Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(73)

10.05 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling.’ My mother. ‘Do you know, Penny Husbands-Bosworth has started lying about her age – she says she’s eighty-four. It’s completely ridiculous. Pawl, you know, the pastry chef, says she’s just doing it so everyone will say how young she looks and . . .’

10.09 p.m. Have managed to get Mum off phone but now feel guilty and also think maybe Roxster called while she was . . . Oooh! Text!

10.10 p.m. Was from Chloe.

<Just firming up the details for weekend. So I’ll do Sat morning till Grazina arrives, then Grazina will watch Mabel while Bikram’s mum takes Billy to African drumming party, then on to Ezekiel’s Ancient Myth one (shall I do Greek myth photo – any particular god/costume? Greek or Roman?). Then Grazina will do till 5 on Sunday, drop Billy at football and do both Mabel pickups from Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party with Billy. I’ll take over at 5 . . . The only thing is I need to leave at 6 to go to a t’ai chi event with Graham . . .>

Aaaaaargh! How has child-rearing got so . . . so complicated? Is as if you have to keep them on some sort of permanent high of engagement and happiness.

10.30 p.m. Suddenly enraged with Roxster, blaming the whole socio-global child-rearing dysfunctional collapse on him. ‘BLOODY Roxster! Me and Chloe have had to arrange all this complex matrix of African drummers and bears and extra people taking care of the children because of Roxster, and now will have nowhere to go and no one to see, simply because of Roxster. Will be like a . . . like a GIANT CUCKOO, de trop in own house ALL BECAUSE OF ROXSTER!’ – conveniently overlooking the fact that it was me who had wanted to go on the childcare-demanding mini-break in the first place.

10.35 p.m. Impulsively sent positively glacial text to Roxster, saying: <Could you kindly let me know whether or not you wish to go on the mini-break this weekend? I have a number of matters to resolve if we are still intending to go.> – then immediately regretted it as totally non-Zen and the Art of Falling in Love and hideous, anal and mean-spirited tone. Can completely see why Roxster might be having doubts as is twenty-one-year age difference, especially if adopting anal tone.

10.45 p.m. Muted text came back from Roxster.

<I would, Jonesey, but just a little concerned about what will happen next.>

Impulsively sent back: < But the mini-break is all set up now and it’s the first chance we’ve had to go away together on our own and it will be so romantic and . . . and everything.>

A few minutes’ wait – then a texting ping.

<OK, f*ck it! Sod the panic attack, baby, let’s do it!>

Yayyy! We’re going on a mini-break.

11 p.m. Talitha just called to see what was happening and said, ‘Careful, darling. Once they have wobbles like that, they’re not just enjoying the moment any more, they’re thinking about the long term. And Roxster’s far too young to know what a disastrous mistake that is.’

Feel like putting hands over ears saying, ‘Lalalala, don’t care. You only live once. We’re going on a mini-break! Hurrah!’

Thursday 6 June 2013

9.30 a.m. Got back from school run. Turned on email to deal with the school Sports Day picnic and detonated:

Sender: Brian Katzenberg

Subject: Forwarded email

Yes, you are fired. But they still want you in the mix. They’re going to set up a meeting with the new writer. The movie business!

A new writer? Already? How could they possibly have found one so quickly?

Phone quacked.

Roxster: <Um, can you find anywhere to stay because I can’t? Everywhere’s booked.>

Jerked into action in a frenzy of googling country pubs on LateRooms.com to find absolutely everything was booked up.

We are like Mary and Joseph with no room at the Inn except that rather than about to give birth to the Son of God am about to be broken up with by Joseph.

10 a.m. Just texted Tom who texted back five minutes later.

<LateRooms.com have a treehouse with a terrace attached to the Chewton Glen hotel.>

10.05 a.m. Oh. Just checked the treehouse. It’s ￡875 a night.

10.15 a.m. Yayy! Have found a room in a pub.

10.20 a.m. Oh, just called them. It’s the Bridal Suite. Texted Roxster.

<Have found room on river in Oxfordshire.>

<You’re ver, ver clever, darling. Do they do Full English Breakfast?>

<Yes. But just one thing.>

<What? It’s not either/or with the bacon and sausages?>

<No. But . . . I’m going to have to say it quickly. It’s the Bridal Suite.>

<I knew it. That’s what you wanted all along. Do they definitely do Full English?>

<*Sighs* Yes, Roxster, they do.>

<So train to Oxford. Get married quickly in Oxford. Then taxi to the pub?>

<Yup.>

<I’ll get a ring at lunchtime when I pop out for my sandwich.>

<Shhh. I’m on Net-a-Porter. Dresses: bridal.>

10.45 a.m. No reply. Oh God. Maybe he thinks I’m serious?

<So what do you think?> I braved.

Then decided to give him a way out in case he really just wanted a relaxing setting for the full break-up.

<Or we could just go somewhere close and do a day trip?> Held my breath . . .

<I say full-on mini-break, Jonesey. I’m fantasizing about it already.>