Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

by Helen Fielding

  Love,

  Bridget xxxx

  11.46 p.m. Just heard a thud. One of them is out of bed.

  Midnight. Mabel had got down from the bunk bed and was standing, silhouetted, in her little pyjamas, against the window. I went and knelt beside her.

  ‘There’s the moon,’ she said. She turned to me, solemnly, and confided, ‘It followth me.’

  The moon was full and white above the little garden. I started to say, ‘Well, the thing is, Mabel, the moon—’

  ‘And . . .’ she interrupted. ‘Dat owl.’

  I looked to where she was pointing. There, on the garden wall, was a barn owl, white in the moonlight, staring at us, unblinking. I’d never seen an owl before. I thought owls were extinct, except in the countryside and zoos.

  ‘Shut de curtainth,’ said Mabel and started closing the curtains in a bossy, businesslike way. ‘It’s all right. Dey’re watching over us.’

  She clambered up into the top bunk. ‘Do de Baby Printheth.’

  Still freaked out by the owl, I held her hand and said the bedtime verse Mark had made up for her when she was just born:

  ‘For the Baby Princess is as sweet as she is fair, and as gentle as she is beautiful, and as kind as she is lovely. And wherever she goes, and whatever she does, Mummy and Daddy will always love her. Just because she’s lovely, and because she’s—’

  ‘—Mabel!’ she finished.

  ‘And the thoughts,’ said Billy sleepily.

  I could hear Mark’s voice as I whispered, ‘All the thoughts are going away. Just like the little birds in their nests, and the rabbits in their rabbit holes. The thoughts don’t need Billy and Mabel tonight. The world will turn without them. The moon will shine without them. And all Billy and Mabel need to do is rest and sleep. And all Billy and Mabel need to do is . . .’

  They were both asleep. I opened the curtains to see if the owl really had been there. There it was, still, gazing at me unblinking. I looked back for a long time, then closed the curtains.

  CHRISTMAS

  Friday 7 December 2012

  Twitter followers 602 (have broken 600 ceiling), words of screenplay written 15 (better though utter rubbish), Christmas invitations (start of day) 1, Christmas invitations (end of day) 10, ideas re what to do re sudden plethora of invitations largely unsuitable for small children 0.

  9.15 a.m. Right. Christmas Resolutions:

  I WILL

  *Stop feeling sad and thinking about or attempting to live through men, but think about children and Christmas.

  *Have a Christmassy Christmas and make a new start.

  *Make everything Christmassy and enjoy Christmas.

  *Not be scared of not making a Christmassy enjoyable Christmas.

  *Be more Buddhist about Christmas. Even though is Christian festival and, by its very nature, therefore, not Buddhist.

  I WILL NOT

  *Order piles of plastic crap from Amazon from ‘Santa’, impossible to open in their Plastipaks, with twelve bits of wire fastening each thing to the cardboard backing. But instead encourage Billy and Mabel to choose one or two gifts each from ‘Santa’ which are meaningful. Perhaps made of wood.

  *Go on the St Oswald’s House Christmas cruise, but instead take action to make a Christmassy Christmas.

  3.15 p.m. Right! Action stations! Have sent email to just about everyone I know, Magda, Talitha, Tom, Jude, Mark’s parents, several of the mothers from school, saying, ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  4.30 p.m. Just back from school run. Was just getting everyone organized when Rebecca the neighbour came and rang the doorbell. She was wearing a pair of tartan knickerbockers, a low-cut frilly top, a heavy leather belt with chains and studs and, in her hair, a robin in a nest which I recognized from the Graham and Green Christmas decoration display.

  ‘Hello. Do you lot want to come over?’

  We were all wild with excitement! At last! We clumped downstairs into Rebecca’s Downton Abbey-like kitchen: dark wood floorboards, a rough-beamed ceiling, old wooden school table, photographs, hats, paintings, a huge statue of a bear and worn French windows opening onto a hidden world of brick pathways, long field-like grass, a life-size cow with a crown on its head, a laminated motel sign saying ‘Vacancy’ and chandeliers in the trees.

  We had a really good fun evening sitting at the kitchen table drinking wine and shoving bits of pizza at the children while the girls dressed up Rebecca’s cat in scarves and dolly’s dresses and the boys threw fits when we asked them to come off the Xbox.

