Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

by Helen Fielding

  Wished, for a fleeting second, they were lemurs.

  1 p.m. Suddenly had urge to check my Twitter followers and pulled iPhone out to take a look.

  1.01 p.m. ‘Mummeee! Mabel’s stuck in the tree!’

  Looked up in alarm. How had they got up there in thirty seconds when they’d just been hanging upside down? Mabel was now way up, clinging to the tree trunk like not so much a lemur as a koala, but slithering alarmingly.

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming.’

  I took off my parka and hoisted myself awkwardly into the tree, positioning myself under Mabel and putting a firm hand under her bottom, wishing I hadn’t come in quite such low-rise jeans, and high-rise thong.

  ‘Mummy, I can’t get down either,’ said Billy who was crouched, wobbling, on a branch to my right like an unsteady bird.

  ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hang on.’

  I leaned my full weight against the tree, placing one foot on a slightly higher branch to lift me towards Billy and putting my hand on Billy’s bottom, whilst keeping the other hand under Mabel’s bottom, simultaneously feeling the low-rise jeans descending lower over my own bottom. ‘Calm and poised! Just hold on tight and . . .’

  None of us could move. What was I going to do? Were we going to be frozen against the tree for ever, like a trio of lizards?

  ‘Everything all right up there?’

  ‘Is Mr Wolkda,’ said Mabel.

  I peered awkwardly down over my shoulder.

  It was indeed Mr Wallaker, running, in sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, looking like he was on an assault course.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he said again, stopping suddenly below us. He was oddly ripped for a schoolteacher, but staring in his usual annoying, judgemental way.

  ‘Yes, no, everything’s great!’ I trilled. ‘Just, um, climbing a tree!’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’

  Great, I thought. Now he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a completely irresponsible mother letting the children climb trees. Jeans were now slipping below my bottom-cleavage, my black lacy thong on full display.

  ‘Right. Good. Well. I’ll be off then. Bye!’

  ‘Bye!’ I called gaily over my shoulder, then reconsidered. ‘Um . . . Mr Wallaker?’

  ‘Yeeees?’

  ‘Could you just . . .?’

  ‘Billy,’ said Mr Wallaker, ‘let go of your mum, hold onto the branch, and sit down on it.’

  I released my frozen arm from Billy and put it round Mabel’s back.

  ‘There you go. Now. Look at me. When I count to three, I want you to do what I say.’

  ‘OK!’ said Billy cheerfully.

  ‘One . . . two . . . and . . . jump!’

  I leaned back and nearly screamed as Billy jumped out of the tree. What was Mr Wallaker doing?

  ‘Aaaaaaand . . . roll!’

  Billy landed, did a strange military-style roll and stood up, beaming.

  ‘Now, Mrs Darcy, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Mr Wallaker hoisted himself into the lower branches. ‘I’m going to take hold of . . .’ Me? My thong? ‘. . . Mabel,’ he said, reaching his arms past me to put his big hands round Mabel’s plump little form. ‘And you wriggle out and jump down.’

  Trying to ignore the exasperating frisson brought on by the scent and closeness of Mr Wallaker, I did what he said and jumped down, trying to pull up the jeans. He took Mabel in one strong scoop of his arm, leaned her on his shoulder and placed her on the grass.

  ‘I thaid Fuckoon,’ said Mabel, looking at him gravely.

  ‘I nearly said that, too,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But we’re all all right now, aren’t we?’

  ‘Will you play football with me?’ said Billy.

  ‘Got to get home, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘to er . . . the family. Now try to avoid the upper branches.’

  He started running off again, pumping his arms up and down with palms extended. Who did he think he was?

  Suddenly found self shouting after him: ‘Mr Wallaker?’

  He turned. Did not know what had intended to say. Mind whirring frantically, I shouted, ‘Thank you.’ Then added, for no reason whatsoever, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said dismissively, then started running off again.

  Humph. Grumpy bastard. Even if he did get us down from the tree.

  A NEEDLE IN A TWITTERSTACK

  Saturday 5 January 2013 (continued)

  Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers I might fancy 1.

