Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(96)

‘We should be looking at who they will become as adults,’ Mr Wallaker went on. ‘It’s a harsh world out there. The barometer of success in later life is not that they always win, but how they deal with failure. An ability to pick themselves up when they fall, retaining their optimism and sense of self, is a far greater predictor of future success than class position in Year 3.’

Blimey. Had Mr Wallaker suddenly been reading Buddha’s Little Instruction Book?

‘It’s not a harsh world if you know how to win,’ purred Nicolette. ‘What is Atticus form position, please?’

‘We don’t give form positions,’ said Mr Wallaker, getting to his feet. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, his French,’ said Nicolette, undaunted. And then they all sat down again.

10 p.m. Perhaps Mr Wallaker is right about there being always someone ‘greater and lesser than yourself’ at things. Was just walking back to car when posh, exhausted mother trying to wrangle three overdressed children suddenly burst out, ‘Clemency! You f*cking, bleeding little c***!’





FIFTY SHADES OF OLD


Friday 22 November 2013

137lb (helpless slide back towards obesity), calories 3384, Diet Cokes 7, Red Bulls 3, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, exercise 0, months since did roots 2, weeks since waxed legs 5, weeks since painted toenails 6, number of months since any sexual experience whatsoever 5 (Born-Again Virgin again).

Am letting self go to seed – un-waxed, un-plucked, un-exercised, un-exfoliated, un-mani-pedicured, un-meditated, roots un-touched-up, hair un-blow-dried, undressed (never, worst luck) – and stuffing face to make up for it. Something has to be done.

Saturday 23 November 2013

3 p.m. Just came out of the hairdresser’s where my roots were restored to their youthful glory. Immediately came face to face with a poster at the bus stop of Sharon Osbourne and her daughter Kelly: Sharon Osbourne with auburn hair and Kelly with grey hair.

So confused. Is looking old the new bohemian floaty scarf now? Am I going to have to go back, have the grey roots restored and ask the Botox man to add some wrinkles?

Was just pondering this question when a voice said, ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Wallaker!’ I said, fluffing up my new hair coquettishly.

‘Hello!’ He was wearing a warm, sexy jacket and scarf, looking down at me in the old way, cool, with the slightly amused twitch in the corner of his mouth.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I just want to say, I’m sorry I said all that at the school concert and was so lippy with you all those times when you were just being kind. But I thought you were married. And the thing is, I know everything. I mean, not everything. But I know about you being in the SAS and—’

His expression changed. ‘What did you say?’

‘Jake and Rebecca live across the road and . . .’

He was looking away from me, down the street, the muscle in his jaw working.

‘It’s all right. I haven’t told anybody. And the thing is, you see, I know what it’s like when something really bad happens.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said abruptly.

‘I know, you think I’m an awful mother, and spend the whole time in the hairdresser’s and buying condoms, but I’m actually not like that. Those gonorrhoea leaflets – Mabel had just picked them up at the doctor’s. I don’t have gonorrhoea or syphilis . . .’

‘Am I interrupting?’

A stunning girl was emerging from Starbucks, holding two coffees.

‘Hi.’ She handed him one of the coffees and smiled at me.

‘This is Miranda,’ said Mr Wallaker stiffly.

Miranda was beautiful and young, with long, shiny black hair, topped with a trendy woollen cap. She had long thin legs in jeans and . . . and studded ankle boots.

‘Miranda, this is Mrs Darcy, one of our school mothers.’

‘Bridget!’ said a voice. The hairdresser who had just done my roots was hurrying up the street. ‘You left your wallet in the salon. How’s the colour? No more shades of grey for you for Christmas!’

‘It is very nice, thank you. Happy Christmas,’ I said like a traumatized automaton granny. ‘Happy Christmas, Mr Wallaker. Happy Christmas, Miranda,’ I said, although it was not Christmas.

They looked at me oddly as I walked shakily away.

9.15 p.m. The children are asleep and I am very old and lonely. No one will ever fancy me again ever, ever, ever. Mr Wallaker is at this moment shagging Miranda. Everybody’s life is perfect except mine.





THE SOUND OF SHELLS CRACKING


Monday 25 November 2013

136lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 46.

9.15 a.m. Right. I am used to this now. I know what to do. We do not wallow. We do not descend into feelings of being crap with men. We do not think everyone else’s life is perfect except ours, except bloody Miranda’s. We concentrate on our inner great tree, and we go to yoga.

1 p.m. Blimey. Started off in yoga, but realized had drunk too much Diet Coke again. Suffice it to say, it didn’t go very well during Pigeon Pose.

Went instead into the meditation class next door, which you could argue was a bit of a waste of money because it had cost fifteen quid and all we did was sit cross-legged trying to keep our minds blank. Found self looking round the room, thinking about Mr Wallaker and Miranda, then nearly farted in shock.