9st 13 ( terrible). Items consumed from quivering mass of cottage cheese,
skinless chicken, egg whites, clams, tofu, texturized vegetarian protein and
liver suggested by Better Pregnancy diet: 0. Mini-Crunchies consumed
out of Cadbury's advent calendar: 24.
9.30am. Ugh, overwhelmed at thought of all things am supposed to do
before Christmas: traditional hideous taste-of-others exam where must spend
next 2.5 weeks running around hysterically, spending money do not have on
things others do not want. Fear it might be like finals at Bangor University,
when kept thinking any second would panic and start revision but never did,
and ended up putting things like: "Blood oh Blood Iago" - with lines like
this we see that Othello is a very good play indeed!!" - and failing Shakespeare,
Romantic Poets and Middle English. Depressed, also by swathe of fat round
midriff like on leg of lamb, only fatter. Induces panic since, now am pregnant,
cannot go on diet but will simply get fatter and fatter, fail to lose baby weight,
turn into depressed mother, forbidden to turn up at school by baby as too
embarrassing, and eventually have to be lifted out of window with a crane.
Otherwise everything is fine! (apart from geriatric single parent, no money,
father of baby hanging up when told him was pregnant etc.) Jolly dee!
Better go to work now, before sacked!
11am. Grrrr. As snuck into office Richard Finch bellowed: "Ah, Bridget!
I'm thinking eye-candy newscasters. I'm thinking beautiful women who just
read autocue. I want a stand-off between you and a wrinkly on-their-feet
"But I don't read autocue. I am a reporter," I said, indignantly.
"Doesn't matter. It's what you symbolise that's the thing."
"And what do I symbolise?" I hissed.
"Triumph of style over substance and the fittest titties in Christendom. Try
saying that when you're pissed! Now, I'm thinking Tory leadership results.
"I'm thinking Bridget Jones versus Kate Adie on a split screen, live from
the Royal Academy."
5.45 pm. Oh dear. Unable to work up any enthusiasm for Tory leadership
contest apart from in reality show sense of witnessing humiliation of
losers. For so long "Tory Leaders" has simply meant people either with
receding hair or no hair, trying to come up with some sort of personality,
that whole thing now seems reduced to Big Brother-like quirks to remember
which is which: the Scottish doctor one, the Osborne and Little-owner
one, the woman one with the unusual shoes, the naughty shagger one with the
yellow hair.With Mrs. Thatcher, "Tory" was simple: Loadsamoney, every man for
himself and sod the sturdy beggar poor people - so anyone who fancied
themselves an egalitarian, kind, or arty knew the Tories were bad.
But this "Compassionate Conservatism" is just confusing, like saying
"non-fat full-fat cheese". Unless, of course, you're a Loadsamoney
bastard disguised as an arty/media liberal who wants to vote Tory but feels
embarrassed about it. Like, for example... Daniel Cleaver.
Oh God, the very thought of him sends a dull ache through my heart. It
was so horrible on Saturday night, when he knew I was pregnant, seeing him
come into the Electric with a gorgeous brunette. Trying to restrain Shazzer
was like holding back a pitbull on a leash, but I didn't want her to
My philosophy is that me and the baby are complete in ourselves and all
I need to do is calmly and detachedly observe Daniel to see if he is
worthy to be baby's father.
5.50pm. Why hasn't he called me? Why? How can any human - or even
subhuman - man be so ungallant and cruel?
5.55pm. Gaaah! Suddenly found self dialling Daniel's mobile. "It's
"Yees. I see that. Funnily enough, Jones, I was just going to call you."
Was going to sarcastically sneer "oh really?" but suddenly was a catch
in my throat. After all these years, how could I have ended up pregnant and
still ringing Daniel pathetically to see why he hadn't called?
Felt like Fanny in Far From the Madding Crowd who got pregnant by
Sergeant Troy and ended up dying in the snow outside the poorhouse.
"The point, is, Jones, you were joking the other day? about..." - he
was clearly panicked -"I mean, I assumed you were, when I hung up. I was
going to ring back and quip that I was dying of cancer but someone came to
the door and..."
"I wasn't joking."
There was a click. I couldn't believe it. He'd fucking well put the
phone down again.
6pm. He just called back: "You're not serious?" "I am serious. I'm pregnant."
"And who's the father? Just kidding, Jones. I'm going to come round!"
Was unbelievable - first that Daniel, like Mark Darcy, had immediately
assumed he was the father and secondly that, there was an unmistakable
note of thrilled pride in his voice. Was beginnging to understand something.
Everyone thinks women who have children late are just stupid and don't
think about it, then suddenly go "Right,want a baby! Gaaah! Too late."
The truth is much more painful: that men in their thirties are mad
fuckwits who refuse to commit to having children because they don't need to and
It's only when they hit their forties and have their own version of
existential angst that they want them.
Or maybe men just daren't commit to the idea of babies but like it when
they come. If only I'd known all this I'd have just had a baby on my own
years ago and never mind waiting for a man. Mmmm. Cannot help fantasising
about having a baby with Daniel now I know he's happy. It would be hilarious.
He's so funny and charming, Mmm. Mmmm.
Just imagining how sweet he'd be, cuddling a little baby.
8pm. Daniel appeared up the stairs with a bunch of red roses, looking
unbelievably gorgeous. He took me gently in his arms, and whispered tenderly: "Don't worry, Jones. I'll take care of everything. I mean, I'm assuming you want to, you
know, get rid of it? Jones? Aaaargh. Ow! Bloody hell!"
Published: 08 December 2005