Dziennik bridget jones helen fielding pdf

Hardcover Large Print Edition. August 1, , Goldmann. Bridget Jones's Diary , Pan Macmillan. Bridget Jones's Diary: a novel , Picador. Paperback in English - 11th printing. Paperback in English - edition Bridget Jones's diary: a novel , Picador.

Bridget Jones's Diary Publisher unknown. Places England , Inglaterra , London. Times 20th century. Edition Description Meet Bridget Jones—a something Singleton who is certain she would have all the answers if she could: a. I B75 , PR The Physical Object Format Paperback.

Community Reviews 0 Feedback? Loading Related Books. Paperback Softcover large print edition Hardcover Large Print Edition October 8, Edited by ImportBot. August 30, February 7, Edited by Lisa.

The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format. The main characters of this fiction, womens fiction story are Bridget Jones, Mark Darcy.

Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator.

We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Rang Mum and Dad again tonight but no one answered. Thursday 9 February 9st 2 extra fat presumably caused by winter whale blubber , alcohol units 4, cigarettes 12 v.

This is the third time I have called Mum and Dad this week and got no reply. Maybe The Gables has been cut off by the snow? In desperation, I pick up the phone and dial my brother Jamie's number in Manchester, only to get one of his hilarious answerphone messages: the sound of running water and Jamie pretending to be President Clinton in the White House, then a toilet flushing and his pathetic girlfriend tittering in the background.

Just called Mum and Dad three times in a row, letting it ring twenty times each time. Eventually Mum picked it up sounding odd and saying she couldn't talk now but would call me at the weekend. Saturday 11 February 8st 13, alcohol units 4, cigarettes 18, calories but burnt off by shopping Just got home from shopping to message from my dad asking if I would meet him for lunch on Sunday.

I went hot and cold. My dad does not come up to London to have lunch with me on his own on Sundays. He has roast beef, or salmon and new potatoes, at home with Mum. I went round the corner, shaking, for some Silk Cut. Got back to find message from Mum. She too is coming to see me for lunch tomorrow, apparently. She'll bring a piece of salmon with her, and will be here about 1 o'clock.

Oh God, I can't have them both arriving at the same time. It is too Brian Rix for words. Maybe the whole lunch thing is just a parental practical joke brought on by over-exposure of my parents to Noel Edmonds, popular television and similar.

Perhaps my mother will arrive with a live salmon flipping skittishly on a lead and announce that she is leaving Dad for it. Maybe Dad will appear hanging upside-down outside the window dressed as a Morris dancer, crash in and start hitting Mum over the bead with a sheep's bladder; or suddenly fall face downwards out of the airing cupboard with a plastic knife stuck in his back.

The only thing which can possibly get everything back on course is a Bloody Mary. It's nearly the afternoon, after all.

Mum called. She says things like 'ruddy' and 'Oh my godfathers'. I'll just clean the house like Germaine sodding Greer and the Invisible Woman.

My mum has drunk nothing but a single cream sherry on a Sunday night since , when she got slightly tipsy on a pint of cider at Mavis Enderby's twenty-first and has never let herself or anyone else forget it. Couldn't we all talk this through together over lunch? I'm going out to get laid. As he sat down on the sofa, his face crumpled and tears began to splosh down his cheeks.

I knew it. This is all my fault. If I were a better person, Mum would not have stopped loving Dad. Though heartbroken by my parents' distress, I have to admit parallel and shameful feeling of smugness over my new role as carer and, though I say it myself, wise counselor. It is so long since I have done anything at all for anyone else that it is a totally new and heady sensation.

This is what has been missing in my life. I am having fantasies about becoming a Samaritan or Sunday school teacher, making soup for the homeless or, as my friend Tom suggested, darling mini-bruschettas with pesto sauce , or even retraining as a doctor.

I even began to wonder about putting an ad in the lonely hearts column of the Lancet. Valentine's Day tomorrow. Why is entire world geared to make people not involved in romance feel stupid when everyone knows romance does not work anyway. Look at royal family. Look at Mum and Dad. Valentine's Day purely commercial, cynical enterprise, anyway.

Matter of supreme indifference to me. Tuesday 14 February 9st, alcohol units 2 romantic Valentine's Day treat 2 bottles Becks, on own, huh , cigarettes 12, calories Oooh, goody.

