Chapter 11 SEPTEMBER Up The Fireman's Pole

Monday 4 September 9th, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 27, calories 15, minutes spent having imaginary conversations with Daniel telling him what I think of him 145 (good, better). 8 am First day at new job. Must begin as mean to go on, with new calm, authoritative image. And no smoking. Smoking is a sign of weakness and undermines ones personal authority. 8:30 am Mum just rang, I assumed to wish me luck for the new job. Guess what, darling? she began. What?' Elaine has invited you to their ruby ​​wedding! she said, pausing breathlessly and expectantly. My mind went blank. Elaine? Brian — and — Elaine? Cohn-and-Elaine? Elaine-named-to-Gordon-who-used-to-be-head-of-Tarmadamin-Kettering-Elaine?

She thought it might be nice to have one or two young uns there to keep Mark company.' Ah. Malcolm and Elaine. Begetters of the overperfect Mark Darcy. Apparently he told Elaine he thought you were very attractive.' Durr! Dont lie, I muttered. Pleased though. Well, Im sure thats what he meant, anyway, darling.' What did he say? I hissed, suddenly suspicious. He said you were very . . . ' Mother . . . ' Well, the word he actually used, darling, was bizarre. But thats lovely, isn't it — bizarre? Anyway, you can ask him all about it at the ruby ​​wedding.'

Im not going all the way to Huntingdon to celebrate the ruby ​​wedding of two people I have spoken to once for eight seconds since I was three, just to throw myself in the path of a rich divorce who describes me as bizarre.' Now, don't be silly, darling.' Anyway, Ive got to go, I said, foolishly since she then, as always, began to gabble as if I were on death row and this was our last phone call before I was given a lethal injection. He was earning thousands of pounds an hour. Had a clock on his desk, tick-tock-tick-tock. Did I tell you I saw Mavis Enderby in the post office?'

Mum. Its my first day at work today. Im really nervous. I dont want to talk about Mavis Enderby.' Oh, my godfathers, darling! What are you going to wear?' My short black skirt and a T-shirt.' Oh, now you're not going to go looking like a s1oppy tramp in dull colors. Put something smart and bright on. What about that lovely cerise two-piece you used to wear? Oh, by the way, did I tell you Unas gone down the Nile?' Grrrr. Felt so bad when she put the phone down that smoked five Silk Cut in row. Non-vg start to day. 9 pm In bed, completely exhausted. I had forgotten how hideous it is starting a new job when nobody knows you, so your entire character becomes defined by every chance remark or slightly peculiar thing you say; put some makeup on without asking where the ladies are.

I was late through no fault of my own. It was impossible to get into the TV studios as I had no pass and the door was run by the sort of security guards who think their job is to prevent the staff from entering the building. I finally reached reception I wasn't allowed upstairs till someone came to get me. By this time it was 9:25 and the conference was at 9:30. Patchouli eventually appeared with two huge barking dogs, one of which started jumping up and licking my face while the other put its head straight up my skirt. Theyre Richards. Arent they, like, brilliant? she said. Ill just take them to the car.'

Wont I be late for the meeting? I said desperately, holding on to the dogs head between my knees and trying to push it away. She looked me up and down as if to say, So? By the time I got in to the office, therefore, the meeting had started and everyone stared except Richard, whose portly form was clad in a strange green woolen boilersuit. Come on, come on, he was saying, jigging and beckoning the table towards him with both hands. Im thinking Nine oclock Service. Im thinking dirty vicars. Im thinking sexual acts in church. on. Im not paying you for nothing. Have an idea.' Why dont you interview Joanna Trollope? I said.

A trollop? he said, staring at me blakly. What trollop?' Joanna Trollope. The woman who wrote The Rectors Wife that was on the telly. The Rectors Wife. She should know.' A leery smile spread across his face. Brilliant, he said to my breasts. Absolutely flicking brilliant. Anyone got a number for Joanna Trollope?' There was a long pause. Er, actually I have, I said eventually, feeling walls of hate vibes coming from the grunge youths. When the meeting was over I rushed to the loo to recover my composition where Patchouli was making herself up next to her friend, who was wearing a sprayed-on dress that showed her underpants and midriff. This isn't too tarty, is it? the girl was saying to Patchouli. You should have seen those bitch thirtysomethings faces when I walked in . . . Oh!'

