Bridget Jones's Diary

Holy pants! Who have Shazzer and Jude gone and fixed me up with now?

Saturday 5 October

8st7(good); alcohol units 12 (bad); cigarettes 24; correct lottery numbers O (poor): identical black ribbed tops bought from Jigsaw, Agnes and Whistles 4 (insane)

Noon: Hurrah! Wake up! Time to shop - as it says in the famous film Pretty Woman. Love the lovely autumn Saturdays with shops full of new things and Blind Date to look forward to, not to mention Tory conference. Couldn't even care less about not having boyfriend. Ooh telephone! Maybe Mark Darcy from New York.

12.30: humph. Was just bloody Tom ringing to see if anything to report on Mark Darcy front. There is nothing worse than getting yourself into a freakishly confident mood, thinking your hideous problems don't matter, then having your friends remind you that they do by showing concern. Am off Tom, anyway, ever since I got back from Thailand all thin in my Patrick Cox pink, jelly mules and he asked if I had had them made in Bangkok out of my cellulite.

"Come on, Bridge," he said. "What's happened to Darcy, the romantic Indiana Jones jail-springing hero?"

"He's got to stay in New York on a case for a few weeks," I muttered.

"Oh my poor baby!" said Tom, melodramatically. "Men are such pants."

"Such what?"

"Pants."

"Pants?"

"It's the new derogative," he said. "Everyone's saying it."

"You mean you're back with Pretentious Jerome?"

"What if I am?" he said defensively. (Hah!) "It's a good word, Bridge. Self-regarding article by Will Self? Pants! Michael Howard? Pants! Mark Darcy neglecting you for New York? Pants! Don't worry anyway, we'll soon find you another man."

Grrr. I hate this. As if we women are nothing without a man. As if we are just decorative items or other worthless appendages.

"I don't want another man, I want money," I growled, referring him to the film Emma in which Gwyneth Paltrow declared that she intends to remain single to the end of her days as "It is only poverty which rends the state of celibacy pitiable in a woman".

"Oh, that is just such pants," he said. "She got married 20 minutes later. Who did you see Emma with, anyway?"

"Jude and Shazzer."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Watching ER with Jude and Shazzer," I mumbled sheepishly.

"Pants," said Tom. "Pants, pants pants. I'm going to find someone sexy to remove them for you."

"I'm afraid I think this pants is a very silly word. I must go, I have a book to read," I said.

Resolved, however, to say pants all the time now. Right. Shopping. Maybe for pants.

9pm: Jude's flat. In kitchen opening Chardonnay. Grrr. Pants. Ever since Vile Richard pulled out of the wedding, Jude has been obsessively reading The Rules (pant-like American husband-finding instruction manual) and has decided we must all put adverts in Time Out, since The Rules says this is perfectly acceptable provided you write your ad in a Rules way: "Don't say you're slim it you're fat, just talk about your blue eyes and long blond hair."

"What if you haven't got blue eyes and long blond hair?" I said.

"Well you could put your O-levels," said Jude, encouragingly. "Or ..." There was a long embarrassed pause. "Weren't you a Queen's Guide?"

"Oh my God, this is outrageous," said Shaz reading from Time Out. " 'Genuine tall attractive male 57, GSOH WLTM civilised, married, luscious lady 20-25 for discreet uninhibited no-commitment relationship.' Who do they think they are, these creeps?"

"Even men in small ads expect you to be a married teenager," said Jude, miserably.

"What's GSOH WLTM?" I said

"Giant sore on head. Willy limp-thin mollusc?" suggested Sharon.

"Great sex on horse with little tiny mouse?" I wondered.

"It means: Good Sense of Humour, Would Like to Meet," said Jude, helpfully.

"I suppose you'd have to have a sense of humour to be too mean to fork out enough to say so in genuine words," snarled Sharon.

Huh. Hate the pant lonely hearts ads. Wish was time for ER

10pm: Ar gor:es blur BrillianTalkingHearts. Devil Boy. Mmmm.

Sunday 6 October

8st 8 (disaster); alcohol units 4; cigarettes 12 (excellent); number of calls to Talking Hearts 12 (bad)

Oh God. Am never, never going to drink again for rest of life. Was bloody good fun last night, though. Talking Hearts are fantastic. You can actually ring up to leave a message and hear the people advertising themselves like contestants on Blind Date. "Right. my name's Barry, and if you'll be my sugar and spice, I'll give you champers on ice" ... "I'm handsome, I'm very passionate. I'm a writer and I'm looking for a very special leading laydee. She'll take pleasure in having a good body. I'll be at least 10 years older than her, and she'll like that" ... "My work is thoughtful, fulfilling and rewarding and I'm interested in all the usual kind of things - magic, occult, paganism." Shazzer was in seventh heaven putting them on speaker phone then murmuring sexily, "Hello, is that 'First Time Advertised' on the Line? Well get off it quickly there's a train coming." But then I stumbled upon Wild Boy . "Hi, I'm Wild Boy. I'm tall, I'm Spanish with long black hair, dark eyes, long black lashes and a lean, wild body." Wild boy. Mmmm. Dreamy Spanish accent Trouble is, dimly remember Shaz murmuring into phone, "Hi, Wild Boy. Bridget wants a shag." Oh God. Oh God, did she leave my phone number?

Noon: Just got back from Silk-Cut foraging excursion to hear answerphone clicking on: "Hello Bridget," said deep, sexy, foreign, young-sounding voice, "This is Wild Boy ..." Oh my God. Oh my pants.