Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (30 page)

‘Hey!’ said Mabel. ‘Dothe are my leafletth. Give them to me!’

Mabel reached into my bag and grabbed ‘
Gonorrhoea – Signs and Symptoms
’. I tried, undignified, to snatch it back, but Mabel wasn’t letting go.

‘They’re
my
leafletth,’ said Mabel accusingly, adding, for effect, ‘Dammit!’

‘And they’re very useful leaflets,’ said Mr Wallaker, bending down. ‘Why don’t you take this one as well and give the rest to Mummy?’

‘Thank you, Mr Wallaker,’ I said firmly but pleasantly, then, nose in the air, swept off graciously towards the school gates, nearly tripping over Mabel on the steps, but nevertheless making a reasonably elegant exit.

‘Bridget!’ roared Mr Wallaker suddenly, as if I was one of the boys. I turned, startled. He had never called me Bridget before.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

I stared at him blankly.

‘Billy?’ He turned to Billy who was trotting up, looking at Mr Wallaker with a conspiratorial grin. They both looked at me, smirking.

‘She even forgets to get up sometimes,’ said Billy.

‘I bet,’ said Mr Wallaker.

‘Come along, children!’ I said, trying to regain my dignity.

‘Yeth, Mother,’ said Mabel with an unmistakable dollop of irony which was, frankly, annoying in one so small.

‘Thank you, Daughter,’ I said smoothly. ‘Hurry along! Goodbye, Mr Wallaker.’

When we got home, Billy and I slumped on the sofa as Mabel played happily with her sexual health leaflets.

‘I got rubbish marks for my homework,’ said Billy.

‘I got rubbish marks for my screenwriting.’

I showed him the email about the ‘proper screenwriter’. Billy handed me his art book with his colouring of Ganesha the Elephant God and the teacher’s notes:

‘
I like your mix of yellow, green and red on his head. However, I
am not sure that the multicoloured ears quite work
.’

We stared at each other dolefully, then both started giggling.

‘Shall we have an oatmeal cookie?’ I said.

We got through the whole packet, but it’s just like eating muesli, right?

OVERSTUFFED LIVES

Wednesday 5 June 2013

134lb, hours in day 24, hours required to do all things supposed to do in day 36, hours spent worrying about how to fit in all things supposed to do in day 4, number of things supposed to have done actually done 1 (go to toilet).

2 p.m.

LIST OF JOBS

*Put washing on

*Respond to Zombie Apocalypse invite

*Call Brian Katzenberg about the Ambergris Bilk email

*Blow up bike

*Grated cheese

*Figure out weekend: Saturday afternoon is Atticus’s African drumming party for Billy but Bikram’s mum says she will do pickup or drop-off if we do the other, then Cosmata’s Build-A-Bear party for Mabel on Sun at the same time as Billy’s football. Figure out who is going to pick kids up from which party with Jeremiah’s mum and Cosmata’s mum and also ask Jeremiah’s mum if Jeremiah wants to come to football.

*Call Mum (my mum)

*Call Grazina and see if she can fill in gaps at weekend, then check trains to Eastbourne

*Figure out what to do re Roxster mini-break

*Find bank card

*Find Virgin remote

*Find telephone

*Lose 3lb

*Respond to mass emails re Sports Day vegetables

*Find out if still supposed to go to Greenlight meeting tomorrow

*Greek or Roman myth party/photo

*Half-leg and bikini wax in case mini-break still on

*‘Ic’ Suffix Family ‘crest’

*Core Stability

*Fill in form about Billy’s bassoon lessons and take to school

*Find bassoon form

*Toilet light bulb

*Exercise on exercise bike (clearly this is not going to happen)

*Send back Net-a-Porter dress that didn’t wear for Talitha’s party

*Find out why fridge is making that noise

*Find and destroy Mabel’s gonorrhoea leaflets

*Find end scene from draft 12 about scuba-diving

*Teeth

Oh God. All these jobs will not actually fit into an hour, which is now twenty minutes.

OK. Am simply going to do ‘Quadrant Living’ like it says in
The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
and simply arrange the jobs into ‘four quadrants’:

2.45 p.m.
You see. Much better!

2.50 p.m.
Perhaps will go to the toilet. That is at least one of them.

2.51 p.m.
Right, have been to the toilet now.

2.55 p.m.
Oooh! Doorbell!

I opened the door, and Rebecca from across the road fell into the hallway, wearing a tiara, mascara smeared under her eyes, staring into space, clutching a list and a polythene bag full of egg sandwiches.

‘Do you want a fag?’ she said, in a strange, other-worldly voice. ‘I can’t go on.’

We went downstairs and slumped, staring into space, sucking on our fags like fishwives.

‘The annual Latin play,’ she said in a strange, disconnected voice.

‘Staff presents,’ I concurred dully. ‘Zombie Apocalypses.’ Then burst into a coughing fit as have not had a fag for five years apart from two puffs on a joint at Leatherjacketman’s party.

‘I think I’m having a full-on breakdown without anyone actually noticing,’ said Rebecca.

