Page 166 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

'You don't know what's going on in Bosnia either.'

'I do.'

'You don't.'

'I do.'

'You don' t.'

At this point the commissionaire, who was dressed in knickerbockers, white
socks, patent leather buckled shoes, a frock coat and a powdered wig, leaned
over and said, 'I think you'll find the former inhabitants of Srebrenica and of
Sarajevo are Bosnian Muslims, sir.' Adding pointedly, 'Will you be requiring a

newspaper in the morning at all, sir?'

I thought Daniel was going to hit him. I found myself stroking his arm
murmuring, 'OK now, easy, easy,' as if he were a racehorse that had been

frightened by a van.

5.30 p.m. Brrr. Instead of lying side by side with Daniel in hot sun at the side of
the lake wearing a long floaty dress, I ended up blue with cold in a rowing boat
with one of the hotel bath towels wrapped round me. Eventually we gave up to
retire to our room for a hot bath and Codis, discovering en route that another

couple were to be sharing the non-wedding party dining room with us that
evening, the female half of which was a girl called Eileen whom Daniel had
slept with twice, inadvertently bitten dangerously hard on the breast and never
spoken to since.

As I emerged from my bath Daniel was lying on the bed giggling. 'I've got a
new diet for you,' he said.

'So you do think I'm fat.'