Ms Helen Fielding has a lot to answer for, and so has her creation Bridget Jones. I refer to the very funny newspaper diary (and subsequent best-selling book) detailing the life of a scatty "singleton" (unmarried woman) and her various obsessions.
The trouble is that since the huge and deserved success of the diary, no paper is deemed complete today without a rival diary, usually of breath-taking vapidity. These are the Bridget Clones and they are beginning to get out of hand.
Monday
Weight, nine stone six, alcohol units 5, Scratch-cards, £4 but have won back £2.
Can think of nothing to put in stupid diary and is only Monday. Did not have exciting weekend unless count cat sick on bedroom floor and broken washing machine. All right for Helen Fielding; fertile imagination makes all look easy. Wish dishy Mickey Hurdle would call. Not mean for sexual thrill but hope as superhack friend might throw lifeline idea stretching to 800 words. Men better at developing crap notions indefinitely such as soccer being interesting. Men not much better at much else. Still need sometime. Is nine weeks now since last time so could have head start as postulant if wanted.
Early afternoon. Sit at monitor, try to concentrate. See oneself entering convent leaving material world behind. Shorn hair falls to ground. As last act of sentiment send one lock to former lover. On second thoughts send five locks to different men. Bell rings for Benediction. Realise is phone, boss Euphemia wondering if feeling all right or like glass water. Meaning why am not churning out stupid diary. Cow.
Tuesday
Stuck again for madly amusing inventive tale re friends and family and lovers (I wish). Idiotic impossible marking. Hungover too. Remind alcohol intake: eleven units. With five yday means only five left for rest of entire week if fulfil max safe recommended intake level. All right for doctors can access secret supplies of mindbending substances. Medical people worst drink/drugs offenders if truth known. Not coincidental men allowed extra seven units weekly and most doctors men.
Thank God at least getting hang of weird shorthand Bridget diary style pass off as own.
Wednesday
Weight, nine stone ten. V depressing. Would not get upset over weight fluctuation if would only begin fluctuating in right direction. Pleased have made original joke. Might get real columnist job sometime. If exists. If not mutually exclusive re reality etc. Know what wish to say only hard express. Afternoon. Wish was not consumed with envy for colleague Tina, seven stone two eats four bars of chocolate after lunch every day, has obviously sold soul to devil for perfect metabolism and tiny bum. Would do similar bargain if could, am probably going to Hell anyway.
Thursday
Half-hour late for work due to stupid old lady pushing past to be last person on full bus. Wish to kill with own umbrella.
Stupid boss Euphemia throws huge stage eyes at plastic clock. Take no notice. Sit at desk. Switch on monitor. Log on. No msgs. No phone-calls. No yellow Post-Its glued to screen with intriguing return call asap desperate pleas from lovelorn boyfriends. Waif-thin Tina's screen meanwhile growing Post-It forest and she has gone out for only 20 minutes.
Must face facts. Am boring overweight part-time media person with pathetic social life doomed forever to write rip-off derivative column or similar. Wonder if commit suicide at desk perhaps shove head through computer monitor and burst into purple flames. Euphemia probably invoice my poor bereaved mother for damage. Insensitive cow. Least not as big arse as hers. Mean Euphemia, not mother.
Friday
Am bereft of all inspiration. Remind myself TGIF but can think only black thoughts. Begin imagining my funeral. All sorry then re treatment of me. Finer qualities evoked, hint at unfulfilled promise, obstacles placed in way by cruel media bosses, could otherwise have smashed glass door or is it ceiling not left churning out third-rate pseudo-diary. Stunningly handsome strange man walks slowly on his own up church aisle, leaves single yellow rose on coffin and leaves without word to anyone. Must choose and write out list of music to be played on day, will be uplifting but not quite make congregation feel it is entirely happy occasion. Will be dead body in box after all.
Soon lunchtime. Goody.
3 p.m. Hurrah! Discover phone working only for outgoing calls past two days, hence not ringing non-stop with jolly friends begging for my company at glamorous supper-parties. Feel better but still wish was filthy-rich famous Helen Fielding, wish had thought up BJ first, wish get phone call Evening Standard loadsamoney offer wish to stop humiliating self in front of snooty commissioning editors wish wish wish. Faugh!