  4 p.m. Whole Mr Wallaker tree/‘back to the wife and kids’ thing has left self feeling abnormal, and that everyone else is spending Saturday afternoon in nuclear family, while Dad plays ping-pong with the lad, and Mum shops and does mani-pedis with her immaculately dressed little girl. Ooh, doorbell!

  9 p.m. Was Rebecca! Had lovely evening sitting at her kitchen table while kids ran around. Was still feeling a bit abnormal, as Rebecca has a husband, or at least a ‘partner’ as they are not married. He is tall, handsome, though frequently a bit wrecked-looking and always dressed in black, and a musician. Told Rebecca about the everyone-else-in-nuclear-families-paranoia at which she snorted.

  ‘Nuclear families? I never see Jake from one month to the next. He’s always off on some gig or tour, and when he appears it’s frequently like having some kind of teenage stoner in the house.’

  Then we all came back to our house, and watched Britain’s Got Talent while I cooked (i.e. microwaved popcorn) and now the children are asleep. Billy and Finn are over the road, and Mabel and Oleander are here.

  Sunday 6 January 2013

  Twitter followers 649 (feel like tweeting disappeared followers saying, ‘Why? Why?’).

  8 p.m. Another good day with Rebecca and the kids. Another good evening with me, Mabel and Billy on my bed watching the Britain’s Got Talent results while I checked Twitter on my iPhone, tweeting my followers (649) with piercing aperçus on the ongoing programme: e.g. <@JoneseyBJ Aww #Chevaune song v. moving totes amazog.>

  8.15 p.m. Ooh. Have got response to my apercu from someone called @_Roxster!

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ #Chevaune song ‘totes amazog’? My tears are getting mixed up with my sick.>

  ‘Mummy,’ said Billy.

  ‘Mmmm?’ I said vaguely.

  ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

  DO NOT TWEET WHEN DRUNK

  Thursday 10 January 2013

  Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers who came back 1, new Twitter followers 2, alcohol units (do not want to even think about it. But – quavering voice – don’t I deserve a little happiness?).

  9.30 p.m. Chloe staying over again after her night out with Graham in Camden. Is nice sitting down at the end of the day and updating myself with current affairs and Twitter with a well-earned glass or two of white wine.

  10 p.m. Woah. Fantastic story: ‘Beef Lasagne 100% Horse’.

  10.25 p.m. Hee hee. Just tweeted.

  <@JoneseyBJ Warning: Fish fingers found to be 90% Sea Horse.>

  Sure will be retweeted and bring more followers like spambot tweet!

  Maybe will have another glass of wine. I mean, Chloe is here, so is fine.

  Love that the tone of my Twitter feed is so loving and friendly. Not like some, where everyone is slagging each other off. Really, is like going back to the days of Robin Hood with all these little fiefdoms and oh . . .

  10.30 p.m. Everyone is slagging me off. And my tweet.

  <@_Sunnysmile @JoneseyBJ You think that’s a new joke? Don’t you read anyone except yourself on Twitter? Self-obsessed or what?>

  Really need another glass of wine now.

  10.45 p.m. Right, am going to tweet back to @sunny or whatever she’s called ’erself and tick her off. So people aren’t allowed to make up their own jokes any more?

  11 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Sunnysmile If you don’t stop being mean I will de-follow you.>

  11.01 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Sunnysmile Here one spreads joy & positive energy by tweeting. Rather like birds do.>

  11.07 p.
m. <@JoneseyBJ ‘They toil not, neither do they tweet.’ Hmm. No, they do tweet though. Thasu point with birds.>

  11.08 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Anyway f*** em. Stupid birds flapping around tweeting all over s place. Oh oh look at me! I’m a bird!>

  11.15 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Hate birds. Look at that movie ‘The Birds’! Birds can turn MAN-EATING.>

  11.16 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ Peecking people’s eyes out with 60s hairdos. Vicious nasty birds.>

  11.30 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ 85 followess gone waway. Why? Why’wasi hwohave I don? comebac!k>

  <@JoneseyBJ Noo! Follwers draining away as if through sieve.>

  <@JoneseyBJ Nooo! Hate bireds Hatetweetings Hate drainqine away follwoers. An goingsoto bed!>

  TWUNKEN AFTERMATH

  Friday 11 January 2013

  Twitter followers lost 551, Twitter followers remaining 101, number of words of screenplay written 0.

