16th February
AM
Could not be bothered to go to work today. Also was far too humiliated by knickers-on-skirt incident to show face in office. Also am annoyed that due to knicker-throwing –out bonanza yesterday, have only two pairs of knickers in entire flat. Shit. Will have to go shopping now. Shit.
Went to Mark and Spencer's today to buy knickers. Realised that underwear is very expensive, with small cheese string-like piece of flimsy material costing two pounds bloody fifty. Seems pointless really, to spend money on nice underwear when have no boyfriend to see it. Still, we live in hope…
PM
God. Am so bloody pissed off. Will it never end? Mum just rang, and said that I just simply had to meet Joseph Morris, a teacher from Grafton Underwood. How bloody marvellous. So instead of spending a night in a drunken stupor, watching the delicious Colin Firth in a wet shirt, am being forced to dress like an old woman's tea cosy and sit listening to some fart arse old twat telling me about the state of the education system. Great. Can't bloody wait.
"Oh darling, here you are at last. What are you wearing?" Here it comes I thought to myself. "Go upstairs and put on what I've laid out for you." Ah mum. So predictable. I went upstairs to find, as predicted, an old woman's tea cosy. Something in beige chintz. How glamorous. Carefully walked downstairs to avoid hitting the disgusting mouse-like creature on the stairs, which is supposed to be a door stop. So why on God's green earth does my mother insist on leaving it on the stairs? Perhaps she is a secret misanthropist and wants to wipe out the entire population of Grafton Underwood. Death By Door Stop. Middle Aged Woman Kills Five.
"Darling, there you are. Honestly Bridget how long does it take? Come and meet Joseph, He's been simply dying to meet you." I very much doubt that mother. I followed my mother into the living room ("Lounge darling, lounge") And am instantly taken aback by the sight of a gorgeous the man standing in front of me. Tall, dark haired, with a roman nose. Wow. Perhaps this time mum had got it right. That is, until said gorgeous man opens mouth to speak. "Well well well, it'th ickle Bwidget. I'm Joseph. How are you awfully." Oh dear God. Mum has tried to set self up with Pompous Twat With A Baby-Talk Complex And A Speech Impediment™. Bloody marvellous. Pour self large glass of whiskey and sit down as far from said twat as possible. Which is easier said than done, without idiot mother forcing me to sit next to him. Oh shit.
Two hours on, and Twat has still not shut up. As predicted, he begun to ramble on about the state of the education system. I DON'T CARE. I spent my school years smoking behind bike shed, carrying on glorious tradition. Still, this whiskey is nice.
Blurry love dis whiskey. Mmm. Must make generous effort to talk to twa…Joseph. After all, what is world but lovely fluffy plane of existence in which we all must love each other. Think will take him up on offer of coffee at his place…
