Helen Fielding - Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason

If you can trust Yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. Oh fuck it, I'm just going to sock him in the mouth.

He looked at me, chewing, grinning expectantly. Funnily enough the usual sniggers round the table weren't happening. In fact the whole Thailand interlude seemed to have brought a new respect from my colleagues that I was naturally delighted by.

"What about New Labour - after the honeymoon?" Richard Finch crashed his head down on to the table and started snoring.

"Actually, I have got another idea," I said, after a casual pause. "About sex," I added, at which Richard sprang to attention. (I mean just his head. At least I hope.)

"Well? Are you going to share it with us - or save it, for your chummies in the Drug Squad?"

"Celibacy," I said.

There was an impressed silence.

Richard Finch was staring at me bulgy-eyed as if he couldn't believe it.

"Celibacy?"

"Celibacy." I nodded smugly. "The new celibacy."

"What - you mean monks and nuns?" said Richard Finch.

"No. Celibacy."

"Ordinary people not having sex," Patchouli cut in, looking at him insolently.

Really there was a very changed atmosphere around the table. Maybe Richard had begun to go so far over the edge that no one was sucking up to him any more.

"What, because of some tantric, Buddhist thing?" said Richard sniggering, one leg twitching convulsively as he chewed.

"No," said sexy Matt, carefully looking down at his notebook. "Ordinary people, like us, who don't have sex for long periods of time."

I shot a look at Matt, just as he was doing the same to me.

"What? You lot?" said Richard, looking at us incredulously. "You're all in the first flush of youth - well, except Bridget."

"Thanks," I muttered.

"You're all at it like rabbits every night! Aren't you? In, out, in, out and shake it all about," he sang. "You do the Okeekokee and you turn her round, and do it to her from be-hind! Aren't you?"

There was a certain degree of shuffling round the table.

"Aren't you?" More pause.

"Who here hasn't had sex in the last week?" Everyone stared hard at their notepads. "OK. Who has had sex in the last week?" No one raised their hand.

"I don't believe this. All right. Which one of you has had sex in the last month."

Patchouli raised her hand. As did Harold, who beamed at us all smugly from behind his spectacles. Probably lying. Or maybe just puppy-love-type shagging.

"So the rest of you ... Jesus. You're a bunch of freaks. It can't be because you're working too hard. Celibacy. Pah! Talk about bums off seats. We're off the air because of Diana so you lot had better come up with something better than this for the rest of the season. None of this limp no-sex bollocks. We're coming back next week with a bang."

8st 6 (this must stop or jail sentence will have been wasted), no. of ways imagined killing Richard Finch 32 (this too must stop otherwise deterrent value of jail sentences annihilated), no. of black jackets considered buying 23, no. of seconds not had sex 14,688,000.

6 p.m. V. happy about return-to-school-autumnal-style feel of world. Going to go late-night shopping on way home: not to buy anything as financial crisis, just to try on new "brown is black" autumn wardrobe. V. excited and determined this year to be better at shopping i.e. (a) not panic and find only thing able to buy is black jacket as only so many black jackets one girl needs and (b) get money from somewhere. Maybe Buddha?

8 p.m. Angus Steak House, Oxford Street. Uncontrollable panic attack, Shops all seem to have just slightly different versions of each thing. Throws self into thought fug with mind unable to settle until has encompassed and catalogued all, for example, available black nylon jackets: French Connection one at F-129 or high-class Michael Kors (tiny, square quilted one) at E400. Black nylon jackets in Hennes are only Ђ39.99. Could for example buy ten Hennes black nylon jackets for price of one Michael Kors one but then wardrobe would be more riddled with more black jackets than ever and cannot buy any of them anyway.

Maybe whole image is at fault. Maybe should start wearing brightly coloured pantomime outfits in manner of Zandra Rhodes or Su Pollard. Or have a capsule wardrobe and just buy three very classy pieces and wear them all the time. (But what if spill or throw up on them?)

Right. Calm, calm. This is what need to buy:

Black nylon jacket (I only)

Torque. Or maybe Tong or Tonk? Anyway, choker thing to go round neck.

'Boot leg' brown trousers (depending what 'boot leg' should turn out to mean).

Brown suit for work (or similar). Shoes,

Was nightmare in shoe shop. Just trying on brown squaretoed high-heeled 70s style shoes in Office feeling v. dйjа-vu-esque for all those back-to-school times buying new shoes and fighting with bloody Mum about what they were allowed to be like. Then suddenly had horrifying realization: was not freaky sense of dйjа-vu- they were exactly the same shoes I had in Six Lower from Freeman Hardy Willis.

Suddenly felt like innocent dupe or stooge of fashion designers who cannot be arsed to think of new things. Worse, am now so old that young fashion buying generation no longer remember wearing things I wore as teenager. At last realize point at which ladies start going to Jaeger for two-pieces - when do not want to be reminded of lost youth by high-street fashion any more. Have now reached said point. Am going to abandon Kookaп, Agnиs B, Whistles etc. in favour of Country Casuals and spirituality. Also cheaper. Am going home.

9 p.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 thing is, as it says in 'Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk', the atmosphere and events around you are created by the atmosphere within you. So it is no wonder all that bad stuff - Thailand, Daniel, Rebecca etc. - happened. Must start being more inner-poised and spiritual epiphanied, then will start attracting peaceful things and kind, loving, well-balanced people. Like Mark Darcy.

Mark Darcy - when he returns - is going to see the new me, calm and centred, attracting peace and order all around me.

8st 7, cigarettes 0 (triumph), no. of seconds since had sex 14,774,400 (disaster), (must treat both impostors just the same).

8.15 a.m. Right. Up bright and early. You see, this is important: steal a march on the day!

8.20 a.m. Ooh, a package has come for me. Maybe a gift,

8.30 a.m. Mmm. Is in gift box with roses on. Maybe from Mark Darcy! Maybe he's back.

8.40 a.m. Is a lovely little gold truncated biro with my name on it. Maybe from Tiffany's! With red tip. Maybe is lipstick.

8.45 a.m. That is weird. Is no note in there. Maybe promotional lipstick from PR company.

8.50 a.m. But is not lipstick as is solid. Maybe is biro. With my name on it! Maybe invitation to party in manner of forward-thinking PR firm - perhaps launch of new magazine called Lipstick!, maybe product of Tina Brown! - and the invitation to glittering party will follow.

Yes, you see. Think will go to Coins and have cappuccino. Though not, of course, chocolate croissant.

9 a.m. In cafe now. Hmm. Delighted with the little gift but not sure is biro either. Or at least if is, is very obscurely functioning one.

Later. Oh my God. Had just sat down with cappuccino and chocolate croissant when Mark Darcy came in, just like that, as if not away at all: in his work suit, newly shaved, a little cut on his chin with toilet paper on, as traditional in the mornings. He walked to the takeaway counter and put his briefcase down as if looking around for something or someone. He saw me. There was a long moment when his eyes softened (though not, obviously, melting like goo). He turned to deal with the cappuccino. Quickly made myself even more calm and centred seeming. Then he came towards my table, looking much more businesslike. Felt like throwing my arms round him.