Page 115 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

my admittedly somewhat deflated cleavage.

Simon was the same.

'Bridgiiiiiiiit! Have you got a fag?'

'No, I've given up.'

'Oh blimey, no wonder you look so . . . '

'What?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing. Just a bit . . . drawn.'

It continued all evening. There's nothing worse than people telling you you
look tired. They might as well have done with it and say you look like five kinds

of shit. I felt so pleased with myself for not drinking but as the evening wore on,
and everyone got drunker, I began to feel so calm and smug that I was even
irritating myself. I kept finding myself in conversations when I actually couldn't
be bothered to say a single word, and just looked on and nodded in a wise,
detached manner.

'Have you got any camomile tea?' I said to Jude at one point as she lurched
past, hiccupping happily, at which point she collapsed into giggles, put her arm
round me and fell over. I decided I'd better go home.

Once there, I got into bed, put my head on the pillow but nothing happened. I
kept putting my head in one place, then another place, but still it wouldn't go to
sleep. Normally I would be snoring by now and having some sort of traumatized

paranoid dream. I put the light on. It was only 11:30. Maybe I should do
something, like, well, er . . . mending? Inner poise The phone rang. It was Tom.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. I feel great. Why?'