A/N: Big thank you to the people whoreviewed the last two chapters.

Friday 26th June

8st 4 (excellent), bra size 34D (amazing), alcohol units 32 (appalling, but understandable), cigarettes 43 (again, appalling but understandable), calories 651 (v.v. good, but more due to sheer terror than actual will power; and probably unhealthy given new weight), no. of national lotteries won 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v good), no. of immortal souls still sold to Satan 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad).

8:55a.m. Blurgh. Urge to be violently sick rising. Have vague memories of something strange occurring last night, but can't quite recall what. Think that parchment and sunglasses involved. Think I'll remain v. still and try and go back to sleep for a few minutes. Memory bound to be better after nausea and headache subsided.

12:35p.m. Oh bugger, have succeeded in grossly oversleeping. Production assistant just knocked on door to see if I was okay. Shamefully lied and said that I thought I had some sort of food poisoning. Still, at least innard churning nausea and pounding headache seem to be fading.

12:40p.m. Think bathroom scales aren't working. Could not have lost a stone over night. Could I?

1:20p.m After getting dressed – in designer clothes that didn't realise I actually had – went to front desk and asked if scales in room could be broken. Ms Hodges (apparent owner of hotel) kindly let me use hers. Dial went once more to 8st 4. Should feel elated at this news; especially as breasts do not appear to have shrunk in proportion to rest of body (in fact seem slightly larger and perkier than they did yesterday), yet am consumed by horrible sense of foreboding. Why?

1:30p.m. Have just noticed unpleasant blood encrusted bit of old paper on bedside table.

1:33p.m. Blood on old paper is actually writing. It tells me that I Bridget Jones have hereby pledged my soul to Satan in return for beauty (in keeping with modern standards thereof), wealth (again, in keeping with modern standards thereof) and bestowing of terrible afflictions upon all enemies.

1:35p.m. Events of last night suddenly coming back to me:

"So Anthony." Hiccup. "What d'you do when you're not thinking up ideas for morally degenerate reality television programs?" Hiccup.

"Me. I do lots of other morally degenerate things."

"What like?"

"Well, don't tell anyone. But I'm a demon."

Drunken laughter. "Show me your horns pointy tail then."

Offended expression. "Look Brianna.…"

"Bridget!"

"Right, right Bridget. Don't go around showing my horns and pointy tail to people I've just met, you know? Not that sort of demon."

"Sorry."

"So you should be." Pause. "D'you think that you should really be drinking vodka out of the bottle?"

"Why shouldn't I, you're doing it too? Don't try and impose your paternalistic double standards on me, you… you chauvinist."

"Told you, I'm notta chauvinist, I'm a demon. Liver's not going to pack in like yours, is it? Well, cept that time in 1362. Took me ages to get a new one from the management it did."

Hiccup. "So if you're a demon." Hiccup. "Does that mean you spend your nights seducing innocent maidens?"

Offended stare. "I'm notta bloody incubus either. 'Sides, not as if you can do anything fun with an innocent maiden, is it? I'm hells top man… well, man shaped creature, on the planet. Did the Eden job, didn't I?"

"Did you?" Hiccup.

"S'what I just said."

"Prove it then."

Vodka bottles suddenly refilled. "S'a blurry good trick, Anthony."

"I know. Say, you wouldn't mind selling your soul to hell would you? I'm a bit behind on this decade's quota."

Giggle. "Alright, but do another trick first."

"What sort of trick?"

"I dunno; turn the curtains green or something."

"Alright." Snaps fingers.

"How d'you do that?"

Exasperated stare. "Told you twice before already. I'm a demon. Now about that soul of yours."

1:50p.m. Alright, must not let imagination fun away with me. Would be v. gullible to think Anthony Crowley really a demon (did not after all look very demonic when he fell off bar stool). Clearly the whole thing just a silly, drunken joke. Think it was v. wrong of him to get me to sign the paper in own blood though. Probably thinks that getting vulnerable women to cut themselves is amusing. The fact that I'm now slim, pert breasted and looking ten years younger is clearly result of strict health regime and self control on my part.

2:30p.m. Have just found out that I've won today's National Lottery. I switched on the news to hear name being announced as sole winner of 40 million pounds. Do not think that the sudden churning in my stomach is entirely due to ecstatic happiness. Suspect this is due to the fact that a) I haven't actually bought a lottery ticket for weeks and b) the jackpot for the daily draw is usually not 40 million pounds. Still, no reason to panic. Probably just due to some sort of computer error. Yes, that'll be it. Nothing to due with that bloody bit of paper.

4:30p.m. AAAAARGH. For the past two hours have been inundated with pleading requests for money from everybody I've encountered. Have also discovered from production assistant that Dave the sound technician has been struck down by laryngitis and seems to be suffering from some sort of rapid onset mid-life acne.

