It Is Horrid To Smirk.

Valentine's Day Purely Commercial, Cynical Enterprise, Anyway. Matter Of Supreme Indifference To Me.

I Was Writing An Earnest Novel About Cruises In The Caribbean And I Just Started Writing 'bridget Jones' To Get Some Money, To Finance This Earnest Work, And Then I Chucked It Out.

9p.m. My Flat. Feel Very Strange And Empty. Is All Very Well Thinking Everything Is Going To Be Different When You Come Back But Then It Is All The Same. Suppose I Have To Make It Different. But What Am I Going To Do With My Life? I Know. Will Eat Some Cheese.

The Whole Point Of Diaries Is That Other People Find Them And Read What You've Put. I Did Once Take To Writing My Inner Thoughts On The Computer At The End Of Other Things I Was Writing And Ended Up Faxing Four Pages Of Hideous Stuff To My Accountant So I Don't Do That Now.

It Struck Me As Pretty Ridiculous To Be Called Mr. Darcy And To Stand On Your Own Looking Snooty At A Party. It's Like Being Called Heathcliff And Insisting On Spending The Entire Evening In The Garden, Shouting "cathy" And Banging Your Head Against A Tree.