Tuesday 7 February

Mad, ranting e-mails accidentally sent: 15. Jobs thus lost: 1. Friends, co-parents, actual parents, colleagues permanently alienated: 7 (so far), v bad.

Noon. My flat. Unemployed. All seems teetering on brink of meltdown, both personally and on the international stage. Feel like person who drew the Danish Muslim cartoons, or who started the First World War by shooting an Archduke in Bosnia, unleashing earth-shaking maelstrom of consequences out of all proportion to the original action.

What happened was, I accidentally pressed "SEND ALL" instead of "SEND" in my e-mail "DRAFTS" box and now at least 15 ranting e-mails are at large, causing devastating fissures in my domestic and professional life: e-mails which were never intended to be sent but merely written to let off steam/vent hurt feelings without harming anyone - eg as below to Dr Rawlings, GP in charge of pregnancy.

"Dear Dr Warthead,

I am extremely sick of your patronising attitude. Just because a patient is interested to know when exactly her baby was conceived there is no reason to assume they do not know who the father was.

Anyway, more to the point, why don't you get that mole/wart cut off your forehead? It is very hard to take your patronisation seriously when you have a bulbous sticky-outy thing on your head which is probably contagious. You only need to brush one of your patients with your head and they will catch it off you. Why don't you just get it cut off if you are so clever and, as you purport to be, a medical doctor?

Yours, repulsed, Bridget Jones."

Any minute now her receptionist will ring saying I've been struck off, and then I will have to wait six months to get on another doctor's list by which time will have given birth alone with only a bucket of boiling water and both I and the baby will have died in childbirth. Alone. Quite alone and dead.

12.15pm. Look. Must not catastrophise. Everything will probably work out fine. Muslims probably will not unleash World War III but instead start to see funny side of Danish cartoons. Richard Finch may have fired me after he got my "You can shove your job up your fat arse" e-mail. But why else would he call me in for meeting this afternoon if not to invite me back?

6pm. Huh. "Right, my darling," said Finch, his legs propped on the desk like little sausages in tight lime-green skins. "One of the things I've always liked about you is that, given the slightest opportunity, you're going to end up arse over tit with egg all over your face." As I blinked, confused by this odd image of self, he started sniggering. "Who else did you send e-mails to?" "Not telling you," I said hoity-toitily. "...apart from Jeremy Paxman," he added. I gasped, horrified. "How did you know?" I wrote the Jeremy Paxman e-mail, plastered, about a year ago, asking him to get me a job on Newsnight based on the fact that I'd I once interviewed him - both of of us wearing rubber waders - for an item on fly-fishing which was subsequently dropped.

"Me and Paxo: like this," he said, interlocking his forefingers creepily. "Anyway, I've been thinking. What say you, if we take you back..." - my heart leapt - "...for a special reality TV project?" Heart sank again. "If it's that Older Motherhood filming-me-giving-birth idea, I've already said no." "Oi! You're on your uppers here, my darling, remember? Fighting for your career? Anyway it's not that. It's more like Celebrity Big Brother only..." he started laughing, "Only what?" I hissed.

"It's six pregnant single older mothers competing for one broody bachelor." "But where on earth are you going to get a broody bachelor?" "Pay an actor of course. It's all a trick! Funny, no?" "No. And now you've told me, I can't be in it!" I said, triumphantly.

Richard looked momentarily nonplussed. "Well you can present it, then. Now don't start getting on your high horse. I'll give you till tomorrow to decide."

I rose to my feet, furious. "I've already decided. N. O. No. It's fraudulent and tacky and I'd rather have my principles than a job." And with that, I marched towards the door "Bridget!" I paused, heart beating, fingertips on the handle. Had he seen the error of his ways? Had he realised I was an invaluable team member without whom Sit Up Britain could not manage? "I suppose a fuck would be out of the question?"

Pah! I mean, honestly. What can you do with a person like that? Have no one to turn to. Jude and Shazzer hate me since e-mail and cannot blame them, especially as was all a misunderstanding:

"Dear Shazzer,

Clearly you and Jude no longer wish to include me in your 'nights on the town', Maybe I seem fat and boring now I am pregnant. Maybe I can't get drunk and chain-smoke any more. But maybe I, too, see you and your problems in a new light. What previously seemed like interesting feminist theories now seem merely the tragic, bitter ramblings of a disappointed old bag. Maybe men do not want chain-smoking drunks. Maybe they want toxin-free women with new lives burgeoning within them. Like me. So don't think I care, if you and Jude don't want me any more. It is a matter of supreme indifference to me.

Yours, Bridget."

Oh God. How can people ever get over hearing what you really think about them? Except it wasn't what I really thought. It's like talking about people behind their backs. It's just nice, sometimes, pulling other people to pieces, especially when they've hurt your feelings. It makes you feel so much better about yourself and... Gaah! Doorbell.

Was Jude and Shazzer, yelling: "Hello you fat, bitter old bag. We've decided to forgive you."

"Let us in, you boring, tragic cow. We've written you an e-mail."