Page 97 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

Sunday 2 April

9st, alcohol units 0 (marvellous), cigarettes 0, calories 2250.

I read in an article that Kathleen Tynan, late. Wife of the late Kenneth, had 'inner

poise' and, when writing, was to be found immaculately dressed, sitting at a
small table in the centre of the room sipping at a glass of chilled white, wine.
Kathleen Tynan would not, when late with a press release for Perpetua, lie fully
dressed and terrified under the duvet, chain-smoking, glugging cold sake out of a
beaker and putting on make-up as a hysterical displacement activity. Kathleen
Tynan would not allow Daniel Cleaver to sleep with her whenever he felt like it

but not be her boyfriends Nor would she become insensible with drink and be
sick. Wish to be like Kathleen Tynan (though not, obviously, dead).

Lately, therefore, whenever things have risked ranging out of control, I have

repeated the phrase 'inner poise' and imagined myself wearing white linen and
sitting at a table with flowers on it. 'Inner poise.' No fags for six days now. Have
assumed air of dignified hauteur with Daniel and not messaged, flirted or slept
with him for three weeks. Only three alcohol units consumed over the last week
as grudging concession to Tom, who complained that spending the evening with
the new vice-free me was like going out for dinner with a whelk, scallop or other

flaccid sea-creature.

My body is a temple. I wonder if it's time to go to bed yet? Oh no, it's only
8.30. Inner poise. Ooh. Telephone.

9 p.m. It was my father, speaking in a weird, disconnected voice, almost as if he
were a dalek.