Helen Fielding - Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason

"That's great!" I said, then saw Richard Finch staring crossly in my direction.

"Anyway, darling, we thought you-"

"Mum," I interrupted, "do you know any old people who do interesting things?"

"Honestly, what a silly question. All old people do interesting things. Look at Archie Garside - you know Archie - who used to be deputy spokesman on the governors. He's a parachute jumper. In actual fact I think he's doing a sponsored parachute jump for the Rotary tomorrow and he's ninety-two. A ninety-two-year-old parachute jumper! Imagine!"

Half an hour later I set off towards Richard Finch's desk, a smug smile playing about my lips.

6 p.m. Hurrah! Everything is lovely! Am completely back in Richard Finch's good books and am going off to Kettering to film parachute jump. And not only that, but I am going to direct it, and it is going to be the lead item.

Do not want to be stupid TV career woman any more. Is heartless profession. Had forgotten the nightmare of TV crews when allowed to interact freely with trusting media-virgin members of the public. Was not allowed to direct the item as deemed too complex, so was left on the ground while bossy career-crazed Greg was sent up in the plane to do it. Turned out Archie did not want to jump as could not see a good landing spot. But Greg went on and on saying, "Come on, mate, we're losing the light," and eventually pressurized him to jump towards a softlooking ploughed field. Unfortunately, however, it wasn't a ploughed field, it was a sewerage works.

9st 3, alcohol units 1, cigarettes 0, dashed baby-fantasies 1, dashed Mark Darcy fantasies: all the ones about him seeing self again realizing how changed, poised i.e. thin, welldressed, etc. am, and falling in love with self again 472.

Completely exhausted by working week. Almost too drained to get out of bed. Wish could get someone to go downstairs and fetch paper, also chocolate croissant and cappuccino. Think will stay in bed, read Marie Claire, and do nails, then maybe see if Jude and Sbazzer fancy going to Jigsaw. Would really like to get something new for when see Mark again next week, as if to stress am changed ... Gaaah! Doorbell. Who in their right mind would ring on someone's doorbell at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning? Are they completely insane?

Later. Staggered to entryphone. It was Magda, who shouted chirpily, "Say hello to Auntie Bridget!"

Lurched in horror, dimly remembering offer to spend Saturday taking Magda's infants to the swings while she spends day having hair done and lunching with Jude and Shazzer like single girl.

Panicking, I pressed the buzzer, flung on only dressing gown could find - unsuitable, v. short, translucent - and started running round the flat to remove ashtrays, mugs of vodka, broken glass etc., etc.

"Fwoff. Here we are! I'm afraid Harry's got a bit of a snuffle, haven't we?" crooned Magda, clunking up the stairs, festooned with pushchairs and bags like a homeless person. "Ooof. What's that smell?"

Constance, my goddaughter, who is three next week, said she had brought me a present. She seemed very pleased indeed with her gift choice and sure that I would like it. Unwrapped it excitedly. It was a fireplace catalogue.

"I think she thought it was a magazine, " whispered Magda.

Demonstrated massive delight. Constance beamed smugly and gave me a kiss, which I liked, then sat down happily in front of the Pingu video.

"Sorry. I'm going to have to dump and dash, I'm late for my highlights," said Magda. "There's everything you need in the bag under the pram. Don't let them fall out of the hole in the wall."

It all seemed fine. The baby was asleep, Harry, who is nearly one, was sitting in the double pushchair next to him, holding a very battered rabbit and looking as if he was about to fall asleep too. But the second the door slammed downstairs, Harry and the baby began to scream blue murder, writhing and kicking when I tried to pick them up, like violent deportees.

Found self trying to do anything (though obviously not gagging with tape) to make them stop: dancing, waving and pretending to blow imaginary trumpet to no avail.

Constance looked up solemnly from the video, removing her own bottle from her mouth. "They're probably thirsty," she said. "You can see through your nightie."

Humiliated at being out-earth-mothered by someone not quite three, I found the bottles in the bag, handed them over and sure enough both babies stopped crying and sat there sucking, busily watching me from beneath lowered brows as if I were someone very nasty from the Home Office.

I tried to slip next door to put some clothes on, at which they took the bottles out and started yelling again. Finally, I ended up dressing in the sitting room while they watched intently as if I were a bizarre reverse striptease artist.

After forty-five minutes of Gulf War-style operation to get them, plus the prams and bags, downstairs, we reached the street. Was very nice when we got to the swings. Harry, as Magda says, has not mastered the

human language yet but Constance developed a very sweet, all-adults-together confidential tone with me, saying, "I think he wants to go on the swing," when he talked gibberish, and when I bought a packet of Minstrels saying solemnly, "I don't think we'd better tell people about this,"

Unfortunately, for some reason when we got to the front door, Harry started sneezing and a huge web of projectile green snot seemed to fly into the air then flop back over his face like something from Dr Who. Constance then gagged in horror and threw up on my hair and the baby started screaming, which set the other two off. Desperately trying to calm the situation, I bent down, wiped the snot off Harry, and put his dummy back into his mouth while beginning a soothing rendition of 'I Will Always Love You'.

For a miraculous second, there was silence. Thrilled with my gifts as a natural mother, I launched into a second verse, beaming into Harry's face, at which he abruptly pulled the dummy out of his mouth and shoved it into mine.

"Hello again," said a manly voice as Harry started to scream once more. I turned round, dummy in mouth and sick all over hair to find Mark Darcy looking extremely puzzled.

"They're Magda's," I said eventually.

"Ah, I thought it was all a bit quick. Or a very well kept secret."

"Who's that?" Constance put her hand in mine, looking up at him suspiciously.

"I'm Mark," he said. "I'm Bridget's friend."

"Oh," she said, still looking suspicious.

"She's got the same expression as you anyway," he said, looking at me in a way I couldn't fathom. "Can I give you a hand upstairs?"

Ended up with me carrying the baby and holding Constance's hand and Mark bringing the pushchair and holding Harry's hand. For some reason neither of us could speak, except to the children. But then I was aware of voices on the stairs. Rounded the corner and there were two policemen emptying the hall cupboard. They'd had a complaint from next door about the smell.

"You take the children upstairs, I'll deal with this," said Mark quietly. Felt like Maria in The Sound of Music when they've been singing in the concert and she has to get the children into the car while Captain Von Trapp confronts the Gestapo.

Talking in a cheery, fraudulently confident whisper, I put the Pingu video back on, gave them all some sugar-free Ribena in their bottles and sat on the floor between them, which they seemed more than contented about.

Then policeman appeared clutching a holdall I recognized as mine. He pulled a polythene bag of stinking blood-smeared flesh accusingly from the zip pocket with his gloved hand and said, "Is this yours, miss? It was in the hall cupboard. Could we ask you a few questions?"