Valentine's Day. Wonder if the post has come yet. Maybe there will be a card from Daniel. Or a secret admirer. Or some flowers or heart-shaped chocolates. Quite excited, actually. Brief moment of wild joy when discovered bunch of roses in the hallway. Rushed down and gleefully picked them up just as the downstairs-flat door opened and Vanessa came out. I tailed off. Look, this is for you,' said Vanessa, encouragingly.

It was an Access bill. Decided to have cappuccino and chocolate croissants on way to work to cheer self up. Do not care about figure. Is no point as no one loves or cares about me. On the way in on the tube you could see who had had Valentine cards and who hadn't. Everyone was looking round trying to catch each other's eye and either smirking or looking away defensively.

Got into the office to find Perpetua had a bunch of flowers the size of a sheep on her desk. How many? Complete commercial exploitation. It was only then that I noticed Daniel was listening to us across the room and laughing.

Wednesday 15 February Unexpected surprise, Was just leaving flat for work when noticed there was a pink envelope on the table — obviously a late Valentine — which said, 'To the Dusky Beauty'. For a moment I was excited, imagining it was for me and suddenly seeing myself as a dark, mysterious object of desire to men out in the street. Then I remembered bloody Vanessa and her slinky dark bob.

Just got back and card is still there. Still there. The card is still there. Maybe Vanessa hasn't got back yet. Thursday 16 February 8st 12 weight loss through use of stairs , alcohol units 0 excellent , cigarettes 5 excellent , calories not vg. The card is still there! Obviously it is like eating the last Milk Tray or taking the last slice of cake. We are both too polite to take it. Friday 17 February 8st 12, alcohol units 1 v.

Card is still there. Could stand it no longer. Could tell Vanessa was in as cooking smells emanating from flat, so knocked on door. I gave it back to her. I love girls. It was rather an arty card as if it might have been bought in an art gallery. She pulled a face.

Inside it said, 'A piece of ridiculous and meaningless commercial exploitation — for my darling little frigid cow. Just called Sharon and recounted whole thing to her. She said I should not allow my head to be turned by a cheap card and should lay off Daniel as he is not a very nice person and no good will come of it. Called Tom for second opinion, particularly on whether I should call Daniel over the weekend. I reported that he had seemed flirtier than usual.

Tom's prescription was wait till next week and remain aloof. Saturday 18 February 9st, alcohol units 4, cigarettes 6, calories , correct lottery numbers 2 v,g. At last I got to the bottom of Mum and Dad. I was beginning to suspect a post-Portuguese-holiday Shirley-Valentine-style scenario and that I would open the Sunday People to see my mother sporting dyed blond hair and a leopard-skin top sitting on a sofa with someone in stone-washed jeans called Gonzales and explaining that, if you really love someone, a forty-six year age gap really doesn't matter.

Today she asked me to meet her for lunch at the coffee place in Dickens and Jones and I asked her outright if she was seeing someone else. There is no one else, she said, staring into the distance with a look of melancholy bravery I swear she has copied from Princess Diana.

You only get one life. I've just made a decision to change things a bit and spend what's left of mine looking after me for a change. Then my eye was caught by a tall, distinguished-looking man with grey hair, a European-style leather jacket and one of those gentleman's handbag things.

I didn't say anything to Mum at the time, just said goodbye, then doubled back and followed her to make sure I wasn't imagining things. Sure enough, I eventually found her in the perfume department wandering round with the tall smoothie, spraying her wrists with everything in sight, holding them up to his face and laughing coquettishly.

Got home to answerphone message from my brother Jamie. Called him straight away and told him everything. Get any Valentines this year, did you? At which he burst out laughing again, then said he had to go because he and Becca were off to do Tai Chi in the park. Called Mum up to confront her about the late-in-life smoothie I saw her with after our lunch.

This was an immediate giveaway. My parents do not describe their friends by their Christian names. I knew straight away that Julian would not turn out to be involved in any Lifeboat luncheons, nor would he have a wife who was in any Lifeboats, Rotaries or Friends of St. I sensed also that she had met him in Portugal, before the trouble with Dad, and he might well turn out to be not so much Julian but Julio.

I sensed that, let's face it, Julio was the trouble with Dad. I confronted her with this hunch. She denied it. She even came out with some elaborately concocted tale about 'Julian' bumping into her in the Marble Arch Marks and Spencer, making her drop her new Le Creuset terrine dish on her foot and taking her for a coffee in Selfridges from which sprang a firm platonic friendship based entirely on department store coffee shops. Why, when people are leaving their partners because they're having an affair with someone else, do they think it will seem better to pretend there is no one else involved?

