It Is Horrid To Smirk.

I Got Into My Usual Obsessive Writing Frenzy, Using All The Material I'd Worked On For So Long And Crafting It Into A Little Novel [bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries].

Oh, God, I'm So Lonely. An Entire Weekend Streching Ahead With No One To Love Or Have Fun With. Anyway, I Don't Care. I've Got A Lovely Steamed Ginger Pudding From M&s To Put In The Microwave.

I Am A Child Of Cosmopolitan Culture, Have Been Traumatized By Supermodels And Too Many Quizzes And Know That Neither My Personality Nor My Body Is Up To It If Left To Its Own Devices. I Can't Take The Pressure.

It Seems Wrong And Unfair That Christmas, With Its Stressful And Unmanageable Financial And Emotional Challenges, Should First Be Forced Upon One Wholly Against One's Will, Then Rudely Snatched Away Just When One Is Starting To Get Into It. Was Really Beginning To Enjoy The Feeling That Normal Service Was Suspended And It Was Ok To Lie In Bed As Long As You Want, Put Anything You Fancy Into Your Mouth, And Drink Alcohol Whenever It Should Chance To Pass Your Way, Even In The Mornings. Now Suddenly We Are All Supposed To Snap Into Self-discipline Like Lean Teenage Greyhounds.

In Terms Of Bridget [jones] I Honestly Don't Know. One Thing I Can Say For Sure Is That All Of These Stories Have Been An Honest, Instinctive Expression Of Something I Felt Or Observed At The Time. I Would Never Cynically Think "oh That Would Sell Well Next."