Chapter 1: The Turkey Curry Buffet
Disclaimer: Dialogue between Bridget and Mark is taken from Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. She is the genius behind this, anyway.
Sunday 1 January (New Year's Day) Wishes made that I did not know any of the people I spent the day with 1,000,000, minutes spent trying to convince self I didn't look completely moronic in jumper 258, women I probably turned off of the male race 1, times I wished I could just die 6.
Noon I am at the Alconbury's annual Turkey Curry Buffet, wearing a God- awful diamond patterned jumper that Aunt Una (why must I call this woman my aunt when she is not?) gave to me for Christmas, as well as a pair of horrendous socks with bumblebees all over them (also a gift from Una). I was forced to put them on as soon as I got here, as it seems that Una Alconbury is not a woman you can say no to. So now, instead of wearing a designer black jumper that I actually look decent in and black socks, I look like a total prat. It is a travesty that no matter how educated or successful I am, I still fall to the mercy of women who spend their entire existence fighting about sieving the gravy or what tablecloth to use at a gathering. It seems pure education cannot defeat them, for they are a race that is impervious to reason. Begrudgingly, I have a certain amount of respect for all of them, simply because they are so obviously in control of everything around them. It seems I'm lucky if I even get to decide what pair of shoes I will wear.
10 p.m. I am an absolute git. Honestly. A complete and total git of the most astounding measure.
Mother's friends took turns walking past me during the party, going on about how lovely Bridget Jones was and how I'd just love here when I met her. Apparently, it wasn't just Mother that was engineering this meeting; it was the whole of the Life Boat Book Club. That would mean that Bridget will have been having the hard sell made to her as well. God, I hate my life.
I decided to occupy myself by looking at the Alconbury's book collection. I find that feigning interest in something like this at parties makes people leave you alone, at least for a while. turns out that Uncle Geoffrey (again, not my actual uncle) has an alarming number of volumes on the Third Reich. Suddenly, I heard Una call out for me, and I knew it was showtime.
Una was standing next to a woman that appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties. She wasn't very tall, and her hair was a rather dishy blonde. However, while she wasn't particularly attractive, I certainly would not call her unattractive. Unlike many women, she actually had a figure rather than a strange stick-body and her smile, while obviously nervous and put-on at the moment, seemed to carry a kind of honesty that I had forgotten even existed anymore.
"Mark, this is Colin and Pam's daughter, Bridget," Una said, introducing the woman. "Bridget works in publishing, don't you, Bridget?"
"I do indeed," she answered, attempting to seem relaxed and failing miserably.
Una decided it was time to leave us to our own devices. "Well, I'll leave you two young people together. Durr! I expect you're sick to death of us old fuddy-duddies."
"Not at all," I said, attempting to make it seem like I really didn't mind all of the damn "fuddy-duddies" I'd been stuck with for the past few days when the truth was that I wished to murder them all.
I tried to smile, and soon realized that I was rash to assign Bridget as unrelaxed, as I was having a hard time relaxing myself. I racked my brain for something to say, when I remembered that she worked in publishing. "I. Um. Are you reading any, ah...Have you read any good books lately?" I finally mumbled.
She took a moment to think and answered, "Backlash, actually, by Susan Faludi."
"Ah. Really?" I said, thinking fast. Then I remembered that Natasha at my firm had read the book. I decided it was best to parrot her opinion rather than look unread. "I read that when it first came out. Didn't you find there was rather a lot of special pleading?"
"Oh, well, not too much....," she answered, looking at me rather strangely. "Have you been staying with your parents over New Year?" Oh God, I realized, I must have said the wrong thing. Why else would she change the subject so quickly? Unless, perhaps, she hadn't really read the book...I broke my trail of thought, quickly realizing I had to answer her question within the normal amount of time before I made more of an arse of myself than I had already done.
"Yes," I answered, with probably a bit too much enthusiasm. "You too?"
"Yes. No. I was at a party in London last night. Bit hungover, actually." At that point, she was off to the races. She went on, rather scarily, about how she'd much rather be like a "normal person" with her head in the toilet and telling me about New Year's resolutions she'd made that she was already breaking right in front of me. "But then," she prattled on, "I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system. Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second."
