SHUT UP. I AM VERY BUSY AND IMPORTANT. JONES And
after a few moments more, he replied, SORRY
TO INTERRUPT JONES, PRESSURE MUST BE HELLISH. OVER AND OUT. CLEAVE P.S.
I LIKE YOUR BUM IN THOSE LEGGINGS. And
we were off. Frantic messaging continued all week, culminating in the
Sunday night date. Sometimes I look around the office as we all tap away
and wonder if anyone is doing any work at all. (Is
it just me or is Sunday a bizarre night for a first date? - all wrong,
like Saturday morning or Monday at 2pm. Plus I have to attend my godson
Harry's birthday party in the afternoon which gives me little time to
prepare.) Sunday 5 March 8st
11, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 29 (v.v. bad esp in 2 hours), calories
3,879 (repulsive). 11am.
Luxuriate in bed with the papers. Breathless stories about two year olds
taking tests for nursery school make my heart sink at the impending tea
party with its ex-career-girl mothers and their Competitive Child
Rearing. Magda, once a commodity broker, lies about Harry's age now to
make him seem more advanced than he is. Even the conception was
cut-throat with Magda trying to take eight times as much folic acid and
minerals than anyone else. The birth was great. She'd been telling
everyone for months it was going to be a natural childbirth and 10
minutes in she cracked and started yelling, "Give me the drugs, you
fat cow." Must get up. 6pm.
Back in flat
after a nightmare scenario: me plus a roomful of power- mothers one of
whom had a four-week-old baby. "Oh isn't he sweet?" cooed
Sarah de Lisle, then snapped "How did he do in his AGPAR?" I
don't know what the big deal is about tests at two - this AGPAR is a
test they have to do at two minutes. Recently
Magda has been boasting around the nanny circuit that her son is a
defecational prodigy, triggering off a round of boast and counter-
boast. The toddlers, therefore, clearly of the age when they should be
securely swathed in layers of rubberware, were teetering around in
little more than Baby Gap G-strings. I hadn't been there 10 minutes
before there were three turds on the carpet. A superficially humorous
but vicious dispute ensued about who had done the turds, followed by a
tense stripping off of towelling pants, immediately sparking another
contest over the size of the boys' genitalia and, correspondingly, the
husbands'. "There's nothing you can do, it's a hereditary thing.
Cosmo doesn't have a problem in that area, does he?" I
escaped and rushed home with my stomach fluttering about tonight. Two
hours to go. My legs are smooth. The fridge contains a full range of
breakfast items. Outfit choice is down to a shortlist of three. However,
there is still facial-steaming, bathing, moisturising, hair and make-up
and eve- of-battle phone call to Tom to do, so must press on. 7pm.
I can't believe
this has happened. On the way to the bathroom I noticed the answephone
light was flashing: Daniel. "Bridget, sweetheart, {sweetheart?} I'm
not going to be able to make it tonight. I've got a meeting at 10 in the
morning and two manuscripts to get through. Sorry, love. Maybe we'll
make it another time." It
is not fair. I had been doing so well on the no-smoking for Lent and now
I have let myelf down and also eaten four chocolate croissants. Never
mind. Wednesday is National No Smoking Day. I might as well carry on
till then, and then make a completely fresh start. |