Page 221 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

of what to do about it, though. Think will go have a fag in the smoking carriage.

7:30 p.m. Ugh. 'Smoking Carriage' turned out to be Monstrous Pigsty where
smokers were huddled, miserable and defiant. Realize it is no longer possible for
smokers to live in dignity, instead being forced to sulk in the slimy underbelly of
existence. Would not have been in least surprised if carriage had mysteriously

been shunted off onto siding never to be seen again. Maybe privatized rail firms
will start running Smoking Trains and villagers will shake their fists and throw
stones at them as they pass, terrifying their children with tales of fire-breathing
freaks within. Anyway, rang Tom from miracle-on-train-phone (How does it
work? How? No wires. Weird. Maybe somehow connected through electric
contact between wheels and tracks) to moan about the no-twenty- three-year-old
date crisis.

'What about Gav?' he said.

'Gav?'

'You know. The guy you met at the Saatchi Gallery.'

'D'you think he'd mind?'

'No. He was really into you.'

'He wasn't. Shut-urrrrp.'

'He was. Stop obsessing. Leave it to me.'

Sometimes feel without Tom I would sink without trace and disappear.