At this point, I could think of nothing else to say, and I had to get out. "Maybe you should get something to eat," I said, practically running away from her. The truth of the matter was, she was quite alarming. She just said absolutely anything that came to her mind. I hadn't seen someone do that in ages.
For the rest of the evening, Una Alconbury and Bridget's mum Aunt (read: not my real aunt) Pamela kept parading Bridget in front of me. Bridget looked harried by the entire ordeal, not that I can blame her at all. At this point, I was almost certain that she must not want a thing to do with me, as I'd been both daft and rude. Una was relentless, however, saying "Mark, you must take Bridget's telephone number before you go, then you can get in touch with her when you're in London."
I was sure Bridget would probably rather die than give me her actual number, so I replied "I'm sure Bridget's life in London is quite full enough, Mrs. Alconbury" in what I tried to make a complimentary tone. However, by the look on Bridget's face, I let my frustration with Una creep into my reply, and again, sounded like a prat. When the evening was over, Mother and Una forced me to ask her if my car could take her back to London, even though I wanted nothing more that to go stand in front of said car and pay my driver great deals of money to run over me with it. Mother and Una stood behind me while I asked, "Do you need driving back to London? I'm staying here but I could get my car to take you."
"What, all on it's own?" she responded.
I just stared at her. By the time I'd put the whole thing together, Una exclaimed, "Durr! Mark has a company car and a driver, silly."
She looked almost a little embarrassed, and for the first time all day, I almost smiled because the entire thing was just so tragic that is was almost funny. "Thank you, that's very kind," she said. "But I shall be taking one of my trains in the morning."
As I said, I am a prat of the worst and most terrible kind. I was completely rude to Bridget when I really had no reason to be so. I took my frustrations with Mother and goddamned Una and every other member of the Life Boat Book Club out on her, when really we should have been trying to help one another. I'm sure she's gotten it about me just as badly as I've gotten it about her, and I should have been far more sympathetic to the situation.
Oh sod it. I'm destined to die alone, so what does it all matter anyway?
Disclaimer: Dialogue between Bridget and Mark is taken from Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. She is the genius behind this, anyway.
Sunday 1 January (New Year's Day) Wishes made that I did not know any of the people I spent the day with 1,000,000, minutes spent trying to convince self I didn't look completely moronic in jumper 258, women I probably turned off of the male race 1, times I wished I could just die 6.
Noon I am at the Alconbury's annual Turkey Curry Buffet, wearing a God- awful diamond patterned jumper that Aunt Una (why must I call this woman my aunt when she is not?) gave to me for Christmas, as well as a pair of horrendous socks with bumblebees all over them (also a gift from Una). I was forced to put them on as soon as I got here, as it seems that Una Alconbury is not a woman you can say no to. So now, instead of wearing a designer black jumper that I actually look decent in and black socks, I look like a total prat. It is a travesty that no matter how educated or successful I am, I still fall to the mercy of women who spend their entire existence fighting about sieving the gravy or what tablecloth to use at a gathering. It seems pure education cannot defeat them, for they are a race that is impervious to reason. Begrudgingly, I have a certain amount of respect for all of them, simply because they are so obviously in control of everything around them. It seems I'm lucky if I even get to decide what pair of shoes I will wear.
10 p.m. I am an absolute git. Honestly. A complete and total git of the most astounding measure.
Mother's friends took turns walking past me during the party, going on about how lovely Bridget Jones was and how I'd just love here when I met her. Apparently, it wasn't just Mother that was engineering this meeting; it was the whole of the Life Boat Book Club. That would mean that Bridget will have been having the hard sell made to her as well. God, I hate my life.
I decided to occupy myself by looking at the Alconbury's book collection. I find that feigning interest in something like this at parties makes people leave you alone, at least for a while. turns out that Uncle Geoffrey (again, not my actual uncle) has an alarming number of volumes on the Third Reich. Suddenly, I heard Una call out for me, and I knew it was showtime.
