Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘Maybe we should put the fire out first,’ bellowed Roxster, turning off the gas, removing the sausages and the tinfoil in a smooth movement, dumping them in the sink, shouting above the din, ‘Where’s the food-recycling bin?’

‘Over there!’ I said, looking frantically through various files on the cookery bookshelf to see if I could find the instruction leaflet for the smoke alarm. There was nothing apart from instructions for a Magimix, which we didn’t have any more. Also, where did the fire alarm, as it were, stem from? Suddenly looked round to see that everyone had disappeared. Where had they gone? Had they all collectively decided I was rubbish, and run off to live with Roxster and his flatmates, where they could play video games all day, uninterrupted, and eat perfectly barbecued sausages whilst listening to popular music which was actually current instead of Cat Stevens singing ‘Morning Has Broken’?

The smoke alarm stopped. Roxster appeared down the stairs, grinning.

‘Why has it stopped?’ I said.

‘I turned it off. There’s a code written on the box – which would be bad if you were a burglar, but good if you’re a toy boy and there are burning sausages.’

‘Where are the children?’

‘I think they went upstairs. Come here.’

He hugged me against his muscly shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just funny.’

‘I make such a bugger of things.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Fires, insect plagues, sort of thing which can happen to anyone.’ We started kissing. ‘We’d better stop this,’ he said, ‘or we’ll have more burning sausages to extinguish.’

We went upstairs in search of the children, to find they had calmly gone to their bedroom and were playing with their dinosaurs.

‘Well! Shall we go to school?’ I said brightly.

‘OK,’ said Billy, as if nothing at all unusual had happened.

So the motley crew of me, Billy, Mabel and Roxster emerged from the front door to be greeted by an uptight lady from up the road who looked suspiciously and said, ‘Have you had a fire?’

‘You betcha, baby,’ said Roxster. ‘Bye, Billy. Bye, Mabel.’

‘Bye, Roxster,’ they said cheerfully at which he patted me on the bottom and headed off to the tube.

But now, maybe I am having a panic attack. Does this mean things are moving to a more serious level? And surely is inadvisable to have Roxster bond with the children in case . . . Maybe I will text him and invite him to Talitha’s party!

10.35 a.m. Impulsively sent text: – but now instantly regretting.

10.36 a.m. No reply. Did not mention had remembered was Roxster’s thirtieth same night (lest thought self stalker-esquely focused on him), but why did I say sixtieth? Why? What could be more off-putting? Why cannot one delete sent texts?

10.40 a.m. Roxster has not replied. Gaah! Telephone! Maybe Roxster is calling to break up with me for having sixty-year-old friend.

11 a.m. Was George from Greenlight. Had rather testy conversation which seemed to go, in the space of a few minutes, from George being in a limousine, to George being in a gift shop, to George getting on a plane whilst simultaneously giving me notes on the rewrite and saying things like, ‘No! Don’t wrap it up! I’ve got a plane to catch, actually do wrap it.’

In the end I said, hoity-toitily, as I opened another text from Roxster, ‘George, I’m actually finding it rather difficult to make sense of your notes when you seem so distracted.’

But I’m not sure he heard this because his phone cut out.

Hurrah. Text from Roxster said:

And then another saying:

And another.

I texted patiently.

And another.

< Just to be absolutely clear, you really mean two dinners? Counting the party?>

THE TROUBLE WITH SUMMER

Tuesday 7 May 2013

136lb (oh no, oh no, disaster), outfits suitable for summer 0, outfits suitable for modern world 1 (navy silk dress).

9.31 a.m. Summer is here! Finally, the sun is out, the trees are in blossom and everything is marvellous. But oh no! My upper arms are not ready.

9.32 a.m. Also feel familiar sense of panic that must make the most of it as it might be the last and only sunny day of the year. And what about the summer season coming up when everyone will be going to festivals in Effortless Festival Chic like Kate Moss or to Ascot dressed like Kate Middleton and wearing a fascinator? I haven’t got any summer events to go to or a fascinator.

9.33 a.m. Oh, phew. It’s started raining again.

Wednesday 8 May 2013