Bridget Jones's diary

Friday 21 July

8st 13, alcohol units 4 ( modest), cigarettes 21 (fine), instants 4 (a mere nothing)

At four o'clock in the office, just when Perpetua was breathing down my neck so she didn't end up late for her weekend in Gloucestershire at the Trehearne's, the phone rang. "Hello, darling" - my mother - "How are you, I've been so worried about you." So worried that she hasn't rung me for two weeks. "Listen. I've got the most marvellous opportunity for you."

"What?" I muttered sulkily.

"You're going to be on television," she gushed as I crashed my head on to the desk. "I'm coming round with the crew at 10 o'clock tomorrow. Oh darling, aren't you thrilled?"

"Mother. If you're coming round to my flat with a TV crew, I won't be in it."

"But you must," she said icily.

"No," I said, but then a horrible vanity got the better of me, "Why, anyway?"

"Oh, darling," she cooed, "They're wanting someone younger for me to interview on Suddenly Single, someone pre-menopausal and suddenly single who can talk about, well, you know, darling, the pressures of impending childlessness and so on."

"I'm not pre-menopausal, mother," I exploded. "And I'm not Suddenly Single, either. I'm suddenly part of a couple."

"Yes, but you were Suddenly Single until five weeks ago," she hissed. I could hear office noises in the background.

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I wasn't. I was Single, but I wasn't Suddenly. I hadn't had a boyfriend for 18 months," I said, suddenly glancing over my shoulder at Perpetua, who was smirking.

"Oh please, darling. I've told them I've found someone."

"No."

"Oh pleeeeeese. I've never had a career all my life and now I'm in the autumn of my days and I need something for myself," she gabbled as if reading from a cue card.

"Someone I know might see. Anyway, won't they notice I'm your daughter?"

There was a pause. I could hear her talking to someone in the background. Then she came back and said, "We could blot out your face."

"What? Put a bag over it? Thanks a lot."

"Silhouette, darling, silhouette. Oh please, Bridget. Remember, I gave you the gift of life. Where would you be without me? Nowhere. Nothing. A dead egg. A piece of space."

The thing is I've always, secretly, rather fancied being on television.

Saturday 22 July

9st 3 (why? from where?), alcohol units 7 (Saturday), cigarettes 27 (positively restrained considering), number of correct lottery numbers 0.

The crew had trodden a couple of wine glasses into the carpet before they'd been in the house 30 seconds, but I'm never too fussed about that sort of thing. It was when one of them staggered in shouting "Mind your backs", carrying an enormous light, bellowed, "Ere Trev, where do you want this brute?" then overbalanced, crashed the light through the glass door of my drinks cupboard and stepped in a vase which was standing by the rubbish bin, then knocked over an open bottle of extra virgin olive oil on to my River Cafe cookbook, that I realised what I'd done. Three hours after they arrived they were still crashing around saying, "Can I just cheat you this way a bit, love?" By the time we finally got going with mother and I sitting opposite each other in semi-darkness, it was nearly half past one.

"And tell me," she was saying in a caring, understanding voice I'd never heard before, "when your husband left you, did you have ..." she was almost whispering now, "suicidal thoughts?"

I stared at her incredulously.

"I know this is painful for you. If you feel you're going to break down, we can stop a moment," she said hopefully.

I was too livid to speak. What husband?

"I mean it must be a terrible time, with no partner on the horizon, hearing that biological clock ticking away," she said, kicking me under the table. I kicked her back. She jumped and let out a little noise.

"Don't you want a child?" she said, handing me a tissue.

At this point there was a loud snort of laughter from the back of the room. I had thought it would be fine Daniel staying in the bedroom because he never wakes up till after lunch on Saturdays and I'd put his cigarettes on the pillow next to him. "If me and Bridge had a kid she'd lose it in three days - she'd leave it in the off-licence," he guffawed. "Hey, hon, haven't we got any beer in? Hi Mrs Jones. Bridge, why can't you get all done up on Saturdays like your Mum?"

Monday 24 July

Humph. Daniel was awful all weekend. My Mum is not speaking to either of us for humiliating her and exposing her as a fraud in front of her crew, but she seems to have got away with it. At least she might leave us alone for a bit now.

Very excited by the Home Office's new mathematical equation to work out whether offenders will reoffend. Feel similar equation should be applied to potential boyfriends - begin with 100, subtract age of offender, divide by four if over 30, divide by number of ex-partners, subtract square root of the number of daily alcohol units, multiply by number of abandoned children or pregnant partners times pie to the power of four, subtract five for relationships ended by fax or answerphone message, divide by four for each previous girlfriend who is not speaking to them. If the score is less than 20, I will probably end up going out with them.