Suddenly leaped to my feet, stubbing out the fag, in inspirational frenzy.

‘It’s just a question of prioritizing into quadrants. Look!’ I said, thrusting my quadrant sheet under her nose.

She stared at the form, then burst into hysterical high-pitched giggles like someone in a mental hospital.

I suddenly had a brainwave. ‘It’s a State of Emergency!’ I said excitedly. ‘A cut-and-dried State of Emergency. Once a State of Emergency is declared, normal service is suspended and you don’t have to expect anything to be all right and you just need to do whatever you need to do to get through the emergency.’

‘Great!’ said Rebecca. ‘Let’s have a drinky. Just a little teensy-weensy one.’

I mean, it was only half a glass and really everything suddenly seemed much better, till she leaped up saying, ‘Oh my bloody God and fuck. I’m supposed to be on the school run,’ and ran out of the door, just as Roxster texted:

Rebecca then reappeared for her egg sandwiches just as I remembered I was supposed to be on the school run as well. Ran upstairs, then downstairs, looking for the rice cakes, simultaneously texting Roxster:

3.30 p.m.
Back in car now. Oh, shit, have forgotten rice cakes.

Gaah, text from Roxster.

HE’S having a panic attack?

Ended up rushing from car to school in ungainly half-walking, half-running gait in middle of which Scandinavian tourists chose me – for unexplained reasons – to ask for directions. Panicking that they were trying to steal my time, I carried on walking determinedly whilst gesturing directions back to them. Oh God. Have let down country by being inhospitable to foreigners (though Scandinavia is in EU, I think?). But what is world coming to when one is more scared of passers-by stealing one’s time than one’s handbag?

9.30 p.m.
No phone call from Roxster.

Oh God, oh God, he’s going to call and break up with me for not having a time machine.

10 p.m.
Hate it when people delay phone calls because you know they are putting it off as they have to say what you don’t want to hear. Though Roxster hates phone calls anyway because I do too much talking and will not delay talking until the morning. Oh, phone call! Roxster!

10.05 p.m.
‘Oh, hello, darling.’ My mother. ‘Do you know, Penny Husbands-Bosworth has started lying about her age – she says she’s
eighty-four. It’s completely ridiculous. Pawl, you know, the pastry chef, says she’s just doing it so everyone will say how young she looks and . . .’

10.09 p.m.
Have managed to get Mum off phone but now feel guilty and also think maybe Roxster called while she was . . . Oooh! Text!

10.10 p.m.
Was from Chloe.

Aaaaaargh! How has child-rearing got so . . . so complicated? Is as if you have to keep them on some sort of permanent high of engagement and happiness.

10.30 p.m.
Suddenly enraged with Roxster, blaming the whole socio-global child-rearing dysfunctional collapse on him. ‘BLOODY Roxster! Me and Chloe have had to arrange all this complex matrix of African drummers and bears and extra people taking care of the children because of Roxster, and now will have nowhere to go and no one to see, simply because of Roxster. Will be like a . . . like a GIANT CUCKOO, de trop in own house ALL BECAUSE OF ROXSTER!’ – conveniently overlooking the fact that it was me who had wanted to go on the childcare-demanding mini-break in the first place.

10.35 p.m.
Impulsively sent positively glacial text to Roxster, saying: the mini-break this weekend? I have a number of matters to resolve if we are still intending to go.> – then immediately regretted it as totally non-
Zen and the Art of Falling in Love
and hideous, anal and mean-spirited tone. Can completely see why Roxster might be having doubts as is twenty-one-year age difference, especially if adopting anal tone.

10.45 p.m.
Muted text came back from Roxster.

Impulsively sent back: < But the mini-break is all set up now and it’s the first chance we’ve had to go away together on our own and it will be so romantic and . . . and everything.>

A few minutes’ wait – then a texting ping.

Yayyy! We’re going on a mini-break.

11 p.m.
Talitha just called to see what was happening and said, ‘Careful, darling. Once they have wobbles like that, they’re not just enjoying the moment any more, they’re thinking about the long term. And Roxster’s far too young to know what a disastrous mistake that is.’

Feel like putting hands over ears saying, ‘Lalalala, don’t care. You only live once. We’re going on a mini-break! Hurrah!’

Thursday 6 June 2013

9.30 a.m.
Got back from school run. Turned on email to deal with the school Sports Day picnic and detonated:

Sender:
Brian Katzenberg

Subject:
Forwarded email

Yes, you are fired. But they still want you in the mix. They’re going to set up a meeting with the new writer. The movie business!

A new writer? Already? How could they possibly have found one so quickly?

Phone quacked.

Roxster:

Jerked into action in a frenzy of googling country pubs on LateRooms.com to find absolutely everything was booked up.

We are like Mary and Joseph with no room at the Inn except that rather than about to give birth to the Son of God am about to be broken up with by Joseph.

10 a.m.
Just texted Tom who texted back five minutes later.

10.05 a.m.
Oh. Just checked the treehouse. It’s £875 a night.

10.15 a.m.
Yayy! Have found a room in a pub.