Disclaimer: I do not own Bridget Jones' diary
Name: Mark Darcy
Age:…..Why am I even doing this?
When Bridget bought me this diary for Christmas maybe she thought of it as a little joke. To remind me of that night just before Christmas when I left her flat to go and buy her a new diary. Even now, thinking of the way she ran after me in just a cardigan and a pair of highly ridiculous knickers makes me break into the most juvenile grin. Jeremy has caught me on more than one occasion and sighed or rolled his eyes or elbowed me, guffawing "Still mooning over Bridget are you?"
Or maybe she thinks that writing a diary will help me get "that stick out my arse" as she has so charmingly put it in the past. It certainly seems to work for her – she is always so free with her emotions – like an open book for anyone to read. Unlike me, who seems to turn into a gibbering wreck, or worse, a pompous arse at the merest hint of emotion. It is true that I have not tried to write down anything personal for over twenty years, since the heartfelt and impassioned letters I used to write to my mother by torchlight under the covers during my first term at Eton. Pages and pages of begging to come and fetch me home again. Letters in which I poured out my child's heart and then promptly threw away. I couldn't bear to hurt her by sending them. And besides, after a few weeks I had been picked for the cricket team and all that nonsense was forgotten. Nevertheless, Bridget has given me this diary and I intend to keep it
However, knowing myself as I do, I can promise nothing more than that this will be a faithful record of the year's events. If this year turns out as I hope it will, and indeed, as it has begun, it may be pleasant to look back on it in future years.
Also, it will amuse Bridget that we will be able to sit side by side in bed, writing our diaries together. She will be scribbling furiously, pausing now and again to suck on the end of her pen, gazing off into space as she searches for the right word. I don't know if she is aware of quite how much she mumbles to herself as she is writing, her voice occasionally raising to a low shout as she recalls something that has made her angry during the day's events, usually that drug addled boss of hers, Richard Finch, or maybe even me. She won't let me read a word she has written since the time I so unforgivably intruded upon her private thoughts when reading her diary before, so I wouldn't know. Anyway, I will sit next to her, ponderously planning the next word before neatly writing it down, ever the same old buttoned up Darcy, even in these secret writings.
