Bridget Jones's Diary

1

Published: 15 December 2005

Saturday 10 December

Alcohol units: 0 (vg); cigarettes: o (vg;) glühwein fumes: extensive;
gherkins: 27(eerie)

10am. Ugh. Last thing feel physically or emotionally able to do is to 
drive to Grafton Underwood for Christmas Market on the Alconburys' Roman 
Patio (unfinished DIY carport which became Roman when Una hosted toga party 
in it). But have no choice, as promised. Am not going to tell Mum re: baby
until Christmas. Will simply don camouflaging winter coat, purchase 
couple of festive toilet roll covers, and come straight back.
10pm. In single bed in parents' house, Grafton Underwood. What was I
thinking? In hindsight, was like a murderer wanting to lurk around the
funeral of his victim. I wanted to lurk around my mother drinking in 
her mummyish warmth and fantasising that she approved of geriatric, 
fatherless pregnancy.

Arrived to glühwein fumes, raucous laughter, and strains of Cliff 
Richard's "Mistletoe and Wine". The Roman Pillars (aka roofless car-port 
supports) had really come into their own with lanterns strung between on paper 
streamers, illuminating the festive stalls. Was initially startled to see some 
guests in togas. Maybe memory of last summer's party had confused them or 
perhaps they had simply remained on the Roman Patio, drinking and reminiscing 
every since. Geoffrey Alconbury, blindfolded and dressed as Santa, was brandishing a
basketful of white moustaches trying, for unexplained reasons, to stick 
them on people's bottoms. Penny Husbands-Bosworth, clearly plastered, wove 
past in a plunging red top and white paper hat which said "George Best", 
asking: 

"Am I Gary Glitter?"

"No you're not, You're Georgie Best," snapped Mavis Enderbury, whose 
own hat said: "Kate Moss's drug dealer".

"But I asked Malcolm if I slept with little girls and he said yes."

"Well you didn't. You're Georgie Best. and you're dead."

"But Colin said I wasn't dead."

"Oh do shut up, Penny," said Mavis, whipping Penny's hat off, and 
thrusting it into her face. Just then, Mum and Una teetered into view, in outfits 
I recognised from Camilla Parker Bowles' US tour. At first I thought their
faces were frozen in horror, then realised it was something eerier. "Oh
there you are, darling," said Mum, lips clenched like a ventriloquist's
dummy. "Have a glass of glühwein!! We've had to heat it up in the
slow-cooker. It's not alcoholic, darling, it's just some orange juice 
and cloves. Prost!"

"Did your mummy tell you she'd had botox?" slurred Penny 
Husbands-Bosworth. There was a commotion on the patio. A lantern had set fire to a 
streamer which in turn had ignited someone's guessing-game paper hat. I watched,
aghast, as my father hurled himself at the literally flame-haired guest,
wrestling her to the ground. There was a shocked silence, then Dad 
arose, gallantly handling the lady to her feet. It was Mark Darcy's mother. 
Her elegant, bouffed hairdo had a large black crater on top.

"Oh my goodness, am I all right?" It was fortunate that the words 

"Grafton Underwood" and "lawsuit" are relative strangers to each other.

"Absolutely fine! You look wonderful," boomed Dad, dusting 
unsuccessfully at the burnt patch as Mum and Una bustled up with scissors.
Took advantage of the distraction to escape into house, remove coat and
boots and stretch out on sofa. Was just stuffing face with gherkins and
cheesy cubes when heard voices.

"I don't know what she thought she was doing with her hair all bouffed 
up like that. She looked like a mousse, or an elk."

"Well that's Elaine Darcy for you, isn't it? She's like something out 
of the ark."

Froze as Mum and Una appeared in the doorway, taking in enormity of my
coatless frame 

"Bridget! What have you eaten. You're like a balloon!" said Mum, as if 
I'd caused the whole thing in one sitting, by eating a sheep.

"I don't think it's eating that's done it," said Una pointedly.

They stared, then turned away, whispering. When Mum looked back she 
could equally have been furious, delighted, or constipated.

"Bridget," she hissed. "Are you preggy?" (Ugh - unexpectedly disgusting 
word.) They stared at my body as if I was brood mare. Toyed briefly with 
whinnying but plumped instead for horse-like silence.

"I told you. She is!" said Una.

"Well, I mean, I ..." stuttered Mum. "You're going to have to have it 
looked at, Bridget because it could easily come out a mongol at your age."
Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she didn't mean to say it. But she still 
said it and I will never forget. People are supposed to be pleased and 
congratulate you when they find out you're pregnant, even if you are an older 
mother.

Here is a list of the reactions I have got.
Baby's father: You are going to get rid of it, aren't you?
Baby's Auntie Magda: It's completely irresponsible.
Baby's Auntie Shazzer: Try not to leave it in a shop.
Baby's Granny: It's going to come out a mongol at your age.
(Mind you, suppose own initial response: "Gaah! am having the 
menopause," was not that great either.)

Bravely drew self up to full height (which, these days, is nearly the 
same as my width) and hissed. "If 'it' is, as you so offensively put it, 'a
mongol', then I shall love her more than ever."

"You see, Pam! She is pregnant."

" Who's the father? Is it Mark?"

"No," I said, kicking the coffee table sulkily.

"Well then, who is it?"

"It's a virgin birth."

"Don't be silly, Bridget," snapped Mum. "You're going to have to stop
eating, you know. Or you'll end up like Penny's daughter. Mind you, she
enjoyed being grotesque."

There are many things I wish I'd said, but all I managed was: "Excuse 
me, I've to go and puke up."

Anyway am going to go to sleep, get up early and drive back to London 
and sanity. Should only take 1/2 hours if leave at 9.

Sunday 11 December

1.30pm. Bedfordshire. Have been sitting in traffic jam for 5 1/2 hours
looking at billowing flames and black smoke. Hope is not in some way
connected with glühwein or Mark Darcy's mother's hair.