Monday
December 5th. 9st
13 ( terrible). Items consumed from quivering mass of cottage cheese,
skinless chicken, egg whites, clams, tofu, texturized vegetarian protein
and liver suggested by Better Pregnancy diet: 0. Mini-Crunchies consumed
out of Cadbury's advent calendar: 24. 9.30am.
Ugh, overwhelmed at thought of all things am supposed to do before
Christmas: traditional hideous taste-of-others exam where must spend
next 2.5 weeks running around hysterically, spending money do not have
on things others do not want. Fear it might be like finals at Bangor
University, when kept thinking any second would panic and start revision
but never did, and ended up putting things like: "Blood oh Blood
Iago" - with lines like this we see that Othello is a very good
play indeed!!" - and failing Shakespeare, Romantic Poets and Middle
English. Depressed,
also by swathe of fat round midriff like on leg of lamb, only fatter.
Induces panic since, now am pregnant, cannot go on diet but will simply
get fatter and fatter, fail to lose baby weight, turn into depressed
mother, forbidden to turn up at school by baby as too embarrassing, and
eventually have to be lifted out of window with a crane. Otherwise
everything is fine! (apart from geriatric single parent, no money,
father of baby hanging up when told him was pregnant etc.) Jolly dee! Better
go to work now, before sacked! 11am.
Grrrr. As snuck into office Richard Finch bellowed: "Ah, Bridget!
I'm thinking eye-candy newscasters. I'm thinking beautiful women who
just read autocue. I want a stand-off between you and a wrinkly
on-their-feet reporter." "But
I don't read autocue. I am a reporter," I said, indignantly. "Doesn't
matter. It's what you symbolise that's the thing." "And
what do I symbolise?" I hissed. "Triumph
of style over substance and the fittest titties in Christendom. Try
saying that when you're pissed! Now, I'm thinking Tory leadership
results. "I'm
thinking Bridget Jones versus Kate Adie on a split screen, live from the
Royal Academy." 5.45
pm. Oh
dear. Unable to work up any enthusiasm for Tory leadership contest apart
from in reality show sense of witnessing humiliation of losers. For so
long "Tory Leaders" has simply meant people either with
receding hair or no hair, trying to come up with some sort of
personality, that whole thing now seems reduced to Big Brother-like
quirks to remember which is which: the Scottish doctor one, the Osborne
and Little-owner one, the woman one with the unusual shoes, the naughty
shagger one with the yellow hair. With
Mrs. Thatcher, "Tory" was simple: Loadsamoney, every man for
himself and sod the sturdy beggar poor people - so anyone who fancied
themselves an egalitarian, kind, or arty knew the Tories were bad. But
this "Compassionate Conservatism" is just confusing, like
saying "non-fat full-fat cheese". Unless, of course, you're a
Loadsamoney bastard disguised as an arty/media liberal who wants to vote
Tory but feels embarrassed about it. Like, for example... Daniel
Cleaver. Oh
God, the very thought of him sends a dull ache through my heart. It was
so horrible on Saturday night, when he knew I was pregnant, seeing him
come into the Electric with a gorgeous brunette. Trying to restrain
Shazzer was like holding back a pitbull on a leash, but I didn't want
her to confront him. My
philosophy is that me and the baby are complete in ourselves and all I
need to do is calmly and detachedly observe Daniel to see if he is
worthy to be baby's father. 5.50pm.
Why hasn't he called me? Why? How can any human - or even subhuman - man
be so ungallant and cruel? 5.55pm.
Gaaah! Suddenly found self dialling Daniel's mobile. "It's
Bridget." "Yees.
I see that. Funnily enough, Jones, I was just going to call you." Was
going to sarcastically sneer "oh really?" but suddenly was a
catch in my throat. After all these years, how could I have ended up
pregnant and still ringing Daniel pathetically to see why he hadn't
called? Felt
like Fanny in Far From the Madding Crowd who got pregnant by Sergeant
Troy and ended up dying in the snow outside the poorhouse. "The
point, is, Jones, you were joking the other day? about..." - he was
clearly panicked -"I mean, I assumed you were, when I hung up. I
was going to ring back and quip that I was dying of cancer but someone
came to the door and..." "I
wasn't joking." There
was a click. I couldn't believe it. He'd fucking well put the phone down
again. 6pm.
He just called back: "You're not serious?" "I am serious.
I'm pregnant." "And
who's the father? Just kidding, Jones. I'm going to come round!" Was
unbelievable - first that Daniel, like Mark Darcy, had immediately
assumed he was the father and secondly that, there was an unmistakable
note of thrilled pride in his voice. Was beginnging to understand
something. Everyone thinks women who have children late are just stupid
and don't think about it, then suddenly go "Right,want a baby!
Gaaah! Too late." The
truth is much more painful: that men in their thirties are mad fuckwits
who refuse to commit to having children because they don't need to and
women do. It's
only when they hit their forties and have their own version of
existential angst that they want them. Or
maybe men just daren't commit to the idea of babies but like it when
they come. If only I'd known all this I'd have just had a baby on my own
years ago and never mind waiting for a man. Mmmm. Cannot help
fantasising about having a baby with Daniel now I know he's happy. It
would be hilarious. He's so funny and charming, Mmm. Mmmm. Just
imagining how sweet he'd be, cuddling a little baby. 8pm.
Daniel appeared up the stairs with a bunch of red roses, looking
unbelievably gorgeous. He took me gently in his arms, and whispered tenderly: "Don't worry, Jones. I'll take care of everything. I mean, I'm assuming you want to, you know, get rid of it? Jones? Aaaargh. Ow! Bloody hell!" |