Do they think it will be less hurtful for their partners to think they just walked out because they couldn't stand them any more and then had the good fortune to meet some tall Omar Sharif-figure with a gentleman's handbag two weeks afterwards while the ex-partner is spending his evenings bursting into tears at the sight of the toothbrush mug?

It's like those people who invent a lie as an excuse rather than the truth, even when the truth is better than the lie. I once heard my friend Simon canceling a date with a girl — on whom he was really keen — because he had a spot with a yellow head just to the right of his nose, and because, owing to a laundry crisis he had gone to work in a ludicrous late-seventies jacket, assuming he could pick his normal jacket up from the cleaner's at lunchtime, but the cleaners hadn't done it.

He took it into his head, therefore, to tell the girl he couldn't see her because his sister had turned up unexpectedly for the evening and he had to entertain her, adding wildly that he also had to watch some videos for work before the morning; at which point the girl reminded him that he'd told her he didn't have any brothers or sisters and suggested he come and watch the videos at her place while she cooked him supper.

However, there were no work videos to take round and watch, so he had to construct a further cobweb of lies. The incident culminated with the girl, convinced he was having an affair with someone else when it was only their second date, chucking him, and Simon spending the evening getting hammered alone with his spot, wearing his seventies jacket.

I tried to explain to Mum that she wasn't telling the truth, but she was so suffused with lust that she had lost sight of, well, everything. I just need some space. Tuesday 21 February V. Dad has taken to ringing up several times in the night, just to talk. Wednesday 22 February 9st, alcohol units 2, cigarettes 9, fat units 8 unexpectedly repulsive notion: never before faced reality of lard splurging from bottom and thighs under skin. Must revert to calorie counting tomorrow.

Tom was completely right. I have been so preoccupied with Mum and Dad, and so tired from taking Dad's distraught phone calls, I have hardly been noticing Daniel at all: with the miraculous result that he has been all over me. I made a complete arse of myself today, though. I got in the lift to go out for a sandwich and found Daniel in there with Simon from Marketing, talking about footballers being arrested for throwing matches.

I know it's a thuggish way to behave, but as long as they didn't actually set light to anyone I don't see what all the fuss is about. He just laughed and laughed till he and Simon got out and then turned back and said, 'Marry me,' as the doors closed between us. Thursday 23 February 8st 13 If only could stay under 9st. Computer messaging somehow whipped itself up to fever pitch. At 6 o'clock I resolutely put my coat on and left, only to meet Daniel getting into my lift on the floor below.

There we were, just him and me, caught in a massive electrical-charge field, pulled together irresistibly, like a pair of magnets.

Then suddenly the lift stopped and we broke apart, panting, as Simon from Marketing got in wearing a hideous beige raincoat over his fat frame. Completely exhausted. Surely it is not normal to be revising for a date as if it were a job interview? Suspect Daniel's enormously well read brain may turn out to be something of a nuisance if things develop. Maybe I should have fallen for someone younger and mindless who would cook for me, wash all my clothes and agree with everything I say.

Ended up kneeling on a towel trying to pull off a wax strip firmly stuck to the back of my calf while watching Newsnight in an effort to drum up some interesting opinions about things. My back hurts, my head aches and my legs are bright red and covered in lumps of wax.

Wise people will say Daniel should like me just as I am, but I am a child of Cosmopolitan culture, have been traumatized by super-models 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. I am going to cancel and spend the evening eating doughnuts in a cardigan with egg on it.

Saturday 25 February 8st 10 miracle: sex proved indeed to be best form of exercise , alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories at last have found the secret of not eating: simply replace food with sex.

Oh joy. Have spent the day in a state I can only describe as shag-drunkenness, mooning about the flat, smiling, picking things up and putting them down again. It was so lovely. The only down points were 1 immediately after it was over Daniel said, 'Damn. But as the rosy clouds begin to disperse, I begin to feel alarm. What now? No plans were made. Suddenly I realize I am waiting for the phone again. How can it be that the situation between the sexes after a first night remains so agonizingly imbalanced?

Feel as if I have just sat an exam and must wait for my results. Why hasn't Daniel rung? Are we going out now, or what? How come my mum can slip easily from one relationship to another and I can't even get the simplest thing off the ground. Maybe their generation is just better at getting on with relationships? Maybe they don't mooch about being all paranoid and diffident.

