Page 155 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

his eye on. 'How old is she?' I said, suspiciously, 'Twenty-four.'

Aargh aargh. Have reached the age when men of my own age no longer find
their contemporaries attractive.

4 p.m. Going out to meet Tom for tea. Decided needed to spend more time on

appearance like Hollywood stars and have therefore spent ages putting concealer
under eyes, blusher on cheeks and defining fading features.

'Good God,' said Tom when I arrived.

'What?' I said. 'What?'

"Your face. You look like Barbara Cartland.'

I started blinking very rapidly, trying to come to terms with the realization that
some hideous time-bomb in my skin had suddenly, irrevocably, shrivelled it
up.

I look really old for my age, don't I?' I said, miserably.

'No, you look like a five-year-old in your mother's make-up,' he said. 'Look.'

I glanced in the mock Victorian pub mirror. I looked like a garish clown with
bright pink cheeks, two dead crows for eyes and the bulk of the white cliffs of
Dover smeared underneath. Suddenly understood how old women end up
wandering around over-made-up with everyone sniggering at them and resolved

not to snigger any more.

'What's going on?' he said.

'I'm prematurely ageing,' I muttered.