  ‘Is it normal to be too frightened of your own son to tell him to come off?’ said Rebecca, staring vaguely at them. ‘Oh, fuck it. GET OFF THE BLOODY XBOX!’

  There’s nothing nicer than a friend who claims her own children are more badly behaved than your own.

  I explained my whole theory about parenting being better if it was like a large Italian family having dinner under a tree while children play. Rebecca poured more wine and explained her theory of child-rearing, which is that you should behave as badly as possible so that the children will rebel against you and turn out like Saffron in Absolutely Fabulous. We made plans about Casual Kitchen Suppers, and holidays we would never go on, going on ferries between the Greek Islands with some sort of InterRail Pass only for ferries, and everyone – children included – carrying nothing but a toothbrush, swimsuit and floaty sarong.

  Finally, as we were about to leave at 9 p.m., Rebecca said, ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, come to us!’

  ‘We’d love to!’ I said, quite carried away.

  10 p.m. Gaaah! Just checked email. Have set off giant guilt trip amongst all friends and acquaintances, going from nothing to do at Christmas to impossible multiple bookings. The following plans are now in place:

  Tom: We are taking the children to join him at Drag Queen Christmas Market in Berlin.

  Jude: We are taking the children to her mother’s tiny council house in the rough part of Nottingham she refuses to leave (don’t ask) and then going grouse shooting with Jude’s father (exactly) and his friends in the north of Scotland.

  Talitha: We are bringing the children to join, as she put it, ‘an ill-defined group of dubious Russian money-launderers on a luxury vodka boat on the Black Sea’.

  Admiral and Elaine Darcy: We are causing them to cancel their Christmas in Barbados in order to spend it with my children messing up their pottery collections, and scouring their immaculate Queen Anne house in Grafton Underwood for an Internet connection.

  Daniel: We are joining him on a romantic weekend in bedroom at undecided European city with someone called Helgada.

  Billy’s friend Jeremiah’s mum: We are celebrating Hanukkah with Jeremiah’s dad, grandma, four aunts, seventeen cousins and the rabbi in Golders Green, though there’ll be quite a lot of time when they are all at the synagogue.

  Cosmata’s mum: We are going to watch her oldest child perform as an extra in Wagner’s Ring cycle in Berlin.

  Mum and Una: Still the St Oswald’s House over-fifties Christmas cruise.

  I mean, maybe the children would enjoy the Drag Queen Christmas Market?

  Oh God, oh God. Just when I have made friends with Rebecca I have proved myself to be a total flake.

  10.15 p.m. Just called Magda.

  ‘Come to us,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t possibly do any of those things with two kids, or stay in your house relying on a neighbour you’ve only just met. Come to us in Gloucestershire. I’ll get the couple next door over from the farm – they’ve got kids the same age and that’s all kids need. Plus, there’s nothing they can spoil and we’ve still got all the Xboxes. Never mind anyone else. Just email them back quickly, and say you’ve found a perfect kid-friendly plan. And tell your mum you’ll do a special Christmas at St Oswald’s House when you get back. It’ll all be perfectly fine.’

  Monday 31 December 2012

  Christmas has been perfectly fine. Mum was perfectl
y happy with the post-Christmas-Christmas plan and had a whale of a time on the cruise, calling up, gabbling about ‘Pawl’ the pastry chef and some man going into everyone else’s berths. Rebecca thought the whole overbooking thing was hysterical and said we should definitely do the Drag Queen Market or the money-launderer’s vodka boat and if not she was available for wine and burnt food.

  Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were really nice at Magda and Jeremy’s. Magda did Christmas Eve with me; the stockings, helping wrap the giant pile of plastic crap, which ‘Santa’ had of course ended up ordering from Amazon, and putting it under the tree. And I seriously think Billy and Mabel thought it was great. Billy doesn’t really remember Christmas with Mark, and Mabel never had one. Billy only had two of them and he was so little . . . And the rest of the time we’ve been in and out of Rebecca’s house, crossing the road with pans of burnt food, and moaning about computer games, and her and the kids in and out of ours and next year is going to be so much better!

