Bridget Jones's Diary

Friday 11 July

9st 1 vg, alcohol units 3 (excellent) cigarettes 12 (worrying as against spirit of New Labour) calories 2,242 (g).

12.30pm. Everything v. bad especially love life, finances, family, and career. At least, though, have support of friends, in manner of urban telephonically connected surrogate family. Last week things looked up at work as Richard Finch finally noticing my intelligent seriousness put me on heavyweight item about Jonathan Dimbleby's Chris Patten book . Had to go to meeting with Richard and Tory huffer puffer guys about dissembling the Chinese or similar. Was a few minutes late,and when I took my coat off they all just stared.

After a weird pause Richard said, "I do apologise, gentlemen," then hissed, "Go and sort out your ar**ing skirt." Turned out the skirt - which was not that short - had ridden itself up under my leather coat so seemed was merely wearing pants tights and sash. Honestly. Was not exactly my fault, was it? But now he has demoted me to lightweight woman-type item about needing to start plastic surgery at 25 and says this is last chance. V Interesting, though as clearly plastic surgery is on brink of becoming normal instead of something mad old film stars do.

So on top of diet, gym, legwaxing, dry skin brushing, eyebrow plucking etc. etc. we will any second be expected to have TCA peels, double chin microsuction, nose to mouth line fat transplants, undereye CO2 lasers etc. etc. as well. Feel complicated mixture of glad it is not necessary to turn into wrinkly old bag and doom of nightmare future upkeep years and never able to relax into being comfy granny. Ooh telephone.

12.45pm Was Simon.

"Will you come for a drink at lunchtime?."

"No!," I hissed, furtively checking for Richard Finch, "I am doing an interview with a top plastic surgeon at 2.45."

"Please Bridge, it's important."

"No," I said, uncertainly.

I mean you have to be a good friend, don't you, as that is all you have to rely on...

"Please."

"Oh all right then," I said. Interview is all set up. Anyway will just stay for five minutes.

Simon was looking all jumpy. "So ... what?" I said, thinking maybe he was going to say he wanted to go out with me, so I could say I didn't want to spoil our friendship, feeling in a superior position, then change my mind three days later at which he would say he didn't want to spoil our friendship now then we could fall out with each other then make up so it could provide really quite an interesting summer diversion for all our friends.

He fiddled with his drink, "You know you were asking about whether men hated it when women made noise during sex?"

"Yup, yup, yup," I said, nodding nervously.

"What about ... the other way round. Do girls not like it if men make noise during sex?"

I racked my brains frantically trying to remember if Simon had made noise during our accidental incident and what kind of noise so as not to hurt his feelings.

"Ummm, they do but," I began.

At that moment Shazzer burst in from nowhere. I mean how did she know we were there?

"Women want murmurs of appreciation followed by slightly more exaggerated expressions of ecstatic finality but nothing more than that," she said tartly, completely taking over. "A woman does not want histrionics or hysterical loss of control."

At this Simon went all sulky. I looked in bafflement from one to the other. What was going on?

"I think it's a personal thing, isn't it, all this?" I said brightly to smoothe things over.

"Oh just shut up, Bridget," snarled Shazzer.

"No. She's got a perfectly valid point," said Simon.

"Oh she has, has she?" said Shaz.

"Yes," went on Simon in a horrible Anthony Clare voice. "There are all sorts of things in the, the physical world which there's no hard and fast rule about..."

"Oh yeah, like what?" growled Shaz, glaring at me. "Perhaps Bridget can make some suggestions? `Bridget this', `Bridget that'."

I stared down at the table, blinking hard. Why was Shaz suddenly being so horrible?

"Oh I'm going," growled Shaz, jumping to her feet. "I'll leave you two to it." And inexplicably flounced out.

"Look, don't worry, Bridge, I can explain," said Simon then bent down and gave me a peck on the lips. Then he did it again as if he was trying to start something. At which Sharon burst back in.

"l saw that, I saw that," she said. "God, you two really are the pits," then stormed out again. Just then I looked at my watch and shrieked. It was 25 to three.

I shot out and started running towards the office. Sensibly I was modestly dressed in a long white Miss Selfridge virgin outfits dress. Then I felt a drop of rain. Within about one minute it was as if someone was pouring a hose pipe on top of me. I ran with my bag over my head thinking I could get through it, then a white convertible Escort whooshed past close to the kerb and spurted up a wave of puddle and all the gits in it burst out laughing. The dress was now completely see-through.

I got to the office and shot up the stairs thinking I could get Patchouli to swap clothes but suddenly the swing doors opened and Richard Finch came out with the plastic surgeon.

I froze, dripping.

"It's all right dolly droopy drawers," said Richard. "I thought you'd probably turn up stark naked. You can do the interview like that. I wanted you to ask Dr Wilson if he thinks you need liposuction at your age and now we'll all be able to see what the answer is won't we?"