Bridget Jones

I got up at dawn yesterday to pack up our rented holiday cottage in Cornwall before the 10am deadline.

By the time the children emerged, bleary eyed and mussy-haired, from their lairs, I'd got all the suitcases and bags shoehorned into the car, leaving them with a change of clothes for the journey, and just enough space to sit in.

(At least #3 didn't have to perch on top of a case of Beck's Blue like she did on the way down).

"MUMMY!" Wails #1. "I HAVEN'T GOT A BRA!"

At this point I lose it.

"YOU'RE NOT EXACTLY DOLLY PARTON ABOUT TO GO JOGGING!" I yell back at #1.

But she fixes me with that baleful, nearly-teenage glare, until I go and unpack her suitcase from the car, like playing Jenga with surfboards, buckets and sundry kitchen items, and retrieve the crucial piece of clothing.

Eventually, we're driving over the A4 flyover into London, and there it is. A giant poster proclaiming that BRIDGET JONES'S BABY is about to hit our cinema screens.

And I'm hit by a wave of nostalgia.

I loved Bridget. I loved her neuroses, her imperfections and her granny knickers.

I loved her humour and the way she cut through all the 'emotional fuckwittery.' And I loved the way she ate like a normal woman, smoked like a chimney and drank like a trooper.

I loved Bridget because I pretty much was Bridget.

So much so, that when the BBC were looking for people to 'star' in a documentary about the 'real life Bridget Joneses' they called me.

I flatly refused, despite a fair amount of arm twisting, to let a camera crew follow me around town for a week, but I did agree to take part in a small segment of the film - a single's dinner party.

I turned up, along with seven other 'singles' at the appointed Chelsea restaurant, and was told that the film crew would be a while setting up, "so do, please, help yourself to free drinks at the bar."

An hour later, nervous and tanked up with booze on empty stomachs, we were all flying. At least, I was.

In a herculean effort to stand up for the rights of women to be single and happy, I waved my wine glass around and proclaimed "Look. I've got a great job, a really cool car, and I own my own flat. Why on earth would I need a man to make myself complete?" Job done. Or so I thought.

I wasn't expecting anyone to actually see the documentary. My friends were all far too busy working and partying to be indoors watching TV on a Thursday night.

(And this was before the days of Sky Plus and Catch Up TV. You actually had to set a timer on your VHS machine, which was far too much hassle).

So, imagine my horror, when ALL WEEK, on prime time TV, the BBC ran a trailer.

There was only one person in the trailer: Me.

There I am, slightly tipsy, saying "Look. I've got a great job, a really cool car, and I own my own flat." Then the serious, male, voiceover cuts in: "So why can't these women find the one thing they really want: A MAN?"

Everyone saw it. Everyone saw me slapping feminism in the face and pronouncing myself un-whole.

But it didn't stop me loving Bridget.

After all, she gave us all an excuse to drink too much. She made downing gallons of Chardonnay with your friends cool. She made drinking home alone, holding a pity party for one, de rigeur.

So, what's Bridget up to now?

More of the same, apparently. Still drinking. Still going to nightclubs. Still looking for a man to make her emotionally stable.

Well that's all just bollocks.

For a start, I know - better than anyone else - that Bridget could not have drunk that amount of Chardonnay for the last twenty years without suffering some pretty major side effects.

One thing's for sure: she would NOT be the size two that Renne Zellweger portrays her as in the movie.

(I presume that Renee flatly refused to 'bulk up' to a normal size this time around).

And would a drunk, forty-something Bridget still be funny and endearing, or just a bit....sad?

I like to think that lovely Bridget would have learned something over the past two decades.

I think she'd be a brilliant, funny, imperfect mother. I think she'd have a not-always-perfect, but kind and forgiving marriage.

And I think she'd be sober. (Let's face it, moderation would never be Bridget's thing).

Love to all you proper Bridgets out there.

SM x

P.S. That was my 400th blog post. If you'd like to read from post #1 then click here.