Disclaimer: It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

Notes: Working with the movie, though I used the book to place entries chronologically. I believe my timeline (New York & back) is pretty damn close, to allow the things that happen to happen & still be on track for the Turkey Curry Buffet next New Year's at the beginning of the next movie. Also, I found the first name of ex-wife (Tamiko) from another piece of fanfic whose author claims it is movie-canon. Also x 2, I based the New York scene on a deleted scene found online. Also x 3, I am not English, so surely there are turns of phrase that are decidedly not English. Sorry. And, not the most creative title... but honestly, I cannot envision Mark Darcy keeping a diary, let alone tracking calories or alcohol units. It's odd that the days / dates provided in the book match up with 2005/2006.)

The Journal of M. Darcy, Esq.
by S. Faith

Saturday 24 Dec

Have never tried journal concept before. Colleague Jeremy mentioned keeping a journal to help work through conflicted feelings (fidelity to marriage vs. urge to sleep with any female with pulse), and it's cheaper than therapy. Starting earlier than is traditional but with good reason.

At parents' home for Christmas, feeling slightly suffocated, but no more so than at home. Anniversary is here already; can't avoid it. Can hardly believe it. Won't be able to avoid the Alconbury's Turkey Curry Buffet again. Having a hard time thinking of the holidays without thinking of Tamiko (ex-wife) and Daniel (best man, ex-best mate from Cambridge), and a scene no man should have to see. Family was more than understanding last year, understood the need to be away in sunny climes for the New Year last year, away from anything associated with her. Only just returned from an extended stay in America, so have not seen anyone yet. Not looking forward to the inevitable, well-intentioned prying from family members. Trying not to think where the road paved with good intentions leads to.

Mother has been subtly suggesting it's time to emerge from this "mourning period" and find a new girlfriend. This is adding to already huge mountain of holiday and anniversary-related stress. Difficult to enjoy the cheer of the season when the image of Tamiko and Daniel in flagrante delicto is still quite vivid.

Thursday 29 Dec

I just noticed the utter lack of connection between my feelings and my self, as evidenced by the lack of "I/me/my" in the above entry. Maybe I do need therapy. If any of my colleagues saw me in the hideous reindeer jumper my dear mother gifted me with this Christmas, they would undoubtedly second that opinion.

I (See? Therapeutic.) am at least getting some work done on the Aghani-Heaney case. Court date will be here before I know it, and… hm. I shall need to keep work out of this journal for my sanity.

Mother is now hinting there should be at least one young eligible lady at the buffet, and wouldn't it be nice to take her out? Frankly, no. Perhaps wearing the jumper will act as some sort of repellant.

Sunday 1 Jan

As expected, I spent the entirety of the buffet being interrogated on the status of my love life, or how I'm holding up since Tamiko left me. Not "What did you accomplish on the legal frontiers in America?", but "Did America make you forget her?" I come to these family gatherings (not blood-relatives, but a collection of family friends and their now-adult children), and suddenly I'm no longer a top-level human rights barrister, but a boy of bloody 8 again, dressed in practically the same bloody jumper.

I sometimes wonder if my mother is verging on insanity. I am not entirely serious, of course, but after meeting the "eligible young lady" previously hinted at, I must wonder. Not terribly subtle, Pamela's & Una's attempts to push us towards each other, then abandoning us on pretense of sieving the gravy. (I am 36 years old. I refuse to call them "aunts".) Bridget Jones is her name, whose most memorable impact on my life thus far was when she was four, I was eight, and she was naked in my paddling pool (with film to prove it, according to Mother); she had a cigarette in one hand, drink in another, verbal incontinence of the highest order, and dressed as hideously as her mother in something resembling a floral tapestry drape. If Mother thinks that this is the best I can do, then perhaps it is time to take a leap off of London Bridge. (See previous note. Not serious.) I did let Mother know how I felt about her choice. I belatedly realized that Bridget was directly behind me and likely overheard my comment – perhaps too blunt a delivery, but at least she'll keep away.

