Page 129 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

'Super, thanks,' I said brightly. Super, thanks. Huh! I read somewhere that the

best gift a woman can bring to a main is tranquillity, so I could hardly, as soon
as we've started properly going out, admit that the minute his back was turned I
started having neurotic hysterics over a phantom pregnancy.

Oh well. Who cares. We're seeing each other tomorrow night. Hurray!

Laialala.

Saturday 6 May: VE Day

9st 1, alcohol units 6, cigarettes 25, calories 3800 (but celebrating anniversary
of end of rationing), correct lottery numbers 0 (poor).

Awake on VE Day in unseasonable heatwave trying to whip up frenzy of
emotion in self about end of war, freedom of Europe, marvellous, marvellous,
etc. etc. Feel extremely miserable about whole business, to tell truth. In fact, 'left
out' might be the expression I am groping towards. I do not have any grandpas.
Dad has got all worked up about a party being hosted in the Alconburys' garden

at which, for unexplained reasons, he will be tossing pancakes. Mum is going
back to the street she was brought up in in Cheltenham for a whale-meat fritter

party, probably with Julio. (Thank God she didn't run off with a German.)
None of my friends are organizing anything. It would seem embarrassingly
enthusiastic and all wrong, somehow, suggesting a positive approach to life or
that we were trying creepily to annex something that was nothing to do with us. I
mean, I probably wasn't even an egg when the war ended. I was just nothing:

while they were all fighting and making jam out of carrots or whatever they did.