  6.35 a.m. Will just check my Twi— Gaaah! Just remembered twunking incoherent drunken rant last night, slagging off birds for no reason to hundreds of complete strangers. Oh God. Have clouting hangover and have got to do school run. Oh, is OK because Chloe is doing school run. Am going back to sleep.

  10 a.m. Look, this can be salvaged, like any other PR disaster. With exception, possibly, of current Lance Armstrong PR disaster.

  10.15 a.m. Right. The Leaves in His Hair. Must get on.

  11.15 a.m. Actually, maybe I could have a career in PR! Oh, shit, is 11.15, must get on with screenplay. First, though, clearly I quickly need to make a full and frank Twitter apology to my few remaining followers.

  <@JoneseyBJ Very sorry re #twunk last night re birds.>

  11.16 a.m. <@JoneseyBJ Birds delight our ears and eyes with their feathers and song! And control worms. Leave birds alone!>

  11.45 a.m. Maybe will just throw in quote from Dalai Lama for good measure:

  <@JoneseyBJ Just as a snake sheds its skin so we can shed our past and begin anew. (@DalaiLama)>

  9.15 p.m. Right. Children are asleep. Am going to get back on Twitter.

  9.16 p.m. OMG. Tweet from @_Roxster! Yesss! At least Roxster has not left in disgust.

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ @DalaiLama Once the hangover has cleared? Do you realize you’ve been singled out in a #Twunk thread?>

  9.17 p.m. Oh God. Everyone is ridiculing me and retweeting my drunken birds tweet. Must try and do damage control.

  <@JoneseyBJ #twunkbirds Look, sorry, I really wish I hadn’t – what is the past tense of tweet? Tweeted? Twittered?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ I believe the appropriate term is ‘Twat’.>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Are you being grammatical or rude?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ The former *pretentious voice*: from the Latin, Twitto, Twittarse, Twittat.>

  He’s funny. And pic is handsome. And young-looking. I wonder who he is?

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Roxster, if you carry on like this, your 103 remaining Twitterati will be demanding sick bags.>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Why? Are they all hung-over because they too were twunking about birds last night?>

  Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Cheeky young whippersnapper.

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Please stop being so impertinent, or I shall have to tweak you.>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Tweak or tweet? Best not the latter. You’ve just lost 48 more followers.>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Oh no! They think I’m a really neurotic Twitterer and fat.>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Did you just say ‘and fart’?>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster No, Roxster, I said ‘and fat’. You seem unhealthily obsessed with farting and vomiting.>

  Roxster just retweeted me from one of his followers: <@Raef_P @Rory See you in five, yar? Outside the Fartage?> adding:

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Posh bastards are skiing in France.>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster But what is Fartage?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Waxing.>

  10 p.m. Waxing? France? Suddenly have lurching fear that Roxster is not a cute younger man who finds me entertaining, but gay, and is drawn to me and Talitha as tragic ironic ruined drag acts, like Lily Savage.

  10.05 p.m. Just called Talitha to get her opinion.

  ‘Roxster? That rings a bell. Is he one of my followers?’

  ‘He’s MY follower!’ I said indignantly, then conceded, ‘Though he may have jumped across from you.’

  ‘He’s adorable. Roxster. Roxby someone. I had a man on the show who was plugging designer food-recycling caddies and Roxby came with him. He works for some green eco-charity. Nice young chap. Very handsome. Go for it!’

  10.15 p.m. <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Do you go to France and get waxed, Roxster?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Deep masculine voice* Jonesey, I am very far from gay. I am talking about waxing snowboards.>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster ‘Oh oh, look at me, I’m a young person. I do snowboarding in baggy trousers showing my underpants.’>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster ‘Instead of skiing elegantly with a furlined hood.’>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Do you like younger men, Jonesey?>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster *Icy, almost to point of glacier-esque* Excuse me? What EXACTLY are you implying?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ *Hides behind sofa* How old are you, Jonesey?>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Oscar Wilde: Never trust a woman who will tell you her age. If she tells you that she will tell you anything.>

  <@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster How old are you, Roxster?>

  <@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ 29.>

  SCREENWRITER

  Monday 14 January 2013

  Twitter followers 793 (am #Twunken heroine), tweets 17, disastrous social occasions agreed to 1 (or maybe 3 all in one), words of screenplay written 0.

