Bridget Jones's Diary

Wednesday 19 June

8st 12 ( Yesss!); alcohol units 3; cigarettes 19 (bad); calories 3,467 (v. bad).

Simon rang just when I was doing my toenails. "Bridget, can you come round?"

"What? Why? What?" I muttered grumpily.

"Go on Bridge, please, it's very important."

Honestly, sometimes I think I am some kind of drudge or slave. Turned out Simon had been e-mailing girls in Brazil pretending to be a woman and had finally persuaded one of them to ring him up. I was supposed to pretend to be him, (or "her"), and chat to "Concita" about Damon from Blur, period pains etc, ask if she wanted to talk to my "friend" Simon, then invite her to come to England so that Simon could get off with her. It was a perfect plan except that "Concita" didn't ring.

Told Simon it was probably because "Conchita" was a man too. Love idea of Internet full of sad sex-starved men all pretending to be women and trying to get off with each other.

Anyway, wasted two hours of preparations for Saturday when am to be introduced to Mr Darcy on film set of Fever Pitch by Pretentious Jerome.

Unsure how Pretentious Jerome is going to effect introduction since he is only employed to stop cars when they are filming but he had bloody better do, after I have spent the entire week playing along with Jerome's pathetic pretence to Tom that he is "A consultant to the director".

Also whenever try to boast about Mr Darcy everyone just goes "Oh, but he's got a girlfriend, very young and beautiful, Italian academic," in pitying tones. Result is Mr Darcy's girlfriend has become unwelcome but irremovable role model. Catch sight of bottom in mirror and imagine Mr. Darcy's girlfriend's shiny pert young Italian bottom. Tried to char-grill peppers in manner of River Cafe cookbook which became burnt. Realised Mr Darcy's girlfriend would not produce black crumbling but moist succulent peppers drizzled with exotic oils and stylish weeds.

Keep imagining Mr Darcy and Mr Darcy's girlfriend in minimalist Italian flat full of designer washbasins hewn from slabs of solid limestone eating Haagen-Dazs ice-cream off each other. Humph.

Thursday 20 June

Saturday has turned into dizzying social whirl. Am marvellous. First is Mr Darcy. Then England-Spain match. Not usually keen on football unless have boyfriend, but there is something about the different nationalities which really gets one going.

Find self having more and more admiration for players managing to run up and down gigantic pitch for two hours. Reminds self of hockey when if, through hideous working of fate, was obliged to play (i.e. failed to get excused due to fifth "period" of month, or to get in goal where it was quite legitimate to run out of way of ball since Colleen Palmer got her front teeth knocked out) used to run busily in very tiny and varied shapes to avoid being noticed. Not so the England squad.

Then quite fat man called Dave who lives in same street as me has asked me to go to the opera!!

Do not want to visit opera in itself but v. keen on idea of going on grand date with near-stranger.

Friday 21 June

Turns out bloody stupid opera is great long marathon session which starts at five so will miss end of match.

Rang up Tom who said why not simply take small transistor radio in handbag and plug it into ear, perhaps pretending to be slightly deaf if challenged then can listen to key end of match. Idea is good - very good.

Anyway must practise what to say to Mr Darcy or rather Colin Firth as he is known. Tom says on no account mention Mr Darcy but just chat like normal person not tedious fan.

Saturday 22 June

Midnight: Oh God. Turned up v. nervous at film set. Was just standing like spare part in middle of all film people silently repeating mantra "Mr Darcy is Colin, Mr. Darcy is Colin" when voice beside me murmured, "You must be Bridget." There right in flesh beside self was Mr Darcy. Vision went blotchy and was catapulted lurchingly to sitting in front of telly in cold winter watching Mr Darcy emerge from lake. Grasped wall for support and saw Mr Darcy looking at me with worried expression. "Mr Darcy" I said weakly then hit myself hard on the forehead.

"OK Colin, up at the ground," said a voice bossily. "Coming, Bridget?" It was Jerome who seemed to have engineered himself into loftier position of moving everyone around. Found self walking between Jerome and Mr Darcy but unable to speak single word. Next thing reached gates and Jerome went off so carried on walking along with Mr Darcy.

Suddenly remembered line had practised "It was a very intelligent performance," I gobbled.

"Oh thanks. Which?" he said nicely.

"Oh nothing, nothing the Ruth Rendell mysteries," I said guiltily. "Fever Pitch just now, very intelligent."

Suddenly realised we had stopped outside a door. Looked at door. Was toilet. Realised was on verge of following Mr Darcy into the toilet in manner of mad stalker. He sweetly excused himself and that was it.

Was in mad self-loathing love blur all through match and on way to opera. All went to plan, had radio earpiece secretly in ear blotting out screeching, then got so excited at penalty shoot-out - involuntarily jerked head pulling lead out of radio, so crowd roar crackled out in middle of opera. Dave was livid and in sulk with self for entire evening. Am no good. Everyone rightly despises self. Wonder if could e-mail Mr Darcy in guise of lithe young Italian cool enough to distinguish between stroll to next location and visit to toilet?