Monday 18 Apr

I feel like an utter heel. I should have realized that at the Buffet, Bridget Jones was in a somewhat similar predicament to my own, dressed in clothing chosen by her mother, nervous, and pressured into meeting me. I was of course too caught up in memories of Tamiko to see that clearly at the time, and I would have apologized profusely tonight, except… well, I should very well begin at the beginning.

I attended an appalling launch party for Kafka's Motorbike with colleague Natasha, and who should be there but Bridget, looking quite normal (for lack of a better term, considering her attire when last we met) in a black cocktail dress. I was introduced to her work colleague as a "top barrister" or some such. I suspect this bit of information was something parroted ad nauseum to her by her mother. When her colleague actually recognized my name, I could not help but notice Bridget's reaction of surprise – I suspect Bridget thought her mother was talking me up as something more than I am. (Somewhat bemused, even thinking about it now.)

Natasha pulled aside Bridget's colleague (well, I can't recall her name except that it was odd) and I overheard Natasha comment that she just needed time, presumably to make me more than just a work colleague. I should be on my guard with her. I am not up for another high-maintenance woman.

That left me alone with Bridget. We did not converse further, because at that moment I spotted, of all people, Daniel. The less said about that, the better. Apparently works at the same publishing house as Bridget. It didn't surprise me that Tamiko was not with him. I did not actually expect them to stay together. He chews women up and spits them out. More on that in a bit. I'm trying to stick to a chronological ordering of things.

Bridget then took the stage to introduce the head of the publishing firm. What a disaster that was; let's just say that public speaking is not one of her strong suits. Pity that someone did not think to turn on the microphone for her. And yet (this is difficult to admit), I was utterly charmed. I am surrounded day in and out by aggressive, ambitious women who have been lacquered over to a perfect finish, and I have become used to it. (I need not explain to my own self that I do not find ambition or aggression in women to be a flaw.) However I tend to I forget that all women are not that way. Tamiko is. Natasha certainly is. Bridget is not in their league, and that is by no means a criticism.

Of all the people at that godforsaken party, she was the most real, and belonged there as much as I did. I had badly misjudged Bridget – I can only imagine what her first impression was of me: surly attitude, reindeer jumper and all – and was poised to go offer my apologies and the chance for a fresh start, when Daniel sidled up to her, and they departed together. I admit I am concerned, for I know Daniel's M.O. all too well.

Bridget and I are hardly more than acquaintances, and thus it is neither prudent nor politic of me to give her that particular past history, as it would seem petty and maybe even jealous on my part. Yet I feel a strange protective urge. Unfortunately, delivering that sort of a warning rarely works, and often has exactly the opposite effect of driving a woman directly into a scoundrel's arms.

Saturday 25 Jun

In Haversham for the weekend for a work retreat (before the annual Tarts & Vicars party with the family). The entire hotel is occupied by a wedding party, except for one other couple, and who do they turn out to be but Bridget and Daniel. She hardly acknowledged my presence and seemed rather cold towards me, but that may have had more to do with Daniel than me (he being the one she fancied, me being anything but).

Natasha and I decided to spend some working time in a rowboat on the river, as the weather was too good to be indoors. We were soon joined on the river by Bridget and Daniel, who were clearly enjoying themselves (though I admit to a secret glee when that prat ended up in the water). I watched them laughing, watched Bridget laughing (as she is not unattractive), and I found myself wishing I was in Haversham for pleasure instead of business. I could only agree when Natasha muttered under her breath about how childish they were being, but I don't think we agreed for the same reasons.

I shall close now, as I have arranged to meet Natasha for a nightcap.

Sunday 26 Jun

Another family hurdle to jump: the Tarts & Vicars party. At the last moment it had been decided to skip the costumes. So imagine everyone's surprise when Bridget showed up in full bunny regalia (clearly, pervy Geoffrey had conveniently forgotten to contact her). She was without Daniel, for which I was thankful, as facing him again today was not something I was looking forward to. It shames me to admit I kept stealing glances at Bridget, when I was in actuality rather deeply embarrassed for her.

