Sunday 29 May 2016
142 lbs (due to Mr. Wallaker’s traditional cooking, i.e. lots of fatty meat. Resulting in meaty fat overnight), Nicorettes 0, Alcohol units 22 (v.b., but see above), Minutes spent in quiet reading (even if old diaries) 492, Minutes spent crying over old diaries 565, Minutes spent laughing over old diaries 364, Minutes spent cringing over old diaries 500000, Minutes spent in self-acceptance 1 Bloody Amazing Epiphany, lasting several seconds, as if 1 Bloody Amazing Orgasm.
8:30 a.m. After lovely day yesterday with Mr. Wallaker and children, with Mr. Wallaker being absolute angel by cooking v.g. lunch and dinner, whole family sitting together watching Casablanca, Mr. Wallaker lovingly calling me “kid” after, and us being a great big happy family just as we are, day seems rather quiet today (though very noisy late last night with Mr. Wallaker. Sans children, of course.). Have decided to work, even if is Sunday, to get head start with working week ahead. And also, because family, friends etc. are all busy doing their own things. Ah’ma gonna do my thing too, as eight-year-old daughter Mabel likes to say, whenever she doesn’t want to do what I tell her to do.
9 a.m. Have decided to blog properly, as blog lies unread, with depressing stats. Only started blog because Screenwriting Agent Katzenberg told to, in hopes of being read by major production companies. Though only people who seem to read blog, according to stats page, are those googling “porn”, to come across my blog post on Jeanne’s typewriter photos with title ‘Stationery Porn.’ Do not want to potentially write scripts for porn companies. Though, based on last night alone, could write better sex scene dialogues than most porn films. Hmm, what if include sex scene in Pierce My Soul, script based on Austen’s Persuasion?
9:02 a.m. No. Is Wrong. Very, Very Wrong. As with Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Sense and Sensibility or any Austen for that matter (Am yet to read or watch Northanger Abbey), is wrong to have sex scenes between Dream, Perfect Men and eighteenth century substitutes of women like us. Dream, Perfect Men are only Dream, Perfect Men after all because they are too honourable to shag you, or anyone else. To Austen, they were gentlemen. To us, they’re sterile, asexuals, closeted homosexuals, or monks who are closeted monks. Being mean and prejudiced, that’s what we call them even if none of these are bad things to be. What a bloody improvement on the human race .
9: 30 a.m. Reading blog posts on WordPress to build community and get inspiration for own posts. Came across one called How To Be Inspired, by someone called Of Opinions, who says you can even look into your own past writing to be inspired. Even if you want to contradict what you once believed. Good Idea. Have wealth of writing already, in form of life long diary-writing habit. Will surely find material for posts, whether inspired or lifted from own work (is it plagiarism to lift your words from when you were 20 or 25? Surely not. Though, should at least use quotation marks and give proper citations. Should also take permission except cannot travel through time.)
2 p.m. Am highly emotional. Am feeling mixture of embarrassment, nostalgia, hurt, love, kindness and forgiveness, especially towards self. Not self now, but self from 80s and 90s. People say life today is complicated with social media, gadgets, self-checkout machines in supermarkets, Britain trying to find National Identity and Worthy Successor to James Bond after Daniel Craig leaves the throne (uh, Omega watch and Aston Martin I mean. Though he could probably buy both with the money he’s made. Or the studios should do the proper thing and give him all his stuff, and not keep it for future Bonds. Ungrateful bastards exploiting true artists, as I can tell from experience), but HOW DID I EVER SURVIVE THOSE YEARS? HOW DID BRITAIN SURVIVE THOSE YEARS? We all need a bloody drink just to know we made it through. Sample this:
“11 a.m. Went for quiet night out with Alex, boyfriend of three months, to celebrate 28th birthday. Woman at cinema box office asked if I was at least 18 or above, because of film’s adult certification. Was too pleased and smug to reply, as if heart had been wrapped in cotton candy, when Alex rudely replied, “She’s almost thirty. And five years older than me. Do you wanna know if she was a Caesarean baby, love, or can we have the sodding tickets?”
How unkind of Alex. Will chuck him after movie. Or maybe dinner. Or maybe sex. Don’t want to be alone tonight, even if it’s with ageist bastard, who insists on telling everyone we’re like Dustin Hoffman and his girlfriend’s mum in The Graduate, even if am only a bit older.”*
And this, from later that week:
“8:30 p.m. Was having coffee and scones with Jude, when she was excitedly telling me about a new man she’s met called Richard, and fallen Love At First Sight with (it actually exists, she kept on saying) when my cousin Sarah came over to our table. She’s always been nice, and gorgeous, and left to go back to her husband at table on other end of the room. Was thinking how great she still looked at 39, when Jude asked, “Is she younger than you, or older?”
AM OLD ENOUGH TO LOOK FORTY. Or Sarah’s young enough to look in her early to mid twenties. Point is, NO ONE CAN BLOODY TELL.”*
*Dates of entries too depressing to write down.
Have spent all my life worrying about the future, thinking am too repulsive for anyone to shag or love me in the height of my youthful beauty and fertility i.e. twenties and thirties. But, now am in my future, living my future, still being me, but everything’s turned out alright. Fine. More than fine. Super. Bloody Amazing. Better than could have imagined in those thirty odd years. I’ve had the completely faithful, utterly passionate, long-term love of not one, but two Dream, Perfect Men, thoroughly honourable even when shagging, and I could not have asked for more. Yes, still don’t have career as would have wished, still am not woman of extremely independent income and power, or 8 st 7 weight permanently. But, have children, friends who love me, man who’s completely devoted to me, always supporting my dreams without being mean or patronizing, as so many others in the past. Am too, too happy.
7 p.m. Told Mr. Wallaker about epiphany while preparing dinner. Mr. Wallaker did not seem as pleased, and awkwardly asked not to tell him much about past, especially with regards to men. Hmm, is understandable. Darcy did not want to know about Wickham from Elizabeth either.
8:35 p.m. Just sent group email to Jude, Talitha, Tom, Rebecca, Shazzer and Magda about epiphany. No one’s replied yet.
10 p.m. Still no reply. Am thinking about blogging on epiphany. Though will have to leave many, many embarrassing details out. Certainly, can quote very little from diaries. Cannot imagine THE HORROR OF ANYONE EVER READING MY DIARIES.
11:35 p.m. Few responses from friends, with one-line emails like, “Good for you, Bridget,” “Happy to have you as friend too, Bridget,” “Oh, shut up old girl. Remember what Mark said? We’ve always loved you, just as you are.” Commenters on blog post more detailed, reflective and enthusiastic.
11:55 p.m. Mr. Wallaker says brief response doesn’t mean less sincere. Lifelong friendship means much more than few words. Hmm, agree. After all we’ve been through together: Thatcher, Vanilla Ice, Vile Richard, Daniel Cleaver, grunge youths… Am just glad we’re alive, content, and still relevant, even in our fifties. Must go now, as Mr. Wallaker wants to thank me biblically for calling him Dream Perfect Man, worthy of being Austen hero, offering honourable shags.