Mark Darcy's Diary: A Complimentary Work to Bridget Jones's Diary
Disclaimer: I don't own Bridget Jones's Diary, Bridget Jones, Aunt Una, or anything else to do with the franchise (despite a desperate wish to own Mark Darcy). It all belongs to Helen Fielding.
Author's Notes: This is the fictional diary of the fictional Mark Darcy. I decided to write this after reading Bridget Jones's Diary and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. I'm going to include all the times he meets with Bridget, as well as other bits that I come up with. I'm not entirely sure how far I'll get with it, as it is intresting to me, but I also have to give the book back to the library in a couple of weeks. However, if someone really likes it and I feel my effort is not wasted, I'll probably finish it out (yes, I'm a review whore).
Prologue: Home for the Holidays
Sunday 25 December (Christmas) Ridiculous jumpers received from family 7, odd food things forced to eat by mother 4, family members who asked about state of "love life" 8, minutes spent wishing death on Daniel Cleaver 115 (v.g. considering), times I wished I could just die 3,000 (conservative estimate).
8 a.m. Awakened by mother, who insisted I come help he in the kitchen, though she took over everything I tried to do. Most people think that I'm actually a pretty decent cook when I try, but I try so sparingly that mother thinks my culinary skills are appalling. I do love to start the Christmas day by disappointing Mother.
2 p.m. All family members and guests have arrived. I was assigned the task of meeting them at the door. Upon meeting at the door, each and every one of them, instead of saying "Hello" or "How do you do?" asked, "So Mark, do you have a lady in your life?" or some other horrific variant. Dad, seeing that I was getting rather annoyed by the whole thing, finally relieved me of my task after Aunt Elinor exclaimed loudly at finding I, in fact, have no lady, "Well, goodness Mark, you do want a woman, don't you? You're not one of those strange homosexual fellows, surely?" Dad came up with two glasses, one full of wine for Aunt Elinor and one positively brimming with Scotch for me, and told me I was needed in the kitchen.
I don't think I've ever loved someone so much in my life as I loved Dad right at that moment.
6 p.m. Dinner was rather calm, considering. I was mostly able to keep people from talking to me about lack of women in life by talking about work. After all, even being brutally honest about it, I really am quite a good barrister, and people should realize that I don't need a woman to make me happy. I have a fantastic career, plenty of money, and from what I can cipher, most women think I'm rather attractive.
I received perhaps the world's ugliest assortment of jumpers from family members, as it seems that they either think that it is very, very cold in London or they could think of nothing else to give to me. I cannot even think of an occasion when I would be cold enough to wear any of them, even if I were trapped on the side of an iceberg somewhere in the North Atlantic, and by wearing one of the jumpers, my life might be saved. Honestly, I would be too embarrassed to be rescued wearing one of the damn things.
11 p.m. I was finally able to escape, feigning drowsiness. Really, I just couldn't take them all anymore. However, now that I'm alone, all I can think of how terrible it really is to be alone, especially at this time of year.
I really thought that I loved her. I'm not sure now if I did, or if it was something that I convinced myself of because I felt like I was coming on a time where I would be alone forever if I didn't do something. But what hurts worse than anything is getting chucked for that goddamned prat. I disliked him well enough at Cambridge, but I can honestly say that I hate him with a fiery passion now, even more than I did yesterday, due to the constant questioning I've had to endure today.
At least Mother laid off all of that Bridget Jones business today. She's been on about the woman for a month now, trying to sell me on her like the poor girl is a piece of furniture up for auction. Sadly, I expect that Mother will pick up the task again tomorrow.