While queued for lunch, Una asked Bridget about her beau. I could not help but interject that I did not, in fact, feel Daniel was good enough for her. Bridget glared at me, and made a puzzling statement: she wasn't surprised I would say that, given my "past behaviour". I would have pursued this, but I did not want to cause a scene. She was likely referring, again, to the buffet. I admit, my behaviour at the buffet was appalling, but it was really not the time to discuss it, and Natasha hung on to my arm most of the afternoon.

Ah. Yes. Last night's nightcap with Natasha turned into something rather more than a drink between colleagues, against my better judgment (the nightcap did not help). I felt regretful this morning, and yet, instead of sending Natasha back to London, I dutifully invited her to the party. It allowed me to at least dodge endless questions about my love life; I let the family (and Natasha) come to their own conclusions, even if they were erroneous ones. "Bizarre what some men find attractive," Natasha said smugly (and, I fear, possessively) when she spotted Bridget in her unfortunate bunny outfit. It is bizarre, isn't it, that I should feel more concern for Bridget than for a woman I spent the night with?

Sunday 13 Aug

The thing about aggressive, ambitious women is that one tends to allow them to do what they do best. I have somehow found myself in a relationship with Natasha as a result of this odd inertia – nothing serious, mind you, but she does make for an interesting and charming companion to the countless social events we so-called "high-profile" barristers inevitably get invited to. She is personable and extremely attractive, but has a hard edge to her that I could never love.

Sunday 5 Nov

It's funny that I should have thought about Bridget Jones earlier today, wondering if she'd had her heart broken by that bastard Daniel yet, because I had "Sit Up, Britain" on the telly just now and was surprised to see her (or rather her backside, which I did not have occasion to actually recognize on its own) descending a fire pole at the Lewisham fire station. No longer working in publishing, I see. I strongly suspect they are no longer together. I hope at the very least she did not catch him with another woman.

Yet another social event: invited to dinner at colleague Jeremy's. Bringing Natasha.

(Later, ca. 10:30 pm.)

I was (and yet was not, per above) astounded to see Bridget at dinner this evening. I didn't realize that she and Jeremy's wife Madga were friends. (Small world.) She came alone, so much as confirming that she and Daniel were through. All I could think of was how like a lamb to the slaughter poor Bridget was, the only dinner guest who had not arrived with a date: the married couples relentlessly grilled her on her love life, on finding a man, practically taunting her with "tick tock, tick tock". So uncouth. I corrected her divorce statistic to one in three, but otherwise kept quiet lest I become a target for interrogation myself. When she joked about so many single women in their thirties not being able to find a man due to being covered in scales under their clothing, well, I could not help but think of the Tarts & Vicars party. (Under the expensive suits, I am, after all, only a man.)

She bolted as soon as was appropriate, and I followed shortly after her to offer (however feebly and overdue) an olive branch. I caught her just as she was slipping on her coat to leave. I tried to break the ice by joking about the fire station report; clearly a misstep on my part. This was followed by another gaffe when I told her in all honesty I was glad she and Daniel were no longer together. She accused me of trying to make her feel like an idiot, when, and I quote, she did that just fine all on her own. So I launched into a rather inarticulate apology: I did not think she was an idiot (though there were certain elements of the ridiculous about her); that perhaps she was not cut out to be a public speaker, with her faulty internal editor allowing her to blurt out whatever came to mind without regard to the consequences. I especially apologized profusely for my terrible behaviour and unacceptably rude comment at the Turkey Curry Buffet, and I told her that I did in fact like her. Of course, she interpreted it to mean that I only liked her when she wasn't doing those things I'd criticized (smoking and drinking). I told her in complete honesty that no, I liked her very much just as she is. She smiled, and I felt that a ceasefire had finally been achieved.

