Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Got home and checked my emails:

Sender: Nicolette Martinez

Subject: The school fucking concert

Just to let you know I don’t give a flying fuck who brings the mince pies or mulled wine this year and you can all turn up whenever the FUCK you like because I don’t FUCKING WELL GIVE A FUCK.

Nicorette

I need it.

Think will give Nicolette a ring.

11 p.m. Just had brilliant night at our place with Nicolette, with the three boys running riot on Roblox and Mabel watching SpongeBob SquarePants while we had some wine, pizza, cheese, Diet Coke, Red Bull, Cadbury’s chocolate buttons, Rolos and H?agen-Dazs, and Nicolette looked at OkCupid, shouting, ‘Bastards! Fuckwittage!’

In the middle Tom turned up, slightly plastered, going on about a new survey: ‘It proves that the quality of someone’s relationships is the biggest indicator of their long-term emotional health – not so much the “significant other” relationship, as the measure of happiness is not your husband or boyfriend but the quality of the other relationships you have around you. Anyway, just thought I’d tell you. I’ve got to go and meet Arkis now.’

Nicolette is now asleep in my bed and four kids are all squeezed in the bunk beds.

You see? Don’t need men anyway.





A HERO WILL RISE


Friday 29 November 2013

This is what happened. Billy had a football match at another school, East Finchley, a few miles away. We’d been told to park in the street to pick them up, as cars weren’t allowed in the grounds. The school was a tall, red-brick building, with a small concrete yard in front of the gates, and to the left, a sunken sports court, four feet down, surrounded by a heavy chain-link fence.

The boys were running round the sports court kicking balls, the mothers chatting round the East Finchley steps. Suddenly, a black BMW roared right up to the school, the driver, an idiotically flashy-looking father, talking on his mobile.

Mr Wallaker strode to the car. ‘Excuse me.’

The father ignored him, continuing to talk on his phone, engine still running. Mr Wallaker rapped on the window. ‘Cars are not allowed in the school grounds. Park in the street, please.’

The window slid open. ‘Time is money for some of us, my friend.’

‘It’s a safety issue.’

‘Phaw. Safety. I’ll be two minutes.’

Mr Wallaker gave him the stare. ‘Move. The car.’

Still holding the phone to his ear, the father angrily slammed the BMW into gear, reversing without looking, turned the wheel with a screech and backed towards the sports court, straight into the heavy steel pole supporting the fence.

As everyone turned to stare, the father, red-faced, jammed his foot on the accelerator, forgetting to take the car out of reverse, and rammed the post again. There was a sickening crack and the post started to topple.

‘Boys!’ yelled Mr Wallaker. ‘Get away from the fence! Scramble!’

It all seemed to be in slow motion. As the boys scattered and ran, the heavy metal post tottered, then fell into the sports court, pulling the fence with it and landing with a terrifying bounce and crash. At the same time the car slid backwards, the front wheels still on the concrete yard, the rear wheels half over the pit of the sports court below.

Everyone froze, stunned, except Mr Wallaker, who leaped down into the pit, yelling, ‘Call 999! Weight the front of the car! Boys! Line up at the other end.’

Unbelievably, the BMW dad was starting to open his door.

‘You! Stay still!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, but the car was already sliding further backwards, the wheels now completely hanging over the drop.

I scanned the boys at the other end of the court. Billy! Where was Billy?

‘Take Mabel!’ I said to Nicolette, and ran to the side of the sports court.

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