Disclaimer - I do not own Bridget Jones' diary

1st January

Today was Pamela Jones's turkey curry buffet. When I think back to last year I shudder with horror at the almighty prat I made out of myself and indeed, how generally awful the whole event was. It is quite amazing to think of how things seem altered to me now I am not swathed in the blanket of self pity and malt whisky that normally accompanies me through the festive season. What was then a coven of gossiping cackling matchmakers now is clear to me to be just a group of close family friends, intent on seeing me happy again and determined to make me realise, despite myself, that there really were more fish in the sea. What was once a woman-repelling jumper is now just a slightly misguided gift from a loving mother trying to bring a smile to the face of her taciturn and obviously unhappy son.

Most of all, what seemed like a desperate spinster who 'drinks like a fish, smokes like a chimney and dresses like her mother' (an opinion which I have regretted highly since the moment the hypocritical and judgemental words departed my lips), I see a beautiful, witty, independent, strong willed woman, who admittedly does drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney, despite her pretences to the contrary. I behaved unforgivably towards Bridget last year; something which took me many months to set right; and I am determined to spend this year entirely differently.

Unfortunately, what seemed last year to be the most vile and outdated catering this side of the 1970's was, in the cold light of day, just that. I approached the groaning wallpaper table that I knew Colin had dragged from the garage just this morning, brushed off the cobwebs and set out for Pamela to adorn with the finest collection of doilies in all of Grafton Underwood. It looked almost a perfect replica of the resplendent feast that had faced me just 365 short days ago. I wondered idly if Pamela had some kind of template she worked from or if she had photographed the previous years' buffet as an ideal of culinary perfection and sought to replicate it ad infinitum. The table was piled high with vol– au–vonts, beetroot cubes, cheese and pineapple sticks, all manner of Lilliputian pickled vegetables, not to mention the esteemed turkey curry. I picked up a plate and gingerly spooned some of the alleged curry onto my plate. There were what appeared to be tinned peas and sweetcorn swimming in the suspiciously orange sauce that accompanied the turkey. What I had fervently hoped was an accident last year did rather seem to be the recipe. This was evidently where Bridget had garnered her cookery skills from. I struggled to contain a smile at the thought of the blue soup she had concocted last year.

Just as I raised my fork to my mouth I felt a sharp tap to my left shoulder, then as I turned to see who it was, another fell on my right. Geoffrey Alconbury; a man who I absolutely refuse to call my uncle on the grounds that he is a) unrelated to me and b) by all accounts, the most horrendous pervert; jumped up from behind me. I ground my teeth, frustrated in the knowledge that, even though that was approximately the 97th time he had done that, it was the 97th time I had fallen for it. Gullible Mark again, I chided myself internally.

"What-ho Mark! Not brought my lovely little Bridget with you I see?"

"Oh sorry no, um, Geoffrey. I'm afraid she's been waylaid. Terrible trouble at work – she simply had to go into the office this morning but I thought it best that I came up early to spend some time with my parents. My car is driving her here"

'All on its own' I thought to myself, amusedly remembering Bridget's confusion last year.

Whilst dishonesty doesn't come naturally to me, I must admit to telling a falsehood as far as Bridget's current whereabouts were concerned. After a particularly raucous New Year's eve celebration at Tom's flat last night (which involved, for some reason, Bridget Jude and Sharon climbing up onto Tom's dining table and singing 'Hey Big Spender' at high volume, only to be cut short by Bridget banging her head on the ceiling lamp and Jude laughing so hard she fell off the table and down the back of the sofa) Bridget was feeling somewhat worse for wear this morning and had begged me, in between bouts of vomiting, to leave her to die on the bathroom floor. Whilst this was obviously out of the question, I had to go back to my own house for a change of clothes and so had left Bridget to it, with the promise that I would send a car, and driver of course, to pick her up in a few hours and bring her here, stopping only at Coins Café for emergency coffee and chocolate croissant rations. It had surprised me that even after seeing her at her worst this morning, the immediacy with which I had wanted to be back with her, after leaving her flat and heading to my dreary house. Just as I was wondering how soon it was reasonable to be worried about her, I saw her enter the room.

Geoffrey left my side as quickly as he had arrived, only to pop up behind Bridget, squeezing her bottom in a very non uncle-like manner, accompanying it with a resounding "Parp Parp". Although her face reddened in annoyance, I knew she was so grateful to be avoiding the usual rounds of 'not got yourself a nice boyfriend yet Bridget?' that she was considerably more tolerant than she might have been. I concurred wholeheartedly.

Bridget approached me, a smile twinkling in her eyes as she removed her black overcoat. I glanced down, momentarily to her chest and my heart filled with such gratitude and relief that I could very well have taken her into my arms and kissed her there on the spot. However, as I think it would've sent Pamela into such paroxysms of delight she may well have fallen into the turkey curry I hardly thought it was appropriate.

I gave Bridget the merest of nods, although I felt my face softening as I did so, into one of the faces that Jeremy so hilariously refers to as mooning. As I did so, I noticed that she too was appraising me. She too, seemed to like what she saw, or at least to find it amusing.

"Nice jumper" she quipped, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"My mother's taste never falters" I replied, finally leaning in and giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. We were both now laughing about the fact that we were both wearing identical jumpers, of the most hideous kind. Quite where my mother procured these items from, I knew not, but I briefly pitied all the other middle aged sons around Britain whose own mothers frequented the same shop. However, the fact that Bridget had worn the aforementioned monstrosity, presumably out of consideration for my mother's feelings meant a lot to me.

Pamela bustled over to us, the scalloped edges of her apron practically quivering with glee.

"Ah Bridget there you are, at last! It's so nice to see you dressing a bit more cheerfully. Honestly dear the amount of times you've turned up here looking like something out of a concentration camp. And Mark, you look very handsome too, in another of Elaine's splendid jumpers." I smiled at her, nodding, glad that my years of legal training had at least taught me how to keep my face impartial at times like these. "Happy New Year to the two of you anyway," she eyed me beadily, the glint of expectation in her eye "I shouldn't think it will be too long before we find cause to celebrate again before long, eh Mark?" Bridget rolled her eyes and hissed at her mother to stop before I, the voice of diplomacy replied

"And Happy New Year to you too Mrs Jones. Thank you so much for my Christmas present – so very thoughtful of you. I certainly don't know how I have gone through my life thus far, without a set of, um, sock suspenders."

Bridget sniggered at my side, trying unsuccessfully to make it sound as thought she were choking on a mini quiche. Barely able to keep the tremor of mirth from my voice, I made my excuses to Pamela that I had better find where my father and Mr Jones had sneaked off to. Bridget followed me out onto the patio where we laughed long and hard into the crisp Winter air.

Later on, as I drove back to London, with Bridget sleeping off the last of her hangover in the passenger seat I realised that even the long and tedious journey to Grafton Underwood and back was made better, simply by her being with me.