Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

11.35 a.m. Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and desire to read papers in echoing silence. Just for ten minutes.

‘Mummeee! De TV is broken.’

Realized, horrified, Mabel had got hold of the remotes. I started jabbing at buttons, at which white flecks appeared, accompanied by loud crackling.

‘Snow!’ said Mabel excitedly, just as the dishwasher started beeping.

‘Mummy!’ said Billy. ‘The computer’s run out of charge.’

‘Well, plug it in again!’ I said, shoving my head into the cupboard full of wires under the telly.

‘Night!’ said Mabel as the TV screen went black, and the tumble dryer joined in the beeping.

‘This charger doesn’t work.’

‘Well, go on the Xbox!’

‘It’s not working.’

‘Maybe it’s the Internet connection.’

‘Mummy! I’ve unplugged the Airport, I can’t get it in again.’

Realizing my thermostat was veering dangerously towards red, I scampered off up the stairs saying, ‘Time to get dressed, special treat! I’ll get your clothes.’ Then ran into their bedroom and burst out, ‘I hate fucking technology. Why can’t everyone just FUCKING SHUT UP AND LET ME READ THE PAPERS?’

Suddenly, horrified, saw that the baby monitor was on! Oh God, oh God. Should have got rid of it ages ago but paranoid as single parent, fear of death, etc., etc. Ran downstairs to find Billy racked by sobs.

‘Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Was it the baby monitor?’

‘Nooooooooo!’ he yelled. ‘The Xbox is frozen.’

‘Mabel, did you hear Mummy in the baby monitor?’

‘No,’ she said, staring delightedly at the television. ‘De TV is mended.’

It was showing a page asking for the Virgin TV password.

‘Billy, what’s the Virgin password?’ I said.

‘Isn’t it the same as your bank card, 1066?’

‘OK, I’ll do the Xbox, you put in the password,’ I said just as the doorbell rang.

‘That password won’t work.’

‘Mummeee!’ said Mabel.

‘Shh, both of you!’ I rasped. ‘There’s SOMEONE AT THE DOOR!’

Ran up the stairs, head a mass of guilty thoughts – ‘I’m a terrible mother, there is a hole inside them left by the loss of their father which they are trying to fill with technology’ – and opened the door.

It was Jude looking glamorous, but hung-over and tearful.

‘Oh, Bridge,’ she said, falling into my arms. ‘I just can’t stand another Saturday morning on my own.’

‘What happened . . . tell Mummy . . .’ I said, then remembered Jude was a grown-up financial giant.

‘The guy I met on Match and went out with the day before the Stronghold? The one I made out with?’

‘Yes?’ I said, trying to vaguely remember which one.

‘He didn’t call. And then last night, he copied me in on a global text saying his wife has just had a baby girl, six pounds twelve ounces.’

‘OhMyGod. That’s disgusting. That’s inhuman.’

‘All these years I didn’t want children and people kept saying I’d change my mind. They were right. I’m going to get my eggs unfrozen.’

‘Jude,’ I said. ‘You made a choice. Just because some guy is a fuckwit it doesn’t mean it was the wrong choice. It’s a good choice for you. Children are . . . are . . .’ I glanced murderously back down the stairs.

She held out her phone, showing an Instagram picture of the fuckwit holding his baby. ‘. . . Cuddly and sweet and pink and six pounds twelve ounces and all I do is work and hook up and I’m all on my own on a Saturday morning. And—’

‘Come downstairs,’ I said lugubriously. ‘I’ll show you cuddly and sweet.’

We clomped back down. Billy and Mabel were now standing cherub-like, holding out a drawing saying, ‘We Love You, Mummy.’

‘We’re going to empty the dishwasher, Mummy,’ said Billy. ‘To help you.’

Shit! What was wrong with them?

‘Thank you, children,’ I purred, bustling Jude back upstairs and outside the front door, before they did something worse, like emptying the recycling bin.

‘I’m going to defrost my eggs,’ sobbed Jude as we sat down on the steps. ‘The technology was primitive then. Crude even. But it might work if . . . I mean, I could get a sperm donor and—’

Suddenly the upstairs window in the house opposite shot open and a pair of Xbox remotes hurtled out, landing with a smash next to the dustbins.

Seconds later, the front door was flung open and the bohemian neighbour appeared, dressed in fluffy pink mules, a Victorian nightdress and a small bowler hat, carrying an armful of laptops, iPads and iPods. She teetered down the front steps and shoved the electronics in the dustbin, with her son and two of his friends following her, wailing, ‘Noooooo! I haven’t finished my leveeeeeeel!’

‘Good!’ she yelled. ‘When I signed up for having children, I did NOT sign up to be ruled by a collection of inanimate thin black objects and a gaggle of TECHNO-CRACKHEADS refusing to do anything but stare with jabbing thumbs, while demanding that I SERVICE them like a computer tech crossed with a five-star hotel concierge. When I didn’t have you, everyone spent their whole time saying I’d change my mind. And guess what? I’ve had you. I’ve brought you up. And I’ve CHANGED MY MIND!’

I stared at her, thinking, ‘I have to be friends with that woman.’