Natasha has a poor sense of timing (or an excellently-honed predatory instinct. Or both). Tonight was no different. She appeared at the door at the top of the stairs at just that moment to call me back to the dinner party, bursting the lovely little bubble of connection we'd finally managed to achieve.

Thursday 9 Nov

It was the day of an important legal decision for Kafir Aghani and Eleanor Heaney. I know. I said no work. But we got the decision we wanted, and Kafir will not in fact be extradited to a certain death. Eleanor has been fighting for this for five years, five years, because she loves him. I admit the concept is a little alien to me.

Post-court, I went to the chemist's across the street for a packet of Embassys for Kafir. Who should be at the counter queued in front of me but Bridget Jones, buying cigarettes herself. (We seem to have a way with chance meetings.) She seemed happy to see me. Her internal editor was once again off-line, as evidenced by her blurting out that I liked her as she was. (She thought I did not hear her, but I did.) Her camera crew came in at that moment to tell her that they'd missed the chance to interview Kafir Aghani. I told them no one had gotten interviews because I'd told them not to give any. Bridget looked crestfallen, mentioned she was probably going to get sacked. And before I could stop myself, against my better judgment, I decided to allow Bridget and her crew to interview Kafir and Eleanor.

Things went better than I could have hoped, far better than I'd expected. Bridget actually (for the most part) stuck to a discussion of the decision itself. I must admit that the question about whether Eleanor had fancied Kafir from the moment she met him made me cringe somewhat, but the light tone of the question actually helped to defuse our anxiety as well as humanize the two of them. (Needless to say, we had all been under an incredible amount of stress over the decision.)

Had to pause to answer the phone just now, and for my troubles got an earful of praise from Mother for Bridget Jones (after offering a Congratulations to me for the legal victory – she is not completely without a clue). Her interview with my clients apparently made the paper as well as the television news. And by the way, did I know it was Bridget's birthday, that she lived right round the corner, practically, and that it might be nice to make sure she wasn't alone on her special day? (My mum has never cared for Natasha.) Dutiful son that I am, I took the address down and will now be heading out for a paper and to drop in on the newest journalistic sensation.

(later, ca. 11:30 pm)

What started out as a nearly perfect evening ended in disaster. It is presently quite difficult to write because my hands hurt. Actually, I hurt quite a lot all over. I did not tell Natasha what happened because she would have insisted on coming over and fawning over me. Truth be told, all I want is to be alone right now to nurse my wounds, physical and otherwise.

I walked to Bridget's, indeed not more than a few blocks away. When I got to the building, I found that the main door was already opened, so I found myself at the door of her flat, evening edition in hand. I knocked, she answered, and I was quite shocked to see her covered in, well, white clumps of food. It should not have surprised me that she was an atrocious cook – after all, her mother thinks gherkins on toothpicks are haute cuisine – but never in my life had I seen blue soup. Ostensibly, it was leek and celery soup, blue from the dyed twine she'd used to tie the bundles together. The orange parfait was in need of help (the bulk of which was splattered on her apron), and the main dish was best described as "green gunge". I never did discover what it was supposed to be.

So I helped salvage what I could of her birthday feast, and it was as close as I'd come to opening up to anyone (including my erstwhile girlfriend) in quite a long time. I was happy, relaxed, able to joke about the slightly pervy paddling pool story, and we tried to de-lump and otherwise rescue the caper berry gravy, imitating Una and Pam with frightening accuracy. I did not need to be on my guard. Had a normal, pleasant interaction with Bridget that I very much enjoyed, and she seemed to feel the same. We even toasted to her happy birthday. (This is grueling to write, but I do need to get the whole story out. It is my therapy.)

Shortly afterwards, three of Bridget's friends showed up. Jude (dark hair, high-pitched voice, seems nervous as a Chihuahua), Shazzer (real name Sharon, I believe; she crassly peppers her speech with the word "fuck" like it's going out of style) and Tom (poncy ex-pop singer). They seemed stunned to see Bridget already had company, and when she introduced me, their reactions told me I'd come up in conversation before.

