Bridget Jones's Diary

Tuesday 25 February

9 stone 2 (eek, too fat for wedding dress); alcohol units 7; cigarettes 32 (but have to get in quick before life-sentence).

God's teeth! (marvellous, cool-sounding, bitter, jaundiced expression picked up from Tom, who got it from pretentious Jerome). Mark Darcy's asked me to marry him. Was originally for five-year fixed term with option to renew after four, but he got all soppy on Valentine's Day and extended it to LIFE with minimum term served of 25 years. Cannot believe I'm in quandary after years of mumbling sheepish apologies for not being married at parental dos, trying to convince new dates I'm not on shelf due to entire body under clothes being covered in scales or similar hideous secret flaw, but because am marvellous independent shampoo-advert-style person, despite spending entire days panicking at inevitability of dying alone and being found three weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian.

Situation not helped by absence of points of reference - ie self-help books to deal with same. All have to turn to is deranged advice given in formative years by Mother, eg "Your wedding day will be the happiest day of your life", at which instantly knew wedding day would not be happiest day of life but day when spilt nail varnish on dress, suddenly realised was inadvertently about to marry Jimmy Tarbuck, Simon Mayo, clammy bank manager or similar, but too embarrassed to pull out at last minute, then started period when walking down aisle. Other advice: "You know when you meet the person you should marry because you feel you can't live without them." Distinctly remember at height of sex-frenzy having an unmistakable impression that could not live without mad, alcoholic, commitment-phobic sadist Daniel Cleaver, which only goes to show she's talking bollocks.

Maybe best thing is to be single while convincing yourself you really want to be married and are only prevented from being so by cruel will of gods, tragic social phenomenon or similar and it is only a matter of time until curse is lifted. In same way as it is OK to smoke as long as you're always convinced you're giving up tomorrow and therefore are not really a smoker/tragic spinster.

Would be v nice to get big stash of presents though. Wonder if could have wedding list at Agnes B. Also would v much enjoy showing off to Jude and Shazzer by being dressed in Bride's Outfit while forcing them to walk respectfully behind me dressed as pink puff-balls and holding my train, but not sure if this could be considered adequate reason for joining together of man and woman in sight of (and therefore close proximity to teeth of) God.

But love lovely Mark Darcy and of course must accept. Aargh aargh, though. Will mean cannot go out with Jude and Shazzer then come back and chain- smoke while dancing to records in front of mirror but instead must slip soberly into sheets ready for tight-lipped breakfast at breakfast bar with toast racks and Portmeirion egg coddlers while reading broadsheet newspapers instead of Hello! Dooom. Doooom. Oh goody, telephone.

Was Shazzer to see if I'm coming to 192 with her and Jude, but I'm going to stay at home practising being married woman instead. Honestly, Shaz is so unromantic. She says I should make a list of pros and cons of marrying Mark Darcy. As if I would do that! As if I was trying to decide whether or not to buy lilac satin mules with swansdown puff on the toes from Agent Provocateur or a flat or something.

Pro: v nice, v sexy.

Con: genuine pervert. Sleeps with rabbits and wants to put my scary pants on.

Pro: non-alcoholic, non-commitment phobic (evidently), non-sadist, non- smoker, non-married, non-gay, non-mad. (Freakish miracle when come to think about it).

Con: Makes self feel disaster in comparison. Always going on at self for having a little harmless refreshing cigarette or bottle or two of chardonnay every now and then.

Con: votes Tory.

Pro: v rich.

Pro: could show off about wedding to mother.

Con: thought of mother in full Grafton Underwood, Alconbury/Enderby Husbands- Bosworth wedding preparation frenzy, suicide-inducing.

Pro: could give birth to offspring like normal woman instead of Miss Havisham-pod-womb. Umm. Lovely tiny things - could be photographed like Yasmin Le Bon or woman in Calvin Klein ad running along beach with offspring, wild and free. Yes, yes. Will ring Magda and tell her joyful news.

Humph. Unfortunately could not get word in edgeways with Magda who has just had about her millionth baby in manner of Gro-bags - plop, plop, plop.

"You know I had mastitis," she launched off, while I shuddered, trying not to think about the hideous cow-milk-and-boil-style mystery illness. Cannot understand why female Smug Marrieds always casually launch into anecdotes about slashings and stitchings Down There and effusions of blood, milk, pus, poison, newts and God knows what as if making light social chit-chat. "Anyway - Woney said to put a couple of cabbage leaves in your bra - it has to be savoy - and after about five hours it draws out the infection. Obviously it gets a bit manky, with the sweat and milk and discharge. And Jeremy got a bit annoyed about me getting into bed with all the bleeding Down There and a bra full of damp leaves but I feel so much better! I've practically used up a whole cabbage!"

Oh God. Feel really sick. Will clearly have to go to 192 now for calming bloody Mary to settle stomach: no alternative.

2am Argor. Eswor blurry goofun. Berthan cabbage bra. Will prax doin married woman in morning - oops