Page 60 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

to move out for a while, she says, and . . . and. . . . ' He collapsed in quiet sobs.

'And what, Dad?'

'She said I thought the clitoris was something from Nigel Coles's lepidoptery
collection.'

Monday 13 February

9st 1, alcohol units 5, cigarettes 0 (spiritual enrichment removes need to smoke -
massive breakthrough), calories 2845.

Though heartbroken by my parents' distress, I have to admit parallel and
shameful feeling of smugness over my new role as carer and, though I say it
myself, wise counselor. It is so long since I have done anything at all for anyone
else that it is a totally new and heady sensation. This is what has been missing in
my life. I am having fantasies about becoming a Samaritan or Sunday school

teacher, making soup for the homeless (or, as my friend Tom suggested, darling
mini-bruschettas with pesto sauce), or even retraining as a doctor. Maybe going
out with a doctor would be better still, both sexually and spiritually fulfilling. I
even began to wonder about putting an ad in the lonely hearts column of the
Lancet. I could take his messages, tell patients wanting night visits to bugger off,
cook him little goat cheese soufflés, then end up in a foul mood with him when I

am sixty, like Mum.

Oh God. Valentine's Day tomorrow. Why? Why? Why is entire world geared