The food was a disaster. The blue soup was appalling, not much more than warm heavy cream. (It would seem that Bridget had at least mentioned to them that my wife had left me; thank you sarcastically, Shazzer, for tactlessly asking why, and thank you sincerely, Bridget, for killing the subject with no subtlety whatsoever.) The egg-based main dish I'd helped to concoct was really only the sum of its parts, and that couldn't be helped – it too was awful. And the orange parfait for dessert was just like eating overly-sugared marmalade by the spoonful. No high-powered legal talk, financial forecasts or politics with this group, and I was just fine with that. The toast to Bridget "just as she is" made me realize I'd been under the intense parental-like scrutiny of her friends the entire time. (I can only wonder now if I passed muster up to this point.)

The dinner managed to be a good one, despite the food, and then Daniel showed up. Bottle of wine in hand, clearly expecting Bridget to be alone, and clearly in search of a pity reconciliation for sex (I know him all too well). He was undoubtedly aware of my attention to their conversation, so he pulled her into another room. I decided at this point I'd best go before I did something I would regret, otherwise eleven months of self-administered therapy via pen would go down the drain. On my way out, the prat actually said not to leave on his account, to "stay and have a drink with me and Bridge". To let the past go and let's be friends again. That would never happen. I left.

And then, I am embarrassed to now admit, my anger got the best of me. I had been holding it in for far too long, and the only therapy I wanted at that point was the violent kind. He had been the cause of the most painful event in my life; he had already dumped Bridget once; and I knew he was charming enough to worm his way back into her good graces… and into her bed.

I dashed back up the stairs, and demanded he step outside. "Swords or pistols," he joked, but saw I was not kidding. After we descended to the street, dinner party in tow, I punched him hard. Twice. Not only for what he'd done to me (though that was primary in my mind) but for every awful thing he'd ever done to anyone else. Especially kind (if slightly neurotic) Bridget.

And like the cowardly bastard that he is, he waited until my back was turned to retaliate with the lid from a dustbin (at least, that's what it felt like). The rest of the fight itself is something of a blur. Somehow we ended up inside a Greek restaurant, singing Happy Birthday to a patron (very surreal, looking back upon it), and the grand finale? Crashing through their plate glass window like two stupid Hollywood action heroes. I am not proud of this, of any of it.

I was prepared to walk away at this point when the bastard called me a wanker. Next thing I knew, he was on the ground, out cold. Bridget, looking hurt, confused, and concerned, comes running out of nowhere, and – this is what confounds me – defends Daniel. Really, what more is there to say? I was stunned. I still am.

Clearly, I had been misreading our friendly interaction, even attraction, as more than it was, and I told her as much before I left. Had she just been biding her time until the bad boy, the bastard, came back to her?

I don't expect I'll see Bridget again, at least not by choice.

Thursday 30 Nov

Free therapy is worth exactly what you pay for it, but at least I am not bound to a therapist by any promises. And so, I mention work. Because of our work in the Aghani-Heaney case, Natasha and I have been offered senior partnerships at Abbott & Abbott. In New York. We leave just after Christmas. Yes, together.

Sunday 24 Dec

The anniversary is a bit easier to bear this year. I can't imagine that the simple act of writing things down is the cause, but reading back through the entries does help me to see that I have progressed. I find it interesting that most of what I've written is about Bridget Jones, when in actuality we barely spent any time together at all.

Tuesday 26 Dec

Tonight's my parents' Ruby Wedding. And tomorrow, trans-Atlantic flight to New York. I am looking forward to leaving London behind, at least on a short-term basis. I don't think New York will be forever, but the distance will help me remember why I love London. It's hard to remember at the present.

