by Helen Fielding
. Written in the form of a personal diary, the novel chronicles a year in the life of Bridget Jones
, a thirty-something single
working woman living in London
. She writes (often humorously) about her career, self-image, vices, family, friends, and romantic relationships.
The main focus of plot is Bridget's love life. Her view divides the world into "Singletons," — unmarried and romantically unattached people, of whom she is one — and "Smug Marrieds," by whom she is surrounded.
It all began on New Years day, in my 32nd year of being single. Once again I found myself on my own and going to my mother's annual turkey curry buffet. Every year she tries to fix me up with some bushy-haired, middle-aged bore and I feared this year would be no exception.
My mum, a strange creature from the time when a gherkin was still the height of sophistication.
And that was it. Right there. That was the moment. I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine... and I'd finally die, fat and alone, and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians. Or I was about to turn into Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
Daily phonecall from Jude, lawyer...who spends most of her time crying in the loo's over fuckwit boyfriends.
Shazzer, journalist. Likes to say "fuck" a lot.
Tom, 80's pop icon who only wrote one hit record then retired because he found that one record was quite enough to get him laid for the whole of the 90's. Total poof, of course.
Major dilemma. If actually do, by some terrible chance, end up in flagrante surely these would be most attractive at crucial moment. (holds up thong) However, chances of reaching crucial moment greatly increased by wearing these scary stomach-holding-in pants very popular with grannies the world over. Tricky. Very tricky.
(Answering phone) Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess, with a very bad man between her thighs... Mum, hi.
At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventualy be eaten by alsatians... or not, and this time i choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, i choose vodka. And Chaka Khan.