Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

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2.30 p.m. Talitha just called, talking in that urgent, ‘let’s-be-discreet-but-wildly-overdramatic’ voice she always has. ‘Darling, I just want to let you know that it’s my sixtieth on the 24th of May. I’m not SAYING it’s my sixtieth, obviously. And keep it quiet because I’m not asking everyone. I just wanted you to keep the date free.’

I panicked. ‘That would be great!’ I gushed unconvincingly.

‘Bridget. You absolutely can’t not come.’

‘Well, the thing is . . .’

‘What?’

‘It’s Roxster’s thirtieth birthday that night.’

Silence at the end of the phone.

‘I mean, we probably won’t still be together by then, but, if we are, it would be . . .’ I tailed off.

‘I’ve just put “no children” on the invites.’

‘He’ll be thirty by then!’ I said indignantly.

‘I’m just teasing, darling. Of course you must bring your toy boy. I’ll get a bouncy castle! Back on air. Mustrunloveyoubye!’

Tried to turn on telly to see if Talitha had indeed, as so often, been calling me live on air during a film clip. Jabbed confusedly at buttons like a monkey with a mobile phone. Why does turning on a TV these days require three remotes with ninety buttons? Why? Suspect designed by thirteen-year-old technogeeks, competing with each other from sordid bedrooms, leaving everyone else thinking they’re the only person in the world who doesn’t understand what the buttons are for, thus wreaking psychological damage on a massive, global scale.

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