Wednesday 27 Dec

Ca. 3:30 am

I am suddenly finding myself as if cast adrift onto the sea with no anchor. It seems incredible that just this morning I was so certain of the plans I'd made, and now mere hours before my flight to New York, I am anything but certain.

It is late, but I must get this down.

I feel incredibly foolish for making an assumption I should have known better than to make: that a certain individual would be truthful in certain situations, despite my knowing this particular individual's nature and knowing there has never been any evidence to support anything resembling honesty on his part. If I'd realized months ago that my assumption was wrong, everything, everything, would've made sense.

I present the facts of the day as any good barrister would.

As I mentioned, today was the Ruby Wedding for my parents. They'd invited the Joneses, who in turn brought with them their Bridget. She was, I thought, the last person I wanted to see. She thanked me for inviting her; I advised rather more tersely than necessary that it must have been my parents' doing. Natasha approached just then to remind me that Father wanted to get started ASAP (she's clearly ready for New York), complaining about the catering and the fact that I needed to be more helpful, and proclaiming petulantly that "nothing works outside of London" before dashing off to attend to something or someone else.

Bridget stayed right where she was. I could not quite figure out what more she could possibly have to say to me. She looked sullen as she delivered her apology to me, causing my world to crash down around me. I was careful not to let it show. I'm quite good at inscrutable.

You see, I should have realized that Daniel had lied. Because Daniel does that, and does it well. He had told her that it was I that ran off with his fiancée, breaking his heart, instead of the truth of it; my wife, my heart. She had only learned the truth earlier today. Bridget… I don't blame her for believing his deceit, because how could she have known otherwise? And when I mentally replay those situations in which I cannot comprehend her behaviour, knowing now that she thought I was the rogue in this story, it all makes sense.

Before I could be pulled away again, Bridget asked if we could step into the foyer for a few minutes, as she had more she'd like to say. Mutely, I followed to where the coats of friends and family were hanging.

She said to me that despite my haughtiness, my talent for saying the wrong thing in every situation, for wearing the stupid things Mother buys for me (tonight's snowman tie was no exception), and (strangely) despite the perhaps unfashionable length of my sideburns, that I'm a nice man and that she likes me as I am, as well.

It was at this moment that I finally realized the truth of it. That against all common sense and logic, this unpolished, unpredictable, lively, and yes, beautiful woman is the one I really wanted to be with. On the eve of my relocation to New York. I continued to be inscrutable. The knife twisted when she then told me it might be nice if I were to pop by her flat again some time.

At this moment the sound of silverware on crystal called me back inside for the toast. I mentally willed my father not to announce the promotion, the move to New York and the possibility of an engagement to Natasha, but he did so anyway. Natasha pled innocent on the latter of the three, saying she had asked him not to mention that, when in reality her instructions were probably closer to the opposite. I wanted to sink into the floor when Father toasted to "Mark and his Natasha".

"No! NO!"

Bridget, again unable to verbally contain herself. If I thought she had no interest in me beyond thinking I'm a nice man with funny sideburns that she happens to like, it would be easy to leave. But her outburst was not, in fact, for the loss of "England's greatest legal mind" (as she hastened to claim); it was for the loss of me. This makes it incredibly difficult to leave, but I have responsibilities I have already committed to.

I did not get a chance to speak to her again, as she immediately departed the Ruby Wedding for "another party". I suspect this was a fabrication. I don't blame her. She must have known at once why I failed to step through the door she'd opened for me.

The plane leaves in three. I should get to the airport.

Friday 29 Dec

After hours alone with my thoughts on the plane (oh, Natasha was there, but I was alone), all of which would be too painful to transcribe even here, Natasha and I deplaned to find a junior partner, Bernard, waiting with a car for us. He launched into the typical kissing-up one would expect from a junior partner, making sure to mention that the senior partners are "more than millionaires". It was precisely then I realized I had to go back.

To hell with responsibilities.

