Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (6 page)

*Eat more than three Big Macs or Starbucks ham-and-cheese paninis per week.

*Keep saying, ‘One . . . two . . .’ in warning voice to children before have decided what to do when get to ‘three’.

*Lie in bed in the morning thinking morbid or erotic thoughts, but get straight up at six o’clock and do self up for school run in manner of Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer or similar.

*Wang around hysterically when things go wrong but instead achieve acceptance and calm – and stand like a great tree in the midst of it all.

But how can I accept what happened?. . . Look, I mustn’t . . . Gaah! Is time for doctor’s appointment and have not got snack ready, written, meditated or located whereabouts of EFFING CAR KEYS! FUCK!

SOCIAL MEDIA VIRGIN

Saturday 21 April 2012

172lb, minutes spent on exercise bike 0, minutes spent cleaning out cupboard 0, minutes spent working out how to use remotes 0, resolutions kept 0.

9.15 p.m.
Children are asleep and house is all dark and quiet. Oh God, I’M SO LONELY. Everyone else in London is out laughing uproariously with their friends in restaurants and then having sex.

9.25 p.m.
Look. Is absolutely fine being in on own on Saturday nights. Will simply clear out cupboard under stairs then get on exercise bike.

9.30 p.m.
Just looked in cupboard. Maybe not.

9.32 p.m.
Just looked in fridge. Maybe will have glass of wine and bag of grated cheese.

9.35 p.m.
That’s better. Am going to get on Twitter! With the advent of social media is no need for anyone to feel isolated and alone ever again.

9.45 p.m.
Have got onto Twitter site but do not understand. Is just incomprehensible streams of gibberish half-conversations with @this and @that. How is anybody supposed to know what is going on?

Sunday 22 April 2012

9.15 p.m.
OK. Have got self set up on Twitter now. Need to find name. Something young-sounding: TotesAmazogBridget?

9.46 p.m.
Maybe not.

10.15 p.m.
JoneseyBJ!

10.16 p.m.
But why does it call it @JoneseyBJ? @? At? At what?

Monday 23 April 2012

176lb (oh God), Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m.
Cannot figure out how to put up photo. Is just empty egg-shaped graphic. Is fine! Can be photo of self before was conceived.

9.45 p.m.
Right. Will wait for followers.

9.47 p.m.
No followers.

9.50 p.m.
Actually will not wait for followers. A watched pot never boils.

10 p.m.
Wonder if I’ve got any followers yet.

10.02 p.m.
No followers.

10.12 p.m.
Still no followers. Humph. Whole point of Twitter is you are supposed to talk to people but there isn’t anyone to talk to.

10.15 p.m.
Followers 0. Feel lurching sense of shame and fear: maybe they are all Twittering to each other, and ignoring me because I’m unpopular.

10.16 p.m.
Maybe even Twittering to each other about how unpopular I am, behind my back.

10.30 p.m.
Great. Not only am I isolated and alone but also, now clearly, unpopular.

Tuesday 24 April 2012

175lb, calories 4827, number of minutes spent fiddling furiously with technological devices 127, number of technological devices managed to get to do anything they were supposed to 0, number of minutes spent doing anything nice apart from eating 4827 calories and fiddling with technological devices 0, number of Twitter followers 0.

7.06 a.m.
Just remembered am on Twitter. Feel wildly puffed up! Part of huge social revolution and young. Last night I just didn’t give it enough time! Maybe thousands of followers will have appeared overnight! Millions! I will have gone viral. Cannot wait to see how many followers have come!!

7.10 a.m.
Oh.

7.11 a.m.
Still no followers.

Wednesday 25 April 2012

178lb, number of times checked for Twitter followers 87, Twitter followers 0, calories 4832 (bad but fault of non-existent Twitter followers).

