Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘PlentyofFuckwits, more like, and then we’re going to use the invented girl to torture him!’ said Jude.

We all squeezed onto the sofa and Jude and Tom started sifting through mugshots of twenty-five-year-old blondes on Google Images and trying to download them onto the dating website, while making up insouciant answers to the profile questions. Wished for a moment Shazzer was here to rant feministically, instead of in Silicon Valley being a dot-com whizz with her unexpectedly-after-years-of-feminism dot-com husband.

‘What kind of books does she like?’ said Tom.

‘Put “Seriously, do you care?”’ said Jude. ‘Men love bitches, remember?’

‘Or “Books? What are they?”’ I suggested, then remembered. ‘Wait! Isn’t this completely against the Dating Rules? Number 4? Use authentic, rational communication?’

‘Yes! It’s FABULOUSLY wrong and unhealthy,’ said Tom, who is actually now quite a senior psychologist, ‘but it doesn’t count with fuckwits.’

Was so relieved to be rescued from the Darkness Tsunami, plunging myself into the creation of Revenge-Girl on PlentyofFish, that I almost forgot my news. ‘Greenlight Productions are going to make my movie!’ I suddenly blurted excitedly.

They stared at me gobsmacked, then interrogation was followed by wild jubilation.

‘You go, girl! Toy boy, screenwriter, you’ve got it all going on now!’ said Jude, as I managed to persuade them out of the door so I could go to sleep.

As Jude stumbled into the street, Tom hesitated, looking at me anxiously. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think so, it’s just . . .’

‘Be careful, hon,’ he said, suddenly sobering up into professional mode. ‘It’s going to be a lot to take on if you’re having proper meetings and deadlines and stuff.’

‘I know, but you said I should start doing work again and be writing and—’

‘Yes. But you’re going to need some more help with the kids. You’re in a bit of a bubble right now. It’s fantastic, how you’ve turned everything round, but you’re still vulnerable underneath and—’

‘Tom!’ called Jude, who was teetering towards a taxi she’d spotted on the main road.

‘You know where we are if you need us,’ Tom said. ‘Any time, day or night.’

10.50 p.m. Thinking about ‘authentic, rational communication’, have decided to call Roxster and tell him about the nits.

10.51 p.m. Though it is a bit late.

10.52 p.m. Also unannounced switch from texting to telephonic communication with Roxster too dramatic: giving undesirable weight and importance to whole nit issue. Will text instead.

Very short wait.

< *Spontaneous crying, starts hysterically scratching head.* Not . . . nits!!!>

There was a brief pause then texting noise.

Dazzled by Roxster’s cheerful gallantry, I texted back.

THE ART OF CONCENTRATION

Friday 19 April 2013

134lbs, calories 3482 (bad), number of times checked for nits on Roxster 3, number of nits found on Roxster 0, number of insects found in Roxster’s food 27, number of insects found in house plague 85 (bad), texts to Roxster 2, texts from Roxster 0, mass emails from class parents 36, minutes spent checking emails 62, minutes spent obsessing about Roxster 360, minutes spent deciding to prepare for film meeting 20, minutes spent preparing for film meeting 0.

10.30 a.m. Right. Am really going to get down to work on presentation of my script, which is an updating of the famous Norwegian tragedy Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, only set in Queen’s Park. Studied Hedda Gabbler for my English Literature finals at Bangor University, which unfortunately resulted in a Third. But maybe all that is about to be put right!

10.32 a.m. Imperative to concentrate.

11 a.m. Just made coffee and ate remains of children’s breakfast, then started mooning about remembering things from Roxster visit last night: appearance of Roxter at 11.15 p.m., gorgeous in jeans and a dark sweater, eyes sparkling, grinning, holding a Waitrose shepherd’s pie, two cans of baked beans and a Jamaican ginger cake.