Both girls looked at me, horrified, with their hands over their mouths. We didn't mean you,' they said. I am not sure if I am going to be able to stand this. Saturday 9 September 8st 12 (vg advantage of new job with attendant nervous tension), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 10, calories 1876, minutes spent having imaginary conversations with Daniel 24 (excellent), minutes spent with imaginings in rerun of moxibustion come out on top 94. 11:30 am Why oh why did! give my mother a key to my flat? I was just-for the first time in five weeks-starting a weekend without wanting to stare at the wall and burst into tears. I got through a week at work. I was starting to think maybe it was all going to be OK, maybe I wasn't necessarily going to be eaten by an Alsatian when she burst in carrying a sewing machine.

What on earth are you doing, silly? she trilled. I was weighing out 100 grams of cereal for my breakfast using a bar of chocolate (the weights for the scales are in ounces which is no good because the calorie chart is in grams). Guess what, darling? she said, beginning to open and shut all the cupboard doors. What? I said, standing in my socks and nightie trying to wipe the mascara from under my eyes. Malcolm and Elaine are having the ruby ​​wedding in London now, on the twenty-third, so you will be able to come and keep Mark company.' I dont want to keep Mark company, I said through clenched teeth. Oh.

Been to Cambridge. Apparently he made a fortune in America . . . ' Im not going.' Now, come along, darling, lets not start, she said, as if I were thirteen. You see, Marks completed the house in Holland Park and hes throwing the whole party for them, six floors, caterers and everything . . . you going to wear?' Are you going with Julio or Dad? I said, to shut her up. Oh, darling, I dont know. Probably both of them, she said in the special, breathy voice she reserves for when she thinks she is Diana Dors. You can't do that." But Daddy and I are still fiends, darling. Im just friends with Julio as well.'

