Bridget Jones's Diary

Saturday 18 September

Weight: weightless (as am in air, in manner of astronaut). Alcohol units: 7 (irresistible as in-flight and free). Cigarettes: 17 (necessary in order to justify stinking hell of long-haul smoking seats). Calories 3,750.

Mid-air somewhere over Russia (if still exists). V. excited about return. Will be treated with new respect by friends, colleagues, and Mum after bravery in face of false drug-smuggling charge and Bangkok jail ordeal. Am not going to smoke or drink and will be widely seen as spiritually enriched bigger person, woman of substance in manner of Joan Bakewell (though not obviously intending to shag Harold Pinter). Also, am going to get new wardrobe as says in Marie Claire purchased at airport that brown is this season's black (v. bad disaster as no. of items in current wardrobe not black = 0).

Saturday 19 September

8st 2 (yess! yess! triumphant culmination of 18-year diet). Alcohol units: 9 (but Bloody Mary so v. healthy). Cigarettes: 21 (vg). No. of correct lottery numbers: 2 (vg).

Oh God. Arrived at Heathrow with clouting, post-flight hangover trying to purge clothes of remnants of bread and pink toothpaste fraudulently offered as airline dessert, rehearsing lines, in preparation for waiting press phalanx. "It was a nightmare, a living nightmare, a thunderbolt out of the blue. I feel no bitterness, for if others are warned of the dangers of snogging strangers, my incarceration will not have been in vain."

Got through customs without incident and looked around excitedly for Mark Darcy, flashbulbs and loving friends when a familiar voice rang out: "Bridget, oh my poor baby! Durr! What have you got all over you? Now just go back and come out again, Darling. We're doing a quick piece for Suddenly Single." It was my mother clad in a mock-zebra skin, Sixties-style mini- coat with a full TV crew behind her."

"But ... " I began sulkily.

"Now don't start, Bridget, you've caused quite enough trouble already," she said in her worst axe-murderer voice. "Just come out looking nice and miserable while I do my piece to camera, then I can happen upon you."

Humph. Had rather hoped to be "happened upon" by Mark Darcy shortly after arrival, but in absence of him, friends, flashbulbs or indeed anyone was powerless to resist TV mother so reduced to going back and forward through green channel and coming out again repeatedly while mother stood sepulchrally in front of the cameras going, "Parenthood! An overwhelming burden at the best of times - but a burden doubled when one finds oneself Suddenly Single! And, dyer know, that burden doesn't end when the children reach maturity ... " - then turning and gesturing at me as if I were a failed Blue Peter toilet-roll model there to illustrate the perils of not putting the glue on properly and shrieking, "Oh, my poor baby."

Fourteen takes later she was satisfied with her "Oh, my poor baby!" and my relative position at the requisite moment and we were free to go. "We'll drop you off on the way back to the edit, Darling," she trilled. "I've left you a stew in the Slo Cooker."

11am: back at flat. Massive depression. Exactly the same as when go away on holiday and make all resolutions about how different everything will be when get back only to return and find everything exactly the same only slightly worse: no one has noticed you were gone and nothing whatsoever has happened as you had only been away a fortnight.

Thought there would at least be messages on answerphone but had not left it on. Tom is not in and neither is Shazzer, and only mail is bills and thing from John Lewis saying there is a free, striped make-up bag and vile-coloured lipstick with any two purchases of Clarins. No one loves or cares about self. Think will have bloody Mary. Bugger. No vodka.

11.30am: phone just rang, It was Mark Darcy's secretary saying he's had to go to New York. Humph. Going out to get tabloids, tags lottery ticket and hard liquor.

Noon: mmm. Bloody Mary delicious but where is coverage of me in papers? What about me? Me? Me? Me? Why is everyone only interested in Missing Wanderlust Schoolboy. Mind you, come to think about it, I am interested in Missing Wanderlust Schoolboy. Although only whippersnapper, has undeniably sexy, slightly lopsided smile, and air of self-reliance and purpose way beyond his years. Ding dong! Why didn't I bump into likes of him in Thailand instead of bloody "Jed". Could have helped him to develop his spirit of adventure, then escorted him safely home, tired but happy, and become national hero.

V. excited also by sinning priest story. It is always so enjoyable when other people behave unconscionably badly. Feel, however, that founders of support group for victims of shagging priest (because "women who have relationships with priests often have no one to turn to") are being rather partisan. What about others who have no one to turn to? Should surely also be be support groups for women who have been victims of shagging Tory Ministers, members of British National sporting teams who have slept with members of the Royal Family, Roman Catholic clergy who have slept with celebrities or members of the Royal Family and celebrities who have slept with members of the public who have confessed their story to members of the Roman Catholic clergy who have then sold the story to the Sunday papers.

Tom just called. Hurrah! Him and Jude and Shazzer are coming round Hurrah!

5pm: Ar gor es wor blurrygoofun, love blurry lovely friends. Oof. Tumbled over. Geebudisgreat to be back home.