Oh my God.

When we got upstairs it turned out he had taken a suite. It was fantastic, v. posh and bloody good fun and we played with all the guest features and had more champagne and he told me all this stuff about how he loved me: the sort of stuff, to be honest, Daniel was always coming out with.

'Why didn't you ring me up before Christmas, then?' I said suspiciously. 'I left you two messages.'

'I didn't want to talk to you till I'd finished the job. And I didn't think you liked me much.'

'What?' .

'Well, you know. You stood me up because you were drying your hair ? And the first time I met you I was wearing that stupid sweater and bumblebee socks from my aunt and behaved like a complete clod. I thought you thought I was the most frightful stiff.'

'Well, I did, a bit,' I said, 'But . . . '

'But what. . . ?'

'Don't you mean but pardon?'

Then he took the champagne glass out of my hand, kissed me, and said, 'Right, Bridget Jones, I'm going to give you pardon for,' picked me up in his arms, carried me off into the bedroom (which had a four-poster bed!) and did all manner of things which mean whenever I see a diamond-patterned V-neck sweater in future, I am going to spontaneously combust with shame.

Have finally realized the secret of happiness with men, and it is with deep regret, rage and an overwhelming sense of defeat that I have to put it in the words of an adulteress, criminal's accomplice and G-list celebrity:

'Don't say 'what,' say 'pardon,' darling, and do as your mother tells you.'