  PART TWO

  2013 DIARY

  Tuesday 1 January 2013

  Twitter followers 636, resolutions made about not making resolutions 1, said resolution kept (0), resolutions made 3.

  9.15 p.m. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. This year am not going to do any New Year’s Resolutions but instead focus on being grateful for myself as I am. New Year’s Resolutions would be expressing dissatisfaction with status quo rather than Buddhist gratitude.

  9.20 p.m. Actually, maybe will just do Capsule New Year’s Resolutions in manner of soon-to-be Capsule Wardrobe.

  I WILL

  *Focus on being a mother instead of thinking about men.

  *If by any unlikely chance do run across any attractive men, put the Dating Rules into practice and be an accomplished dater.

  *Oh, fuck it. Find someone really great to shag who is really good fun and makes me feel gorgeous, not horrible, and have SEX.

  PERFECT MOTHER

  Saturday 5 January 2013

  9.15 a.m. Right! Caring for two children will become effortless now I have read One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting, which is all about giving two simple warnings and a consequence, and also French Children Don’t Throw Food, which is about how French children operate within a cadre which is a bit like in school where there is a structured inner circle where they know what the rules are (and if they break them you simply do One Two Three Better, Easier Parenting and then outside you don’t fuss about them too much and wear elegant French clothes and have sex).

  11.30 a.m. Entire morning has been totally lovely. Started day with all three of us in my bed cuddling. Then had breakfast. Then played hide-and-seek. Then drew and coloured in Plants and Zombies from Plants versus Zombies. You see! It’s easy! All you have to do is devote yourself completely to your children and have a cadre, and, and . . .

  11.31 a.m. Billy: ‘Mummy, will you play football?’

  11.32 a.m. Mabel: ‘Noo! Mummy, will you pick me up and thwing me round?’

  11.40 a.m. Had just escaped to toilet when both cried ‘Mummy’ simultaneously.

  ‘I’m on the TOILET!’ I retorted. ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Shouting ensued.

  ‘Right!’ I said brightly, pulling myself together and emerging from the loo. ‘Let’s go out, shall we?’

  ‘I don’t want to go out.’

  ‘I want to do compuuuteerrrrrrrrrr.’

  Both children burst into spontaneous crying.

  11.45 a.m. Went back into the toilet, bit my hand really quite hard, hissing, ‘Everything is completely intolerable, I hate myself, I’m a rubbish mother,’ tore up a piece of toilet paper pettily and, for lack of a grander gesture, threw it into the toilet. Smoothed myself down and stepped out again, smiling brightly. At which I distinctly saw Mabel waddle up to Billy, whack him on the top of the head with Saliva, then sit down to innocently play with her Hellvanians while Billy burst into loud spontaneous crying again.

  11.50 a.m. Oh GOD. I really, REALLY want to go on a mini-break with someone and have sex.

  11.51 a.m. Returned to toilet, put towel over face and muttered, shamefully, into towel, ‘Look, will everyone just SHUT UP?!’

  The door burst open. Mabel stared solemnly. ‘Billy’s exasperating me,’ she said, then ran back into the room yelling, ‘Mummy’s eatin’ a towel!’

  Billy rushed eagerly, then suddenly remembered: ‘Mabel hit me with Saliva.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Mabel, I saw you hit Billy with Saliva,’ I joined in.

  Mabel stared at me under lowered brows, then burst out, ‘He hit me wid a . . . wid a HAMMER.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ wailed Billy. ‘We haven’t got a hammer.’

  ‘We have!’ I said indignantly.

  Both started spontaneous crying again.

  ‘We don’t hit,’ I said despairingly. ‘We don’t hit. I’m going to count to . . . to. . . It’s not OK to hit.’

  Ugh. Ridiculous expression: ‘Not OK’, suggesting am too idle or passive-aggressive to locate or use word categorizing what hitting actually is (very bad, effing annoying, etc.), so, instead, hitting has to make do with mere exclusion from vague generalization of things which ‘are OK’.

  Mabel, regardless of hitting’s OKness or otherwise, grabbed a fork from the table, jabbed Billy, and then ran off and hid behind the curtain. ‘Mabel, that’s a One,’ I said. ‘Give me the fork.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ she said, throwing down the fork and running to the drawer to get another one.

