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I first got into Bridget Jones when Helen Fielding was writing the story as a column in the Independent newspaper.
When the book came out, I loved it so much, towards the end I was reading really slowly, I just didn’t want it to end!
I think Helen Fielding inspired me to have an attempt at chick-lit. I think she inspired many writers. But can’t be compared, as she is in a class of her own. Very talented lady.
I can’t find my original copy just now, but if you’ve forgotten how funny Bridget Jones is, here’s a snippet from the original columns, which I still have.
“Saturday 25 March
8st 10, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories 200 (at last have found the secret)
6pm 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 it was over Daniel said, “Damn, I meant to take the car into the Citroën garage” and 2) when I got up to go to the bathroom he pointe out that I ha a pair of tights stuck to the back of my calf.
But as the rosy clouds begin to disperse, I begin to feel alarm. What now? No plans were made. Suddenly I realise I am waiting for the phone again. How can it be that the situation between the sexes after a first night remains so agonisingly imbalanced? Call me old-fashioned, but I think it is biological. For a man, some part of him, however tiny, will be saying “Hah!”, feeling that a quest has been fulfilled and wanting to back off. Simultaneously in the female camp, no matter how cool the woman believes herself to be, age-old practical needs and vulnerabilities rear up inappropriately, demanding twigs, feathers, and cosiness. It is a hideous blunder of nature. Now I feel as if I have just sat an exam and must wait for my results. Oh my God, it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow.
Monday 27 March
9st (4lb in one day? how?), alcohol untis 4, cigarettes 17, calories 3,000
The last remaining tiny bathmat of security has been pulled from under my feet. Called my parents yesterday to say Happy Mother’s Day and offer magnaminously to pay suprise visit to deliver enormous gift (not yet purchased) only to get odd-sounding Dad on end of phone. “Er…I’m not sure. Could you hand on?” I reeled. Part of the arrogance of youth (well, I say youth) is the assumption your parents will drop everything and be thrilled the second you decide to turn up. He was back. “Bridget, look your mother and I are having some problems. Can we ring you later in the week?” Problems? What problems? I tried to get Dad to talk, tried to help, understand, but got nowhere. What is going on? Is the whole world doomed to emotional trauma? Poor Dad, poor Mum, poor me. Am I to be the tragic victim of a broken home, now, on top of everything else? As is the way these days, my mind turns instinctively to thoughts of compensation. But who is to blame for the emotional quagmire I find myself in? Cosmopolitan? Society, The feminist backlash? Myself? Opening the paper it seems policemen are suing police bosses for something which was the police’s fault. Maybe that means it would be all right to sue Daniel.”
Helen Fielding.
Bridget Jones’s Diary. The First Columns.
The Independent.
p18-p19