Page 189 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

This last bit puzzles me - does the anticellulite oil actually soak into the

cellulite through the skin? In which case, if you put self-tanning lotion on does
that mean you get suntanned cellulite inside? Or suntanned blood? Or a
suntanned lymphatic drainage system? Urgh. Anyway. . . (Cigarettes. That was
the other thing. No cigarettes. Oh well. Too late now. I'll do that tomorrow.)

Thursday 3 August

8st 11, thigh circumference 18 inches (honestly, what is bloody point), alcohol
units 0, cigarettes 25 (excellent, considering), negative thoughts: approx. 445
per hour, positive thoughts 0.

Head state v. bad again. Cannot bear thought of Daniel with someone else. Mind
is full of horrid fantasies about them doing things together. The plans to lose
weight and change personality kept me aloft for two days, only to collapse
around my ears. I realize it was only a complicated form of denial. Was
believing could totally reinvent self in space of small number of days, thereby
negating impact of Daniel's hurtful and humiliating infidelity, since it had
happened to me in a previous incarnation and would never have happened to my

new improved self. Unfortunately, I now realize the whole point of the aloof
over-made-up ice-queen on anticellulite diet palaver was to make Daniel realize
the error of his ways. Tom did warn me of this and said 90 percent of plastic
surgery was done on women whose husbands had run off with a younger
woman. I said the rooftop giantess was not so much younger as taller but Tom

said that wasn't the point. Humph.

Daniel kept sending me computer messages at work. 'We should talk,' etc.,
which I studiously ignored. But the more he sent the more I got carried away,
imagining that the self-reinvention was working, that he realized he had made a

terrible, terrible mistake, had only now understood how much he truly loved me,
and that the rooftop giantess was history.