Page 53 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

Sunday 5 February

Still no word from Daniel. Cannot face thought of entire Sunday stretching
ahead with everyone else in the world except me in bed with someone giggling

and having sex. Worst of it is, only a week and a bit to go till impending
Valentine's Day humiliation. No way will I get any cards. Toy with idea of
flirting energetically with anyone I think might be induced to send me one, but
dismiss as immoral. Will just have to take total indignity on the chin.

Hmm. I know. Think I'll go and see Mum and Dad again as am worried about
Dad. Then will feel like caring angel or saint.

2 p.m. The last remaining tiny bathmat of security has been pulled from under
my feet. Magnanimous offer to pay caring surprise visit met by odd-sounding

Dad on end of phone.

'Er . . . I'm not sure, dear. Could you hang on?'

I reeled. Part of the arrogance of youth (well, I say 'youth') is the assumption
that your parents will drop whatever they are doing and welcome you with open
arms the second you decide to turn up. He was back. 'Bridget, look, your mother
and I are having some problems. Can we ring you later in the week?'

Problems? What problems? I tried to get Dad to explain but got nowhere.
What is going on? Is the whole world doomed to emotional trauma? Poor Dad.

Am I to be the tragic victim of a broken home now, on top of everything else?