4:35p.m. Cannot deny the evidence any longer. Have actually gone and sold my immortal soul.

4:37p.m. Query: would it be possible to claim diminished responsibility on the grounds of delusion at time of signing (i.e. the fact that did not believe demon's really existed).

5:15p.m. After a bottle of wine and twenty-five cigarettes am feeling much calmer. Will simply burn contract and deny fact that it ever existed.

5:16p.m. Gah, the bloody thing seems to be flame retardant.

5:45p.m. Shortly after the failed burning of the infernal contract the phone rang:

"Hello?" I said, feel justifiably wary.

IN SEVEN DAYS... OH WAIT THAT'S NOT IT. DAGON HERE: MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. MS. JONES, IT HAS BEEN NOTED THAT YOU'VE ATTEMPTED TO INFLICT DAMAGE UPON YOUR COPY OF DOCUMENT 666A: THE SOUL EXCHANGE CONTRACT. I MUST REMIND YOU THAT SHOULD YOU ACTUALLY SUCEED IN DESTROYING THE DOCUMENT THERE WILL BE A PENALTY FOR THE REISSUE TO BE CREATED.

I gulped. "A…a Penalty?"

INSTEAD OF SPENDING THE FIRST STAGE OF DAMNATION IN STANDARD TORMENTS, YOU'LL BE SENT TO WORK IN THE IMP CRECHE.

"Crèche? But I like children."

HAH. TRY SAYING THAT AFTER AN EARTH DAY WITH THOSE BLIGHTERS.

It was then that I took a last stab at finding a rational explanation for what was happening. "Anthony is that you. Because if this is some sort of set up for one of your sick candid camera shows then I'm going to bloody well sue."

ANTHONY, WHO'S ANTHONY?

"Anthony Crowley."

CROWLEY. YOU THOUGHT THAT I WAS I WAS THAT PLEBIAN BASTARD. I AM AN UNDER DUKE YOU KNOW.

Seized by what must have been a sudden instinct for self-preservation I began to apologise profusely. "Mr. Crowley produces several cruel and unusual candid camera shows, so I thought that maybe…."

IT'S ALRIGHT FOR SOME. SWANNING ABOUT UP THERE WHILE SOME OF US ARE DOWN HERE MAKING SURE THAT EVERYTHING RUNS SMOOTHLY.

"I didn't mean to suggest that you weren't hard working Mr Dag…."

LORD.

"Sorry, Lord Dagon."

NONE OF THEM EVER TALK TO ME AT PARTIES, YOU KNOW. THEY DON'T WANT TO HERE ABOUT THE FIENDISH NEW FILING SYSTEM I'VE DEVELOPED OR HOW I'VE MANAGED TO RESTRUCTURE DUKE HASTUR'S PAPERWORK, SO THAT EVEN HE CAN UNDERSTAND WHERE HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE SIGNING. IT'S NOT AN EASY TASK YOU KNOW. BUT DO I GET ANY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT? NO, THEY IGNORE ME. START TO BACK AWAY WHEN I TRY TO ENGAGE THEN IN CONVERSATION ABOUT THE ALTERATIONS I'VE MADE TO THE IMP REQUISITION FORMS. BUT IF YOU BRING UP THE SUBJECT OF THAT BLESSED SERPENT OF EDEN, THEY'RE ALL EARS.

Not knowing quite what else to say to the irate voice on the other end of the line, I asked if he'd ever considered taking up a hobby. "Lots of people who work in borin… I mean, admin jobs have a creative outlet these days."

CREATIVE OUTLET?

"Like painting or… or playing a musical instrument."

WHAT ABOUT CARVING?

"You mean with wood?"

I WAS THINKING MORE OF LIVING BONE.

I found myself gulping once again. "Well, I suppose you could…."

AND THIS WOULD MAKE ME A MORE INTERESTING DEMON, WOULD IT?

I told him about the work/life balance and how a variety of interests could help one to acquire a wider circle of friends (felt rather hypocritical at this point owing to fact that am yet to take up Pilates, chess, opera, art appreciation or any of the other cultured/healthy pursuits I vowed to study this year). Then advised him to read Rising Above the Rat Race. I said that it was a bit but worth it. He said that this didn't matter as no self-respecting demon would go around paying for things. Proceeded to spitefully tell him that I'd observed Anthony Crowley paying for things on several occasions. He seemed happily outraged at this fact and the ensuing rant lasted until he realised that he had some minions to berate for filing copies of Writ 15645646.11111b with Writ 15645646.11111c.

GOODBYE MS. JONES. I'LL SEE YOU AGAIN AT DAMNATION.

Was a bit annoyed when the phone receiver melted.

6:30p.m. Decided that all things considered, have only one recourse: get mind blowingly sozzled.