Una was standing next to a woman that appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties. She wasn't very tall, and her hair was a rather dishy blonde. However, while she wasn't particularly attractive, I certainly would not call her unattractive. Unlike many women, she actually had a figure rather than a strange stick-body and her smile, while obviously nervous and put-on at the moment, seemed to carry a kind of honesty that I had forgotten even existed anymore.
"Mark, this is Colin and Pam's daughter, Bridget," Una said, introducing the woman. "Bridget works in publishing, don't you, Bridget?"
"I do indeed," she answered, attempting to seem relaxed and failing miserably.
Una decided it was time to leave us to our own devices. "Well, I'll leave you two young people together. Durr! I expect you're sick to death of us old fuddy-duddies."
"Not at all," I said, attempting to make it seem like I really didn't mind all of the damn "fuddy-duddies" I'd been stuck with for the past few days when the truth was that I wished to murder them all.
I tried to smile, and soon realized that I was rash to assign Bridget as unrelaxed, as I was having a hard time relaxing myself. I racked my brain for something to say, when I remembered that she worked in publishing. "I. Um. Are you reading any, ah...Have you read any good books lately?" I finally mumbled.
She took a moment to think and answered, "Backlash, actually, by Susan Faludi."
"Ah. Really?" I said, thinking fast. Then I remembered that Natasha at my firm had read the book. I decided it was best to parrot her opinion rather than look unread. "I read that when it first came out. Didn't you find there was rather a lot of special pleading?"
"Oh, well, not too much....," she answered, looking at me rather strangely. "Have you been staying with your parents over New Year?" Oh God, I realized, I must have said the wrong thing. Why else would she change the subject so quickly? Unless, perhaps, she hadn't really read the book...I broke my trail of thought, quickly realizing I had to answer her question within the normal amount of time before I made more of an arse of myself than I had already done.
"Yes," I answered, with probably a bit too much enthusiasm. "You too?"
"Yes. No. I was at a party in London last night. Bit hungover, actually." At that point, she was off to the races. She went on, rather scarily, about how she'd much rather be like a "normal person" with her head in the toilet and telling me about New Year's resolutions she'd made that she was already breaking right in front of me. "But then," she prattled on, "I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system. Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second."
At this point, I could think of nothing else to say, and I had to get out. "Maybe you should get something to eat," I said, practically running away from her. The truth of the matter was, she was quite alarming. She just said absolutely anything that came to her mind. I hadn't seen someone do that in ages.
For the rest of the evening, Una Alconbury and Bridget's mum Aunt (read: not my real aunt) Pamela kept parading Bridget in front of me. Bridget looked harried by the entire ordeal, not that I can blame her at all. At this point, I was almost certain that she must not want a thing to do with me, as I'd been both daft and rude. Una was relentless, however, saying "Mark, you must take Bridget's telephone number before you go, then you can get in touch with her when you're in London."
I was sure Bridget would probably rather die than give me her actual number, so I replied "I'm sure Bridget's life in London is quite full enough, Mrs. Alconbury" in what I tried to make a complimentary tone. However, by the look on Bridget's face, I let my frustration with Una creep into my reply, and again, sounded like a prat. When the evening was over, Mother and Una forced me to ask her if my car could take her back to London, even though I wanted nothing more that to go stand in front of said car and pay my driver great deals of money to run over me with it. Mother and Una stood behind me while I asked, "Do you need driving back to London? I'm staying here but I could get my car to take you."
"What, all on it's own?" she responded.
I just stared at her. By the time I'd put the whole thing together, Una exclaimed, "Durr! Mark has a company car and a driver, silly."
She looked almost a little embarrassed, and for the first time all day, I almost smiled because the entire thing was just so tragic that is was almost funny. "Thank you, that's very kind," she said. "But I shall be taking one of my trains in the morning."
As I said, I am a prat of the worst and most terrible kind. I was completely rude to Bridget when I really had no reason to be so. I took my frustrations with Mother and goddamned Una and every other member of the Life Boat Book Club out on her, when really we should have been trying to help one another. I'm sure she's gotten it about me just as badly as I've gotten it about her, and I should have been far more sympathetic to the situation.
Oh sod it. I'm destined to die alone, so what does it all matter anyway?