Maybe it helps if you've never read a self-help book in your life. Sunday 26 February 9st, alcohol units 5 drowning sorrows , cigarettes 23 fumigating sorrows , calories smothering sorrows in fat-duvet. Awake, alone, to find myself imagining my mother in bed with Julio Consumed with repulsion at vision of parental, or rather demi-parental sex; outrage on behalf of father; heady, selfish optimism at example of another thirty years of unbridled passion ahead of me not unrelated to frequent thoughts of Goldie Hawn and Susan Sarandon ; but mainly extreme sense of jealousy of failure and foolishness at being in bed alone on Sunday morning while my mother aged over sixty is probably just about to do it for the second.

I can't bear to think about it. Am going to stop getting weighed and counting things every day as no sodding point.

My mother has become a force I no longer recognize. She burst into my flat this morning as I sat slumped in my dressing gown, sulkily painting my toenails and watching the preamble to the racing. Minutes later, in a fit of mild curiosity, I slobbed after her to see what she was doing. She was sitting in front of the mirror in an expensive-looking coffee-colored bra-slip, mascara-ing her eyelashes with her mouth wide open necessity of open mouth during mascara application great unexplained mystery of nature.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I really should have taken my makeup off last night. One side of my hair was plastered to my head, the other sticking out in a series of peaks and horns.

It is as if the hairs on my head have a life of their own, behaving perfectly sensibly all day, then waiting till I drop off to sleep and starting to run and jump about childishly, saying, 'Now what shall we do?

Well, the tax return was overdue, so I thought, sod it, I'll do it myself. Obviously I couldn't make head nor tail of it so I rang up the tax office. The man was really quite overbearing with me. Jones,' he said. I simply can't see what the difficulty is. Anyway, he's taking me out to lunch today. A tax man! Just bought it. Super lemon, don't you think? Anyway, must fly. I'm meeting him in Debenhams coffee shop at one fifteen. I know what her secret is: she's discovered power.

She has power over Dad: he wants her back. She has power over Julio, and the tax man, and everyone is sensing her power and wanting a bit of it, which makes her even more irresistible. So all I've got to do is find someone or something to have power over and then.

I haven't even got power over my own hair. I am so depressed. Daniel, though perfectly chatty, friendly, even flirty all week, has given me no hint as to what is going on between us, as though it is perfectly normal to sleep with one of your colleagues and just leave it at that.

Work — once merely an annoying nuisance — has become an agonizing torture. I have major trauma every time he disappears for lunch or puts his coat on to go at end of day: to where? No, I quite agree. But the question is: Does one want to pay another thirty grand for a fourth bedroom? At saw Daniel with his coat on heading out of the door.

My traumatized expression must have shamed even him because he smiled shiftily, nodded at the computer screen and shot out. Sure enough, Message Pending was flashing. I pressed RMS. It said: Message Jones Have a good weekend. Pip pip. Cleave Miserably, I picked up the phone and dialed Sharon. Cafe Rouge. Don't worry, we love you.

Tell him to bugger off from me. Emotional fuckwit. Argor sworeal brilleve with Shazzan Jude. Dun stupid care about Daniel stupid prat. Feel sicky though. Sunday 5 March 8 a. Wish was dead. Am never, ever going to drink again for the rest of life. Could really fancy some chips. Badly need water but seems better to keep eyes closed and head stationary on pillow so as not to disturb bits of machinery and pheasants in head. Bloody good fun but v.

Had to go through Jude's problems with Vile Richard first as clearly they are more serious since they have been going out for eighteen months rather than just shagged once. I waited humbly, therefore, till it was my turn to recount the latest Daniel instalment.

The unanimous initial verdict was, 'Bastard fuckwittage. Daniel, argued Jude, was bound to be anxious about work situation, etc. At this Sharon practically spat into the shaved Parmesan and said it was inhuman to leave a woman hanging in air for two weekends after sex and an appalling breach of confidence and I should tell him what I think of him.

Going to have another little sleep. Just triumphantly returned from heroic expedition to go downstairs for newspaper and glass of water.

Could feel water flowing like crystal stream into section of head where most required. Though am not sure, come to think of it, if water can actually get in your head. Possibly it enters through the bloodstream. Maybe since hangovers are caused by dehydration water is drawn into the brain by a form of capillary action. Story in papers about two-year-olds having to take tests to get into nursery school just made me jump out of skin.