Grr. Grr. Grrr. I absolutely cannot deal with her when shes like this. Anyway, I'll tell Elaine youd love to come, shall I? she said, picking up the inexplicable sewing machine as she headed for the door. Must fly. Byee!' I am not going to spend another evening being danced about in front of Mark Darcy like a spoonful of purified turnip in front of a baby. I am going to have to leave the country or something. 8 pm Off to dinner party. All the Smug Marrieds keep inviting me on Saturday nights now I am alone again, seating me opposite an increasingly horrifying selection of single men. It is very kind of them and I appreciate it v. much but it only seems to highlight my emotional failure and isolation — though Magda says I should remember that being single is better than having an adulterous, sexually incontinent husband. Midnight. Oh dear. Everyone was trying to cheer up the spare man (thirty-seven, newly divorced by wife, sample view: I have to say, I do think Michael Howard is somewhat unfairly aligned.). Dont know what youre complaining about, Jeremy was holding forth to him. Men get more attractive when they get older and women get less attractive, so all those twenty-two-year-olds who wouldnt look at you when you were twenty-five will be gagging for it.' I sat, head down, quivering furiously at their inferences of female sell-by dates and life as game of musical chairs where girls without a chair/man when the music stops/they pass thirty are out.' Huh. As if. Oh yes, I quite agree its much the best to go for younger partners, I burst out, airily. Men in their thirties are such bores with their hang-ups and obsessive delusions that all women are trying to trap them into marriage. Im only really interested in men in their early twenties. Theyre so much better able to . . . well, you know . . . ' Really? said Magda, rather too eagerly. How . . . ?' Yes, you're interested, intercepted Jeremy, glaring at Magda. But the point is they're not interested in you.' Um. Excuse me. My current boyfriend is twenty-three, I said, sweetly. There was a stunned silence. Well, in that case, said Alex, smirking, you can bring him to us next Saturday when you come to dinner, cant you?' Bugger. Where am I going to find a twenty-three-year-old who will come to dinner with Smug Marrieds on a Saturday night instead of taking contaminated Ecstasy tablets? Friday 15 September 9th, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 4 (vg), calories 3222 (British Rail sandwiches hideously impregnated), minutes spent imagining speech will make when resigning from new job 210. Ugh. Right. Harrods one-pound-a-pee toilets. Im thinking Fantasy Toilets. Im thinking studio: Frank Skinner and Sir Richard Rogers on furry seats, armsrests with TV screens, quilted loo paper. Bridget, youre Dole Youths Clampdown. Im thinking the North. Im thinking Dole Youths, loafing about, live down the line.' But . . . but . . I stammered. Patchouli! he shouted, at which point the dogs under his desk woke up and started jumping about and barking. Wha? yelled Patchouli above the din. She was wearing a crocheted midi-dress with a floppy straw hat and an orange Bri-nylon saddle-stitched blouse on top. As if the things I used to wear in my teens were a hilarious joke. Where's the Dole Youths OB?' Liverpool." Liverpool. OK, Bridget. OB crew outside Boots in the shopping center, live at five-thirty. Get me six Dole Youths. Later, as I was leaving to get the train, Patchouli yelled casually, Oh yeah, like, Bridget, its not Liverpool, its, like, Manchester, right?' 4:15 PM Manchester. Number of Dole Youths approached 44, Number of Dole Youths agreed to be interviewed 0. Manchester-London train 7 pm Ugh. By 4:45 I was running hysterically between the concrete flower tubs, gabbling. Scuse me, are you employed? Never mind. Hanks!' What are we doing, then? asked the cameraman with no attempt to feign interest. Dole Youths, I said gaily. Back in a mo! then rushed round the corner and hit myself on the forehead. Bridget . . . where the fuck . . . ? Dole Youths. Then I spotted a cash machine on the wall. By 5:20 six youths claiming to be unemployed were neatly lined up in front of the camera, a crisp £20 note in each of their pockets while I flapped around trying to make oblique amends for being middle-class. At 5:30 1 heard the signature tune bonging and crashing then Richard yelling, Sorry, Manchester, were dropping you.' Urm . . . I began, to the expectant faces. The youths clearly thought I had a syndrome that made me want to pretend I worked in TV. Worse, with working like a mad thing all week and coming up to Manchester I had been unable to do anything about the no-date trauma tomorrow. Then suddenly as I glanced across at the divine young whippersnappers, with the cash machine in the background, the genii of an extremely morally suspect idea began to form itself in my mind. Hmm. Think was right decision not to attempt to lure Dole Youth to Cosmos dinner party. Would have been exploitative and wrong. Doesn't answer question of what to do about it, though. Think will go have a fag in the smoking carriage. 