Bridget Jones's Diary

Dad's eyes are blue and mum's are grey. I made myself raise my brown eyes to Uncle Geoffrey's ... brown ones

Sunday 11 May

9st 2 (doom) cigarettes 8 (vg) alcohol units 0 (fat chance)

11.30 Humph. Sunday. V. pissed off with Jude who has had a new-lover- induced character change. Last night Shazzer and I (who have both got colds owing to world turning into virtual reality-type zone where one minute we are in the Arctic, next minute in Sub-Saharan Africa) were just snuffling and giggling in a non-v-sisterly manner about Paula Yates's father turning out to be Hughie Green when Jude came in or rather glided into 192 above the ground like a hovercraft, beaming beatifically. Frankly, she might as well have had "I've just been shagged senseless on a repeated and thrillingly violent basis for two-and-a-half weeks" tattooed on her forehead.

"I know, poor girl what a nightmare," she breathed, seamlessly joining our conversation looking hideously pretty and glowing. "She must wonder who her secret love-father's going to turn out to be next, Peter Glaze or Cliff Michelmore!"

"So how's the new man," muttered Shazzer sulkily then let out a sneeze hybrid which made snot come out into her hand so she had to put it in her coat pocket and pretend it hadn't happened.

"Well I think he's doing very well don't you - talk about standing start - especially if he goes ahead on the handguns!"

"I don't mean 'Tony', I mean Mr Merchant banker Gold Card Insatiable sex drive Karl," snarled Shazzer.

"I know! It was a joke!" trilled Jude. Jude is not supposed to make jokes. Jude is all supportive and soft and laughs at the jokes of others. Not any more. She went on all evening accusing Shaz of wearing cellulite jodhpurs and telling me when I moaned about my bottom that maybe I was the secret love child of of Cherie Blair before departing laughing tinklingly to shag "Karl" all light and cooing "See you girls. Cheer up! At least you both know who your fathers are!"

Noon. Goody, telephone. Maybe is Shazzer so we can bitch about Jude and "Karl" indoctrinating her to think she is Joan Rivers.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" Huh. My mother.

"What," I snuffled

"We're having a Tony and Gordon Ladies Night at the Rotary! Everyone's going to call each other by their first names and wear lounge suits instead of black tie! Merle Robertshaw's trying to put the kybosh on it because she says no one wants to come in two pieces except the vicar, but that's just because Percival's furious about the handguns. Then Wellington's going to give a speech because he's black! A black man at the Rotary! Imagine! But you see that's the whole spirit of Labour, darling. Colours and ethical like Nelson Mandela."

"I thought the Rotary club was a Conservative Association."

"Oh don't be silly, Bridget," she said, then hissed, "Now you are coming for Sunday lunch today aren't you?"

"Ur," I started then burst out into a cough which brought up phlegm.

"Ugh. Hand over mouth, darling. It's not going to be anything fattening. I'm just doing a lasagne a bit of liver sausage and a baked Alaska. See you at one o'clock bye!"

8pm Lunch, initially, seemed just normally odd: Dad sitting with his back to the French window; Mum, Una and Geoffrey stealing lustful glances behind him to where Wellington was kicking a football round the rockery wearing a new CD Walkman and and the bottom half of an Eau de Nil shell suit; while I did conversational forays to fill the somewhat sexually charged silences. All was well until I brought up Paula Yates.

"She must wonder who her father's going to turn out to be next: like Jimmy Tarbuck, or Large from Little and Large!" I quipped, copying Jude.

"Will you have a bit of beetroot with that, Una?" said Mum icily ignoring me.

"Didn't you hear the story?" I bludgeoned on. "Hughie Green had had a secret affair with Paula Yates's mother then someone announced after he died that Hughie was Paula's secret love-father."

"Do you fancy Baked Alaska, Una," said Mum, with a funny look on her face, "Or shall I open a tin of pears?"

"I'm just going to see to the grate," said Dad getting up and walking out.

Why I thought, over Sunday lunch in our house, did conversation have to be about food and unexplained grates instead of discussing important world events and topical topics?

"Jude thinks Paula Yates looks quite like Hughie ..."

"Una, are you going to the Lifeboat on Monday?" interrupted Mum. "Penny's doing her slides on the Himalayas."

At this Una jumped to her feet, saying, "D'you know, Pam, I think I'll just go sieve that custard," and shot off into the kitchen. I turned to Mum and caught her flashing an unignorable look at Uncle Geoffrey then following Una. The whole room suddenly turned blotchy as I gripped the side of the table mat unsteadily, mind reeling ... Uncle Geoffrey has a small nose which sort of turns up at the end whereas Dad's is more bulbous and Mum's is Roman. Dad's eyes are blue and Mum's eyes (unless she is wearing her turquoise contact lenses) are grey, whereas ... I could feel Uncle Geoffrey shifting uncomfortably in his seat and forced myself to I raise my brown eyes to his ... brown ones. He gave me a couple of twitching half-smiles then jumped to his feet pulling up the waistband on his golfing trousers. "Errr ...herherheherher. Just off to see if Wellington fancies another sherry," he bellowed, gave another braying laugh and shot out through the French windows.

Am the secret love-child of my own "uncle", wannabe pervert, and closet homosexual. It is absolutely disgusting.