Bridget Jones's Diary

Thursday 9 May

8st 13 (excellent). Alcohol units 7 (but champagne so v pure). Cigarettes 4 (am marvellous). Calories ??

Humph. Mother rang just as I was going out to meet Magda, leaving me paranoid.

"Guess what?" she hissed.

"What mother?" I asked wearily

"Richard and Judy are interviewing OJ Simpson."

I floundered for the correct response: rage? Delight? Horror? Fortunately, my conversational contribution seemed unrequired.

"It's ridiculous, Darling. I'm far more talented than Judy. She's got a whole chat show and Suddenly Single's being taken off the air. If only you had let me have one of your eggs, I could have done the surrogate grandmother/mother story and now I've got no job and haven't got any grandchildren to love instead. I wish you'd at least try, darling. Anyway, must fly."

Grr. Confided feelings of being freak and let-down to parents over drink with Magda, also fear of becoming unbearably selfish crone, making children shudder with general air of cobwebs, shaking fist at passing toddlers and only being able to communicate with cats. At this Magda's eyes lit up.

"The thing is, Bridge," she said, "life is very different these days and I think the relationship between married people and singletons could be much better used by modern society. You don't spend enough time with young children - I get sick to death of them. Why don't we share?"

By the end of the evening I was going "Blurry good idea. Lirl babies. Ash'll lover lill babies", carried away with ideal of self as totally original Nineties time-share singleton-quasi-parent being marvellous with infants yet slim and poised like Jasmin le Bon - perhaps even secretly, smilingly observed by Mark Darcy - then giving them back when fed up of them.

Saturday 11 May

Alcohol units 0. Cigarettes 0. Humph.

Ugh. Exhausting week at work. Almost too drained to get out of bed. Wish could get someone to go downstairs and fetch paper, also chocolate croissant and cappuccino. Think will stay in bed, read new Marie Claire and do nails, then maybe see if Jude and Shazzer fancy a bloody Mary.

Aargh. Doorbell. Who in their right minds would ring on someone's doorbell at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning. Are they mad?

Later staggered to entryphone. It was Magda, who shouted chirpily, "Say Hello to Auntie Bridget! Lurched in horror, dimly, remembering intoxicated offer to spend Saturday taking Magda's infants to the swings while she spends day having hair done and lunching with Jude and Shazzer like single girl.

Panicking, I pressed the buzzer flung only dressing gown could find - unsuitable, v. short, translucent - and started running round the flat to remove ashtrays, mugs of vodka, broken glass, etc, etc.

"Fwofff. Here we are! I'm afraid Millie's got a bit of a snuffle haven't we?" cooed Magda clunking her up the stairs, festooned with pushchairs and bags like a homeless person.

"Sorry, I'm going to have to dump and dash: late for my highlights. Instructions in the pram."

The second she left, both babies began to scream blue murder writhing and kicking when I tried to pick them up. Like violent deportees.

Found self trying to do anything to make them stop, (though not obviously gagging with tape) dancing, waving and pretending to blow imaginary trumpets, at which point my mother burst in carrying a hatbox and stared opening and shutting all the cupboards, completely ignoring the babies.

"What on earth are you doing, darling. You look like Lionel Blair trying to get himself back on Celebrity Squares. You can see everything you've got through that nighty. Where do you keep your stain remover?"

Thought that after the no-grandchild guilt trip she might have given me a hand with my tiny charges, but instead she seemed to have turned into a modern-age Lady Macbeth, obsessively trying to eradicate the mark of her Portuguese confidence Trick stain with K2R "Spray on Brush Off Spary".

After two minutes she said, "Durr! I'm going to have to go and buy some milk. I think you'll found those babies are thirsty,' and shot out of the flat.

Bloody know-it-all. When I gave Millie and Harry their bottles sure enough they both stopped crying and sat there sucking busily watching me from beneath lowered brows as if I was someone very nasty from the Home Office.

I tried to slip next door to put some clothes on at which they took the bottles out and started yelling again. Finally, I ended up dressing in the sitting room while they watched intently as if I was a bizarre reverse strip-tease artist.

After 45 minutes of Gulf war-style operation to get them plus the prams and bags downstairs, we reached the street.

Unfortunately, at the first sniff of pollen-infested air the baby sneezes and a huge web of projectile green snot seemed to fly into the air then flop back over her face like something from Dr Who. Harry then gagged in horror and threw up on my hair. Desperately trying to calm the poor little creatures I wiped off the snot and put Millies' dummy into her mouth while beginning a soothing rendition of Brahms lullaby.

For a miraculous second both sets of screaming stopped. Thrilled with my gifts as a natural mother I launched into a second verse, beaming fondly into the baby's face at which she abruptly pulled the dummy out of her mouth and shoved it into mine.

"Hello Bridget," said a manly, voice as the babies started to scream again. I turned round, dummy in mouth and sick all over hair to find Mark Darcy, holding a bunch of flowers and looking extremely puzzled.

Am going back on Pill to deactivate all eggs, in spite of health risks, ASAP.