Page 271 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

four, then will think of answer to soup crisis.

5 p.m. Oh God. Entire day has turned into nightmare. Richard Finch gave me a
real blowing-up at the morning meeting in front of everyone. 'Bridget, put that
recipe book away for God's sake. Fireworks Burns Kids. I'm thinking maiming,
I'm thinking happy family celebrations turned into nightmares. I'm thinking

twenty years from now. What about that kid who had his penis burnt off by
firecrackers in his pockets back in the sixties? Where is he now? Bridget, find
me the Fireworks Kid with no Penis. Find me the Sixties Guy Fawkes Bobbit.'

Ugh. I was just grumpily making my forty-eighth phone call to find out if

there was a burnt-off-penis victims' support group when my phone rang.

'Hello, darling, it's Mummy here.' She sounded unusually high-pitched and

hysterical.

'Hi, Mum.'

'Hello, darling, just called to say 'bye before I go, and hope everything goes
well.'

'Go? Go where?'

'Oh. Ahahahaha. I told you, Julio and I are popping over to Portugal for a

couple of weeks, just to see the family and so on, get a bit of a suntan before
Christmas.'

'You didn't tell me.'

'Oh, don't be a silly-willy, darling. Of course I told you. You must learn to
listen. Anyway, do take care, won't you?'

'Yes.'