9.15 p.m.
Still no followers. Have eaten the following things:

* 2 chocolate croissants

* 7 Babybel cheeses (but one was half eaten)

* ½ bag of grated mozzarella

* 2 Diet Cokes

* 1.5 leftover sausages from kids’ breakfast

* ½ a McDonald’s cheeseburger from fridge

* 3 Tunnock’s Tea Cakes

* 1 bar Cadbury’s Dairy Milk (large)

Tuesday 1 May 2012

11.45 p.m.
Have just been whitelisted by Twitter for checking my followers 150 times in one hour.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m.
Am not going to do Twitter any more or check followers any more. Maybe will go on Facebook.

9.20 p.m.
Just called Jude to ask how to get on Facebook. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It’s a good way of keeping in touch but you’ll end up looking at endless pictures of exes embracing their new girlfriends, then finding they’ve de-friended you.’

Humph. Not very likely to happen to me. Am going to try Facebook.

9.30 p.m.
Maybe will wait a bit before attempting Facebook.

Jude just called me back, laughing. ‘Really don’t do Facebook yet. I just got a thing saying Tom is checking out dating profiles. He must have ticked a box by accident. Everyone can see, including his parents and former psychology professors.’

THE FLABBY DIAPHRAGM

Wednesday 9 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.30 a.m.
Emergency! Back has gone. I mean, not actually gone, in sense of still having shoulders attached to bottom. But was just checking Twitter for followers then slammed laptop shut, tossing head dismissively and saying, ‘Pah!’ and whole of left upper back suddenly went into spasm. Is like I didn’t notice I had a back before and now it is complete agony and what am I going to do?

11 a.m.
Just back from osteopath. Osteopath said it is not fault of Twitter but due to years of lifting children and I should try bending from the legs instead of the back – i.e. squat like an African tribal woman, which seems a bit ungainly, though not to insult the gracefulness of African tribal women who are of course very graceful.

She asked if I had any other symptoms and I said, ‘Acid.’ She poked around my stomach exclaiming, ‘Gosh! This is the flabbiest diaphragm I’ve ever felt.’

Turns out, because of my age, my entire middle section has refused to go back like it was and all my intestines are flobbering about, uncontained. No wonder they are hanging over my black sweatpants like porridge.

‘What shall I do?’

‘You’ll have to start working that stomach,’ she said. ‘And you’ll have to lose some of the fat. There’s a very good new obesity clinic at St Catherine’s Hospital.’

‘OBESITY CLINIIIIIIIIIIC?’ I said indignantly, jumping up from the bed and putting my clothes back on. ‘I might have a bit of baby fat, but I’m not obese!’

‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’re not obese. It’s just very effective if you want to lose weight properly. It’s very hard when you’ve got little ones.’

‘I know,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s all very well knowing what you’re supposed to be eating, but if you’re surrounded by leftover fish fingers and chips at five o’clock every night, and then eat them and have your own dinner later . . .’

‘Exactly, the clinic puts you on meal replacement so there isn’t any argument,’ said the osteopath. ‘You just don’t put anything else into your mouth.’

Not sure what Tom, Jude and Talitha would say about that one, harrumph harrumph.

Left in huff, then had sudden urge to go back in and say, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

9.15 p.m.
Got home and surveyed self aghast in mirror. Am starting to look like a heron. My legs and arms have stayed the same, but my whole upper body is like a large bird with a big roll of fat round the middle that, when clothed, looks like it should be served up at Christmas with cranberry jelly and gravy; when unclothed, as though it’s been cooking all night in a pot in a box full of straw in Scotland, and is about to be served up for an extended family’s post-Hogmanay breakfast. Talitha is right. The secret is to alter the automatic fat positioning of (unacceptable outdated phrase approaching) Middle Age.

Thursday 10 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

10 a.m.
Just spoke to Obesity Clinic. Encouragingly, there was some doubt over whether I was actually obese enough to be accepted!
Found self, for first time in life, lying about weight to make it heavier than it actually is.

10.10 a.m.
Am going to completely transform my body into a lean muscular thing with tight band of muscle round the middle, holding in the intestines.

10.15 a.m.
Just reflexively put remains of kids’ breakfast into mouth.

