Page 87 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

Wednesday 15 March

9st, alcohol units 5 (disgrace: urine of Satan), cigarettes 14 (weed of Satan - will
give up on birthday), calories 1795.

Humph. Have woken up v. fed up. On top of everything, only two weeks to go
until birthday, when will have to face up to the fact that another entire year has
gone by, during which everyone else except me has mutated into Smug Married,

having children plop, plop, plop, left right and centre and making hundreds of
thousands of pounds and inroads into very hub of establishment, while I career
rudderless and, boyfriendless through dysfunctional relationships and
professional stagnation.

Find self constantly scanning face in mirror for wrinkles and frantically
reading Hello!, checking out everyone's ages in desperate search for role models
(Jane Seymour is forty-two!), fighting long-impacted fear that one day in your
thirties you will suddenly, without warning, grow a big fat crimplene dress,
shopping bag, tight perm and face collapsing in manner of movie special-effect,

and that will be it. Try to concentrate hard on Joanna Lumley and Susan
Sarandon.

Also worried about how to celebrate birthday. Size of flat and bank balance
prohibits actual party. Maybe dinner party? But then would have to spend

birthday slaving and would hate all guests on arrival. Could all go out for meal
but then feel guilty asking everyone to pay, selfishly presuming to force costly
and dull evening on others merely to celebrate own birthday - yet cannot afford
to pay for everyone. Oh God. What to do? Wish had not been born but