I apologized for being an ass, left Natasha with this Bernard fellow, hoping Bernard could adequately apologize to Abbott & Abbott for me… and I hopped on the first available and most outrageously priced flight home. Slept for a bit from sheer exhaustion. And now I'm all nerves, as it's an hour from touchdown at Heathrow. I contemplated calling ahead, but realized I don't even have her number. Just her address. The thought actually made me laugh, which was a novelty.

Monday 1 Jan

I have a serious inclination now to abandon this poor-man's therapy, but to provide closure to the story, I'll leave one final entry.

I had not been on English soil for more than two hours on Saturday night – too excited to sleep much on the flight, and too nervous to sleep once I got back – when I walked the few blocks over to Bridget's place, as snow blanketed London (white, crisp, gorgeous London flakes; one of the things I'd forgotten I loved). A snow-covered Mini sat revving in front of her building, filled with her motley bunch of friends from the birthday dinner (I distinctly heard a male voice, Tom; Jude's voice just below the range only dogs can hear; and a couple of tell-tale "Fuck"s told me Shazzer was in there too). I realized that standing at the front door of the building was Bridget herself fumbling to find her keys to lock the door. I called out her name. She turned, clearly astonished to see me. When she asked what I was doing back, I told her honestly that I'd left something important at home – I'd failed to give her a kiss goodbye. She said that would be all right.

I tried to kiss her, but the idiots in the car honked and yelled. It was then, after Bridget denied all knowledge of their existence and I admitted I would not in fact be going to America, that we decided to head up to her flat. I freely admit that my hopes were on a proper snog, and it was difficult to keep my hands off of her. (Scent is a powerful memory trigger, and I don't think I will ever smell Herbal Essence shampoo again without thinking of this frustrating moment.) She continued to evade my advances, which perplexed me, but I soon realized she wished to freshen up. She ducked into what I presumed at the time to be her bedroom, telling that she'd be out in a moment. (In my experience: 10-15 minutes.)

It was then, quite by accident, that I discovered her diary. It was near the top of the pile of the magazines she indicated I should look through, and was already open to where she'd written some extremely unkind things about me. In fact, I noticed several other entries with a similar theme. I didn't get angry. After all, I'd done my share of venting in the hallowed pages of a journal too, and opinions captured forever in ink can change. I noticed there were just a scant few empty pages remaining, and I remembered the stationery shop just round the corner. I decided I would pop out for a moment, and return to surprise her with a new diary.

As I exited the stationery shop, who do I see standing there shivering amongst the swirling snow but Bridget, dressed only in trainers, tiger-striped underpants, a purple tank and a grey cardigan sweater. She looked as forlorn as I've ever seen anyone look. I found it difficult to summon my voice: after all, the bunny get-up was only a costume, but this particular ensemble was donned for me, and it was having the appropriate effect.

As she started to speak about diaries and the crap they're filled with, I realized with horror that she thought I'd read the diary and left in disgust. I agreed that yes, diaries are filled with crap, and I showed her the gift I'd just bought for her to start the New Year. Her face lit up brighter than Christmas morning, and she ran to me. I hadn't previously realized how much shorter she was than I am until I took her into my arms, and she had to stand on tiptoes in order for us to kiss. And kiss we did.

In order to refute Bridget's belief that a nice boy can in fact kiss properly, I will freely admit to channeling Shazzer for a split second and uncharacteristically issuing forth her favourite word. I kissed her again, enveloping her very exposed body within my coat. I was hardly aware of the temperature (yet all too aware of her arms around me), but she must have been very cold, and indeed, as I ran my hands along her arms some minutes after we returned to her flat, her skin was still quite chilly to the touch.

Suffice it to say, she has since been adequately warmed.

She snores. She hogs the covers. She makes appalling scrambled eggs. Her coffee is quite possibly the foulest I've had. She prefers the wrong sort of orange juice. She has the quirky, unnerving habit of peering at me whilst I'm sleeping.

Was she worth coming back from New York for? Oh, without a doubt.