7:30 pm Ugh. Smoking Carriage turned out to be Monstrous Pigsty where smokers were huddled, miserable and defiant. Realize it is no longer possible for smokers to live in dignity, instead being forced to sulk in the slimy underbelly of existence. Would not have been in least surprised if carriage had mysteriously been shutted off onto siding never to be seen again. Maybe privatized rail firms will start running Smoking Trains and villagers will shake their fists and throw stones at them as they pass, terrifying with their tales of child fire-breathing freaks within. Anyway, rang Tom from miracle-on-train-phone (How does it work? How? No wires. Weird. Maybe somehow connected through electric contact between wheels and tracks) to moan about the no-twenty- three-year-old date crisis. What about Gav? he said. Gav?' You know. The guy you met at the Saatchi Gallery.' Dyou think hed mind?' No. He was really into you.' He wasn't. Shut-urrrrp.' He was. Stop obsessing. Leave it to me.' Sometimes feel without Tom I would sink without trace and disappear. Tuesday 19 September 8st 12 (vg), alcohol units 3 (vg), cigarettes 0 (too shameful to smoke in presence of healthy young whippersnappers). Blimey, must hurry. About to go on date with Diet Coke-esque young whippersnapper. Gav turned out to be completely divine, and behaved exquisitely at Alexs dinner party on Saturday, flirting with all the wives, fawning over me and fending all their trick questions over our relationship' with the intellectual dexterity of a Fellow of All Souls. Unfortunately, I was so overcome with gratitude* in the taxi on the way back I was powerless to resist his advances.** I did, however, manage to get a grip on myself* ** and not accept his invitation to go in for coffee. Subsequently, however, I felt guilty about being a prick teaser,**** so when Gav rang and asked me round to his house for dinner tonight I accepted graciously.** *** * lust ** put my hand on his knee *** my panic **** could not stop self thinking Damn, damn, damn!' ***** could barely contain my excitement Midnight. Feel like Old Woman of the Hills. Was so long since had been on a date that was completely full of myself and could not resist boasting to taxi driver about my boyfriend and going round to my boyfriends, who was cooking me supper. Unfortunately, however, when I got there, Number 4 Malden Road was a fruit and vegetable shop. Do you want to use my phone, love? said the taxi driver wearily. Of course I didnt know Gavs number, so I had to pretend to ring Gav and find it busy and then ring Tom and try to ask him for Gavs address in a way that wouldn't make the taxi driver think I had been lying about having a boyfriend .Turned our it was 44 Malden Villas and had not been concentrating when wrote it down. Conversation between me and the taxi driver had rather dried up as we drove to the new address. Im sure he thought I was a prostitute or something. By the time I arrived I was feeling less than assured. It was all very sweet and shy to start with — a bit like going round to a potential Best Friends house for tea at junior school. Gav had cooked spag bog. The problem came when food preparation and serving were over and activities turned to conversation. We ended up, for some reason, talking about Princess Diana. It seemed such a fairy tale. I remember sitting on that wall outside St. Pauls at the wedding, I said. Were you there?' Gav looked embarrassed. Actually, I was only six at the time.' Eventually we gave up on conversation and Gav, with tremendous excitement (this, I recall, the fabulous thing about twenty-two-year-olds) began to kiss me and simultaneously try to find entrances to my clothes. Eventually he managed to slide his hand over my stomach at which point he said — it was so humiliating — Mmm. Youre all squashy.' I couldn't go on with it after that. Oh God. Its no good. I am too old and will have to give up, teach religious knowledge in a girls school and move in with the hockey teacher. Saturday 23 September 9st,, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0 (vvg), draft replies written to Mark Darcys invitation 14 (but at least has replaced imaginary conversations with Daniel). 10 am Right. I am going to reply to Mark Darcys invitation and say quite clearly and firmly that I will be unable to attend. There is no reason why I should go. I am not a close friend or relation, and would have to miss both Blind Date and Casualty. Oh God, though. It is one of those mad invitations written in the third person, as if everyone is so posh that to acknowledge directly in person that they were having a party and wondered if you would like to come would be like calling the ladies powder room the toilet. Seem to remember from childhood am supposed to reply in same oblique style as if I am imaginary person employed by self to reply to invitations from imaginary people employed by friends to issue invitations. What to put? Bridget Jones regrets that she will be unable . . . Miss Bridget Jones is distraught, that she will be unable . . . Devastated does not do justice to the feelings of Miss Bridget Jones . . . It is with great regret that we must announce that so great was Miss Budget Joness distress at not being able to accept the kind invitation of Mr. Mark Darcy that she has topped herself and will therefore, more certainly than ever, now, be unable to accept Mr. Mark Darcys kind . . . Ooh: telephone. It was Dad: Bridget, my dear, you are coming to the horror event next Saturday, arent you?' The Darcys ruby ​​wedding, you mean.' What else? Its been the only thing that has distracted your mother from the question of whos getting the mahogany ornament cabinet and nesting coffee tables since she got the Lisa Leeson interview at the beginning