So, I read an article recently, I can't remember if it was in Marie Claire or The Stylist (one of those forensically researched tomes) about how Bridget Jones no longer represented your average 30something London girl. Apparently we are all too busy focusing on our careers to worry about finding our Mr Darcy and poor Bridge was described as being rather pathetic and desperate. This saddens me. I've always had a bit of a soft spot for Miss Jones, probably because my 30something London girl life has worrying similarities, although sadly I don't mix in the same social circles as Human Rights lawyers with a penchant for 'comedy' knitted jumpers. I guess this is the chasm between fact and fiction. I'm also not sure whether Human Rights merits such capitalization.
Like Bridget I work in publishing, I know a Daniel Cleaver (not literally someone of that name, but someone who behaves exactly like the Hugh Grant character, although I don't think he has ever employed the services of Divine Brown, I couldn't name the countries surrounding Germany without access to Google, and once, shamefully, I tried to organise an event in a bookshop with a dead author (F.R.Leavis anyone?).
I also happen to be very happy indeed with my job. I'm not one of those people who wants it all - frankly I am glad to be employed - and spend considerable effort and energy trying to conceal by ineptitude from my very lovely boss. Like Bridget it's the love life that remains the problem. The stories I could share! And no doubt will, having nothing better to do of a Friday night.
If I was Carrie Bradshaw (who incidentally I cannot abide) I'd no doubt write some quazi-intellectual shit about the dating scene that through one column a week would enable my shoe fetish to continue unabated. But I'm not. So I'll just say, lay off Bridget. She's alright.
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