Thursday 17 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.45 a.m.
On point of Obesity Clinic departure. Feel have got to lowest ebb ever. Will be like one of those people you see in medical news reports looking ashamed of themselves, having their blood pressure taken in hospital gowns while a trim, streamlined reporter talks in front of them in stern, concerned tones, about the ‘Obesity Epidemic’.

10 p.m.
Obesity Clinic was FANTASTIC. After initial awkwardness of having to repeat ‘The Obesity Clinic’ increasingly loudly to the receptionist, eventually reached the clinic, to see a man who was so large he was actually wheeling his fat on a trolley in front of him. He seemed to be being hit on by an only slightly less large woman who was saying to him in a seductive voice, ‘Were you Childhood Obese?’

People were looking at me, with the sort of admiration I hadn’t felt since I was twenty-two and running round in a psychedelic shirt tied up in a knot revealing my flat midriff. Realized they must think I was one of the clinic’s success stories nearing the end of my ‘programme’. Felt unaccustomed, leaping sense of self-confidence. Realized this was wrong, and disrespectful to fellow patients.

Also, the very fact of seeing fat as a separate body attachment being wheeled on a trolley started to make me see fat as an actual
thing. Realize, in the past, have seen fat as some totally unreasonable, random act of nature rather than a direct product of things-put-in-mouth.

‘Name,’ said the man on reception, who, worryingly, was very fat himself. Surely the people who work at the clinic ought to have got this one down by now?

The whole thing was medical and complex: blood tests, ECGs and consultations. Once we got over the moment of awkwardness when they tried to put me down on the form as a ‘geriatric mother’ it all went absolutely swimmingly. Seems like the whole thing of weighing yourself is not the point. The point is to drop dress sizes. And people who are very, very fat – say fifty or a hundred pounds overweight – can lose a lot – like twelve pounds of fat in one week! And that is actual fat. But if you’re just trying to lose 10, 15 per cent of your body weight, anything more than a couple of pounds isn’t losing fat, it’s (darkly) other things.

You see, crucially, is not about weight but the percentage of fat to muscle. If you just go on a crash diet, and do not lift weights, you end up losing your muscles, which are heavier than your fat. So you weigh less, but are more fat. Or something. Anyway, upshot is: am supposed to go to gym.

My diet is going to be just protein chocolate puddings and protein chocolate bars, then a small portion of protein and vegetables in the evenings, so I mustn’t put anything in my mouth which isn’t those things. (Apart from penises – why did mind think such a thought? Chance would be a fine thing, though after today it is suddenly looking like that might be a possibility.)

MAKEOVER!

Thursday 24 May 2012

179lb (huh), pounds lost 0, Twitter followers 0, protein chocolate bars consumed 28, chocolate protein puddings consumed 37, number of meals replaced by protein chocolate bars or puddings 0, average number of calories per day eaten combining normal food with protein products 4,798.

Just went to Obesity Clinic for first week’s progress weigh-in.

‘Bridget,’ said the nurse, ‘you’re supposed to replace the meals with the protein products, not eat them as well.’

Looked sulkily at the chart then blurted out, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘I am not,’ she said, ‘on Twitter. Now, next week, forget about Twitter and just eat the products. Nothing else. OK?’

9.15 p.m.
Children are asleep. Oh God, I’m so lonely, Twitter follower-less, fat, hungry and sick of effing obesity products. Hate this time of day when children are asleep. Should be relaxing and fun instead of just lonely. Right. Am not going to wallow in it. In next three months am going to:

* Lose 75lb

* Gain 75 Twitter followers

* Write 75 pages of screenplay

* Learn to operate television

* Find friend with children same age who lives nearby so whole evening is fun instead of chaos followed by grated-cheese stuffing-fest

Yes! That is what I need. Is not natural for children to be isolated in individual houses with one or two adults focusing far too much
attention on their happiness, scared to let them play in the street for fear of paedophiles. Sure there must have been paedophiles when we were growing up, but mass-media-induced fear of paedophiles has changed the whole face of parenting. Need other parents to spontaneously talk and drink wine with while children play, so whole thing would be like extended Italian family having dinner under a tree. For as the saying goes, ‘It takes a whole village to raise a child.’