Devastated does not do justice to the feelings of Miss Bridget Jones . . .

It is with great regret that we must announce that so great was

Miss Budget Jones's distress at not being able to accept the

kind invitation of Mr. Mark Darcy that she has topped herself

and will therefore, more certainly than ever, now, be unable to

accept Mr. Mark Darcy's kind . . .

Ooh: telephone.

It was Dad: 'Bridget, my dear, you are coming to the horror event next Saturday, aren't you?'

'The Darcys' ruby wedding, you mean.'

'What else? It's been the only thing that has distracted your mother from the question of who's getting the mahogany ornament cabinet and nesting coffee tables since she got the Lisa Leeson interview at the beginning of August.'

'I was kind of hoping to get out of it.'

The line went quiet at the other end.

'Dad?'

There was a muffled sob. Dad was crying. I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if I'd been married to Mum for thirty-nine years I'd have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator.

'What's wrong, Dad?'

'Oh, it's just . . . Sony. It's just . . . I was hoping to get out of it too.'

'Well, why don't you? Hurray. Let's go to the pictures instead.'

'It's . . . ' he broke down again. 'It's the thought of her going with that greasy beperfumed bouffant wop, and all my friends and colleagues of forty years saying 'cheers' to the pair of them and writing me off as history.'

'They won't . . . '

'Oh yes, they will. I'm determined to go, Bridget. I'm going to get on my glad rags and hold my head up high and . . . but . . . ' Sobs again.

'What?'

'I need some moral support.'

11:30 a.m.

Miss Bridget Jones has great pleasure . . .

Ms. Bridget Jones thanks Mr. Mark Darcy for his . . .

It is with great pleasure that Miss Bridget Jones accepts . . .

Oh, for God's sake.

Dear Mark,

Thank you for your invitation to your ruby wedding party for Malcolm and Elaine. I would love to come.

Yours,

Bridget Jones

Hmmm.

Yours,

Bridget

or just

Bridget

Bridget (Jones)

Right. Will just copy it out neatly and check spellings then send it.

8st 13, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories 1256, lottery tickets 0, obsessive thoughts about Daniel 0, negative thoughts 0. Am perfect saint-style person.

It is great when you start thinking about your career instead of worrying about trivial things – men and relationships. It's going really well on Good Afternoon! I think I might have a gift for popular television. The-really exciting news is that I am going to be given a tryout in front of the camera.

Richard Finch got this idea into his head at the end of last week that he wanted to do a Live Action Special with reporters attached to emergency services all over the capital. He didn't have much luck to start with. In fact people were going round the office saying he had been turned down by every Accident and Emergency unit, Police and Ambulance force in the Home Counties. But this morning when I arrived he grabbed me by the shoulders yelling, 'Bridget! We're on! Fire. I want you on-camera. I'm thinking miniskirt. I'm thinking fireman's helmet. I'm thinking pointing the hose.'

Everything has been total mayhem ever since, with the everyday business of the day's news utterly forgotten and everyone gibbering down the phone about links, towers and OBs. Anyway, it is all happening tomorrow and I have to report to Lewisham fire station at 11 o'clock. I'm going to ring round everybody tonight and tell them to watch. Cannot wait to tell Mum.

8st 11 (shrunk with embarrassment), alcohol units 3, cigarettes 0 (no smoking in fire station) then 12 in 1 hour, calories 1584 (v.g.).

9 p.m. Have never been so humiliated in my life. Spent all day rehearsing and getting everything organized. The idea was that when they Cut to Lewisham I was going to slide down the pole into shot and start interviewing a fireman. At five o'clock as we went on air I was perched at the top of the pole ready to slide down on my cue. Then suddenly in my earpiece I heard Richard shouting, 'Go, go, go go, go!' so I let go of the pole and started to slide. Then he continued, 'Go, go, go, Newcastle! Bridget, stand by in Lewisham. Coming to you in thirty seconds.'

I thought about dropping to the bottom of the pole and rushing back up the stairs but I was only a few feet down so I started to pull myself up again instead. Then suddenly there was a great bellow in my ear.

'Bridget! We're on you. What the fuck are you doing? You're meant to be sliding down the pole, not climbing up it. Go, go, go.'

Hysterically I grinned at the camera and dropped myself down, landing, as scheduled, by the feet of the fireman I was supposed to interview.

'Lewisham, we're out of time. Wind it up, wind it up, Bridget,' yelled Richard in my ear.

'And now back to the studio,' I said, and that was it.

8st 12,, alcohol units 2 (v.g.), cigarettes 11 (g.), calories 1850, job offers from fire service or rival TV stations 0 (perhaps not altogether surprising).

11 a.m. Am in disgrace and am laughingstock. Richard Finch humiliated me m front of the whole meeting flinging words like 'shambles,' 'disgrace,' and 'bleedin' bloody idiot' at me randomly.

'And now back to the studio,' seems to have turned into a new catchphrase in the office. Anytime anyone gets asked a question they don't know the answer to they go, 'Errrr . . . and now back to the studio,' and burst out laughing. Funny thing is, though, the grunge youths are being much more friendly to me. Patchouli (even!) came up and said, 'Oh, like, don't take any notice of Richard, right? He's, like, you know, really into control, right. You know what I'm sayin'? That fireman's pole thing was really like subversive and brilliant, right. Anyway, like . . . now back to the studio, OK?'

Richard Finch now just either ignores me or shakes his head disbelieving whenever he comes anywhere near me, and I have been given nothing to do all day.

Oh God, I'm so depressed. I thought I'd found something I was good at for once and now it's all ruined, and on top of everything else it is the horrible ruby wedding party on Saturday and I have nothing to wear. I'm no good at anything. Not men. Not social skills. Not work. Nothing.