  10 a.m. Right, must get down to work!

  10.05 a.m. Maybe will just check news.

  10.15 a.m. Oooh. Really like Michelle Obama’s new haircut with fringe, or ‘bangs’, as they are known. Maybe I should get fringe or bangs? Also, of course, delighted by Obama’s second term of presidency.

  10.20 a.m. Really has started to seem as if nice people are in charge: Obama, that new Archbishop of Canterbury who had a proper job before and speaks out against the banks being greedy, and William and Kate. Right, work. Ooh, phone!

  11 a.m. Was Talitha. ‘Darling! Have you finished your screenplay?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Well, sort of.’ The truth is, what with the whole Leatherjacketman thing, and the dating study thing, and then the Twitter thing, The Leaves in His Hair seems to have rather gone to seed. Oh, though, can leaves go to seed? Maybe if sycamores?

  ‘Bridget? Are you still there? Is it in some sort of shape?’

  ‘Yes!’ I lied.

  ‘Well, send it to me. Sergei’s doing some “dealings” in the film business and I think I can use it to get you an agent.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, very touched.

  ‘Send it today?’

  ‘Um. Yes! Just give me a couple of days?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But get on with it, OK? Between tweets to toy boys? Remember, we do not let Twitter become an obsession.’

  11.15 a.m. Right. Is absolutely imperative not to tweet today, but finish screenplay. Have just got to do the ending. Oh, and the middle bit. And sort out the start. Maybe will just look quickly at Twitter to see if @_Roxster has tweeted again. Gaah! Telephone.

  ‘Oh, hello, darling’ – my mum. ‘I’m just ringing about the Cruise Slideshow Event and Hard-Hats-Offing a week on Saturday. It was super doing the Christmas-After-Christmas at Chats and I thought . . .’

  Tried to resist the temptation to immediately tweet hilariously about the Mum/Cruise Event conversation whilst being in the middle of it. Of course Mum would never be on Twitter.

  ‘Bridget?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, trying to drag myself away from Twitter.

  ‘Oh! So you ARE going to come?’

  ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Can you just run through it again?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s the Hard-Hats-Offing f
or the completion of the new Gatehouse Lodges! All the St Oswald’s establishments do them when they’ve finished a new build. We all wear hard hats, and then just toss them in the air!’

  ‘When is it again?’

  ‘A week on Saturday. You will come, darling, because Mavis is having Julie and Michael and all the grandchildren.’

  ‘So I can bring the kids?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Yes, of course, darling, that’s the whole idea but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, darling. You’ll make sure Mabel wears the dress I sent?’

  I sighed. No matter how many cool shorts-tights-and-biker-boots outfits from H&M kids, or sticky-outy party dresses from Mum I try to coax Mabel into, Mabel has her own ideas about what she wants to wear: usually some sort of Hamish-meets-Disney look involving a glittery T-shirt, leggings and an ankle-length tiered skirt. Feel am from totally Other Generation, which doesn’t understand the look of the young people.

  ‘Bridget!’ said Mum, understandably, perhaps, exasperated. ‘You must come, darling, it doesn’t matter how badly they behave.’

  ‘They don’t behave badly!’

  ‘Well, the other grandchildren are older because of you having them so late in life, and of course when you’re on your own with them it’s harder to—’

  ‘I’m not sure I can make Saturday week.’

  ‘Everyone else will have their grandchildren there and it’s terribly hard for me being on my own.’

  ‘OK. Now, Mum, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Did I tell you about the trouble we’ve been having . . .?’ she started to gabble, as she always does when I say I have to go. ‘We’ve got one of these men going into all the bedrooms. Kenneth Garside? He keeps getting into bed with all the women.’

  ‘Do you like Kenneth Garside, Mum?’ I said innocently.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, darling. You don’t want a man when you get to my age. They just want looking after.’