Page 131 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

It is all a punishment, I realize, for being obsessed by shopping in a shallow,

materialistic way instead of wearing the same rayon frock all summer and
painting a line down the back of my legs; also for failing to join in the VE Day
celebrations. Maybe I should ring Tom and get a lovely party together for Bank
Holiday Monday. Is it possible to have kitsch ironic VE day party - like for the
Royal Wedding? No, you see, you can't be ironic about dead people. And then
there's the problem of flags. Half of Tom's friends used to be in the Anti-Nazi
league and would think the presence of Union Jacks meant we were expecting

skinheads. I wonder what would have happened if our generation had had a war?
Ah well, time for a little drinkv. Daniel will be here soon. Best start preparations.

11.59 p.m. Blimey. Hiding in kitchen having a fag. Daniel is asleep. Actually, I
think he's pretending to be asleep. Completely weird evening. Realized that our

entire relationship so far has been based on the idea that one or other of us is
supposed to be resisting having sex. Spending an evening together when the idea
was that we were supposed to have sex at the end of it was nothing short of
bizarre. We sat watching VE Day on television with Daniel's arm uncomfortably
round my shoulders as if we were two fourteen-year-olds in the cinema. It was
really digging into the back of my neck but I didn't feel I could ask him to move

it. Then when it was getting impossible to avoid the subject of bedtime any
longer we went all formal and English. Instead of tearing each other's clothes off
like beasts, we stood there going, 'Do use the bathroom first.'

'No! After you!'

'No, no no! After you!'

'Really! I insist.'

'No, no, I won't hear of it. Let me find you a guest towel and some miniature
seashell-shaped soaps.'

Then we ended up lying side by side and not touching, like we were
Morecambe and Wise or John Noakes and Valerie Singleton in the Blue Peter