Am supposed to be at tea party for godson Harry's birthday. Drove at breakneck speed feeling like I was dying, across grey, rain-sodden London to Magda's, stopping at Waterstone's for birthday gifts.

Heart was sinking at thought of being late and hungover, surrounded by ex-career-girl mothers and their Competitive Child Rearing. Magda, once a commodity broker, lies about Harry's age, now, to make him seem more advanced than he is.

Even the conception was cut-throat, with Magda trying to take eight times as much folic acid and minerals as anyone else. The birth was great. She'd been telling everyone for months it was going to be a natural childbirth and, ten minutes in, she cracked and started yelling, 'Give me the drugs, you fat cow.

I don't know what the big deal is about tests for two — this AGPAR is a test they have to do at two minutes. Magda embarrassed herself two years ago by boasting at a dinner party that Harry got ten in his, at which one of the other guests, who happens to be a nurse, pointed out that the AGPAR test only goes up to nine. Undaunted, however, Magda has started boasting around the nanny circuit that her son is a defecational prodigy, triggering off a round of boast and counter-boast.

The toddlers, therefore, dearly at the age when they should be securely swathed in layers of rubberware, were teetering around in little more than Baby Gap G-strings, I hadn't been there ten minutes before there were three turds on the carpet. A superficially humorous but vicious dispute ensued about who had done the turds, following by a tense stripping off of towelling pants, immediately sparking another contest over the size of the boys' genitals and, correspondingly, the husbands'.

Cosmo doesn't have a problem in that area, does he? Eventually made my excuses and drove home, congratulating myself on being single. Monday 6 March 11 a. Last night was just lying in nice hot bath with some Geranium essential oil and a vodka and tonic when the doorbell rang. It was my mother, on the doorstep in floods of tears. It took me some time to establish what the matter was as she flopped all over the kitchen, breaking into ever louder outbursts of tears and saying she didn't want to talk about it, until I began to wonder if her self-perpetuating sexual power surge had collapsed like a house of cards, with Dad, Julio and the tax man losing interest simultaneously.

But no. She had merely been infected with 'Having It All' syndrome. And some horrible mean part of me felt happy and smug because I had a career. Tak, tak. To wszystko jest do chrzanu. Z jakiej okazji? Jak sam twierdzi, jest to trudne.

Kurwa, kurwa. Cholera: telefon. Co z gabinetem cieni? Co z procesem pokojowym? Witamy w Good Afternoon! To bez sensu. Jest w pokoju Debby z marketingu. W wydawnictwie. Nie do wiary. Malcolm i Elaine. Rodzice idealnego Marka Darcy'ego. Ale to urocze, prawda?

Jestem bardzo zdenerwowana. Czadowe, nie? O rany. I co jeszcze? Okropna konferencja z szefem-tyranem Richardem Finchem. Bridget, ty robisz drugi biegun. Nie szkodzi. No jak? Ooch, telefon. I tak jest dzielny. Po prostu Pozdrowienia, Bridget Jones Hmmm. Chyba mam talent do telewizji popularnej.

Co ty, kurwa, wyprawiasz? Jestem beznadziejna we wszystkim. W kontaktach towarzyskich. Po prostu we wszystkim. Kocham Jude. Siedzimy obok siebie. Z morelowego jedwabiu. Bardzo mi przyjemnie. Tylko jeden taniec. Jest rozkosznie surowy, ale sprawiedliwy. Przykro mi. W tym tygodniu? Totalna panika. Ratunku, pomocy. Bardzo dobrze. W kiblu w pracy. Proces Isabelli Rossellini. Na co czekasz, Bridget? Richard mnie wyleje. Kup mi Dairy Box zamiast Ouality Street, dobrze? Co za wstyd.

Oby nie! Co za tupet. Rosemary West! To jest to! Jest to idiotycznie niejasne. Creme Anglaise z Grand Marnier. L, to znaczy I.

To fakt. Trudno, chyba nic sienie stanie. Gdzie teraz jest? Co tutaj robisz? Jak sobie poradzisz bez karty? Co ty kombinujesz? Zupa jest jaskrawoniebieska. Aaaa aaaa Bardzo smutna. Jestem kompletnie do niczego. Kuchnia na poziomie Michelina? Nawet nie McDonalda. Jude i reszta. Przykro mi, Bridget. Gdzie jest teraz twoja matka? W Portugalii? W Rio de Janeiro? U fryzjera?

Nie mam do niego pretensji. Dlaczego tak jest?