  ‘Mabel!’ I said. ‘The next thing I’m going to say is . . . is . . . TWO!’

  I froze, thinking, ‘What am I going to do when I get to Three?’

  ‘Come on! Let’s go up to the Heath,’ I said in a jolly way, deciding it wasn’t the moment to hit the hitting issue head on.

  ‘Nooooo! I want to do Wizard101.’

  ‘Not goin’ in de car! Want to watch SpongeBob.’

  Was suddenly wildly indignant that own children’s values were so entirely off-key, due to American cartoons, computer games and general consumer culture. Had flashback to own childhood, and urge to inspire and teach them with song from the Girl Guides.

  ‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And the flag is flying freeeee!’ I sang.

  ‘Mummy,’ said Billy, with Mark-style sternness.

  ‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And that’s where I long to beeee . . .’ I warbled. ‘Pack your kit, girls! / Feeling fit, girls! / For a life of health and joy!’

  ‘Thtoppit,’ said Mabel.

  ‘For it’s off to camp again / In a lorry not a train.’

  ‘Mummy, stop!’ said Billy.

  ‘Camp ahoy!’ I finished with a rousing flourish. ‘Camp ahoy!’

  Looked down to see them staring at me nervously, as if I was a zombie from Plants versus Zombies.

  ‘Can I go on the computer?’ said Billy.

  Calmly, deliberately, I opened the fridge, reaching for the enormous stash of chocolate-from-Granny on the top shelf.

  ‘Chocolate buttons!’ I said, dancing about with the buttons in an attempt to mimic a fairy-themed party entertainer. ‘Follow the trail of buttons to see where it leads! Two trails,’ I added, to ward off conflict, laying a careful line of exactly matching chocolate buttons up the stairs and towards the front door, ignoring the fact that tradesmen may previously have trailed dog-poo traces into the carpet.

  The two of them obediently trotted up the stairs after me, stuffing the no-doubt-dog-poo-smeared buttons into their mouths.

  On the way in the car, I thought about what I should do about the hitting. Clearly, according to French Children Don’t Throw Food, it should be outside the cadre (but then so should putting chocolate buttons in a trail out of the house) and according to One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting there should simply be a scorched-earth, zero-tolerance, three-strikes-and-you’re-out Donald Rumsfeld kind of policy.

  ‘M
abel?’ I said in preparation, as we drove along.

  Silence.

  ‘Billy?’

  Silence.

  ‘Earth to Mabel and Billy?’

  They both seemed to be in some sort of trance. Why couldn’t they have had the trance in the house so I could have sat down for a minute and read the Style section from last week’s Sunday Times whilst believing myself to be reading the News Review?

  Decided to let the trance just happen: to go with the flow and make the most of any moment of calm to clear my head. It was really quite jolly driving along, the sun was shining, people out and about, lovers in each other’s arms and . . .

  ‘Mummy?’

  Hah! I seized the moment, adopting a statesmanlike, Obama-esque tone. ‘Yes. Now. I have something to say: Billy – and particularly Mabel – hitting is not allowed in our family. And I say to you now: every day when a person doesn’t hit – or jab – they will get a gold star. I say to you: any time a person does hit they get a black mark. And I say to you, as a non-violent person and as your mother: any person who gets five gold stars by the end of the week will get a small prize of their choice.’

  ‘A Hellvanian bunny?’ said Mabel excitedly. ‘A Fuckoon Family?’

  ‘Yes, a Raccoon Family,’ I said.

  ‘She didn’t say Raccoon. She said the F-word. Can I have crowns on Wizard101?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait. How much is a Raccoon Family? Can I get crowns that are worth the same as a Raccoon Family?’ Mark Darcy the top negotiator in child form. ‘How much money does Mabel lose for saying the F-word?’

  ‘I didn’t say de F-word.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I didn’t. I THAID Fuckoon.’

  ‘How many Wizard101 crowns does Mabel lose for saying the F-word again?’

  ‘Here we are at the super-dooper Heath!’ I said rousingly, pulling into the car park.

  Is amazing how everything calms down once one is in the outdoors with blue skies and crisp winter sunshine. Headed for the climbing trees, standing close by as Billy and Mabel hung upside down, motionless, from the conveniently broad, low boughs. Like lemurs.