of August.' I was kind of hoping to get out of it. The line went quiet at the other end. Dad?' There was a muffled sob. Dad was crying. I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if Id been married to Mum for thirty-nine years I have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator . What's wrong, Dad?' Oh, its just . . . Sony. Its just . . . I was hoping to get out of it too.' Well, why dont you? Hurray. Lets go to the pictures instead.' Its . . . he broke down again. Its the thought of her going with that greasy beperfumed bouffant wop, and all my friends and colleagues of forty years saying cheers to the pair of them and writing me off as history.' They wont . . . ' Oh yes, they will. Im determined to go, Bridget. Im going to get on my glad rags and hold my head up high and . . . but . . . Sobs again. What?' I need some moral support. 11:30 am Miss Bridget Jones has great pleasure . . . Ms. Bridget Jones thanks Mr. Mark Darcy for his . . . It is with great pleasure that Miss Bridget Jones accepts . . . Oh, for Gods sake. Dear Mark, Thank you for your invitation to your ruby ​​wedding party for Malcolm and Elaine. I would love to come. Yours, Bridget Jones Hmmm. Yours, Bridget or just Bridget Bridget (Jones) Right. Will just copy it out neatly and check spellings then send it. Tuesday 26 September 8st 13, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories 1256, lottery tickets 0, obsessive thoughts about Daniel 0, negative thoughts 0. Am perfect saint-style person. It is great when you start thinking about your career instead of worrying about trivial things — men and relationships. Its going really well on Good Afternoon! I think I might have a gift for popular television. The-really exciting news is that I am going to be given a tryout in front of the camera. Richard Finch got this idea into his head at the end of last week that he wanted to do a Live Action Special with reporters attached to emergency services all over the capital. He didn't have much luck to start with. In fact people were going round the office saying he had been turned down by every Accident and Emergency unit, Police and Ambulance force in the Home Counties. But this morning when I arrived he grabbed me by the shoulders yelling, Bridget! Were on! Fire. I want you on-camera. Im thinking miniskirt. Im thinking firemans helmet. Im thinking pointing the hose. Everything has been total mayhem ever since, with the everyday business of the days news utterly forgotten and everyone gibbering down the phone about links, towers and OBs. Anyway, it is all happening tomorrow and I have to report to Lewisham fire station at 11 oclock. Im going to ring round everybody tonight and tell them to watch. Cannot wait to tell Mum. Wednesday 27 September 8st 11 (shrunk with embarrassment), alcohol units 3, cigarettes 0 (no smoking in fire station) then 12 in 1 hour, calories 1584 (vg). 9 pm Have never been so humiliated in my life. Spent all day rehearsing and getting everything organized. The idea was that when they Cut to Lewisham I was going to slide down the pole into shot and start interviewing a fireman. At five oclock as we went on air I was perched at the top of the pole ready to slide down on my cue. Then suddenly in my earpiece I heard Richard shouting, Go, go, go go, go! so I let go of the pole and started to slide. Then he continued, Go, go, go , Newcastle! Bridget, stand by in Lewisham. Coming to you in thirty seconds. I thought about dropping to the bottom of the pole and rushing back up the stairs but I was only a few feet down so I started to pull myself up again instead . Then suddenly there was a great bellow in my ear. Bridget! Were on you. What the fuck are you doing? Youre meant to be sliding down the pole, not climbing up it. Go, go, go. Hysterically I grinned at the camera and dropped myself down, landing, as scheduled, by The feet of the fireman I was supposed to interview. Lewisham, were out of time. Wind it up, wind it up, Bridget, yelled Richard in my ear. And now back to the studio, I said, and that was it. Thursday 28 September 8st 12,, alcohol units 2 (vg), cigarettes 11 (g.), calories 1850, job offers from fire service or rival TV stations 0 (perhaps not altogether surprising). 11 am Am in disgrace and am laughingstock. Richard Finch humiliated me m front of the whole meeting flinging words like shambles, disgrace, and bleedin bloody idiot at me randomly. And now back to the studio, seems to have turned into a new catchphrase in the office. Anytime anyone gets asked a question they dont know the answer to they go, Errrr . . . and now back to the studio, and burst out laughing. Funny thing is, though, the grunge youths are being much more friendly to me. Patchouli ( even!) came up and said, Oh, like, dont take any notice of Richard, right? Hes, like, you know, really into control, right. You know what Im sayin? That firemans pole thing was really like subversive and brilliant , right. Anyway, like . . . now back to the studio, OK?' Richard Finch now just either ignores me or shakes his head disbelieving whenever he comes anywhere near me, and I have been given nothing to do all day. Oh God, Im so depressed. I thought Id found something I was good at for once and now its all ruined, and on top of everything else it is the horrible ruby ​​wedding party on Saturday and I have nothing to wear. Im no good at anything. Not men. Not social skills. Not work. Nothing.