Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Crushed. Am stood up for snow date.

Waddled up hill into school, in manner of Lance Armstrong when landing on moon – I mean, Neil Armstrong – owing to ski pants on top of my jeans and jacket and everything, thinking, ‘OK, do not need to reply to @_Roxster now as he has, technically speaking, stood me up for sledging. And I responded not reacted so have perfectly followed dating rules and—’

Burst through door into school hall, where the Infants and Juniors were gathered, to see Perfect Nicorette dressed as a sort of Snow Queen in white snow boots, perfectly blow-dried hair, enormous black patent handbag covered in bling, and long white coat with white fur thing draped around it, laughing flirtatiously with Mr Wallaker. Huh. Man-Tart. Married and flirting with Nicorette. Mr Wallaker turned as I walked in, and patently burst out laughing.

He wouldn’t laugh if he knew I had a possible sledging date with a toy boy, would he? Am Catherine Deneuve and Charlotte Rampling.

‘Mummeee!’ Billy and Mabel ran over, eyes shining. ‘Can we go sledging?’

‘Yes! I’ve got the sledges in the car!’ I said and, giving Mr Wallaker an imperious look, I pulled my goggles back over my eyes and swept mysteriously – as best I could given outfit – out of the hall.

10 p.m. Fantastic day. Sledging was completely brilliant. Rebecca and everyone from over the road came up to Primrose Hill too and it was completely magical, really like a Christmas card. The snow was deep and fluffy and hardly anyone was up there at first and you could really get the sledge to go quite fast on the paths. And @_Roxster tweeted in the middle.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Do you want to sledge later? Can make it tonight if you can.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Though worry re you in treacherous conditions. Would another night be better?>

Was too difficult to reply as fingers were frozen, had to put glasses on to read tweets and simultaneously run after sledges to stop collisions, etc., so just left it for a while, savouring the feeling of being the last one to receive a message and @_Roxster wanting to have a date with me!

As it got later, more and more people were on the Hill, and it started getting icy so we all came back to our place, had hot chocolate and supper together and it was really very jolly, and while Rebecca was watching the kids I snuck off to my Twitter for five minutes, glancing briefly in the mirror and realizing tonight really would not be a good night for a date with a toy boy.

In the midst of all the incoherent stream of tweets about snow and the M4 there was another one from @_Roxster.

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Jonesey? Have you died in the snow?>

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Nearly. Was epic off-piste powder. Another night would be great.>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Any particular night?>

You see, straightforward, authentic communication! That’s the way. Tweeted back.

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster Let me consult my extremely full diary . . .>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ You mean huge body of dating advice manuals?>

OMG. Was Roxster reading my tweets back in the days of Leatherjacketman?

<@JoneseyBJ @_Roxster *Smoothly ignoring impertinent young whippersnapper* When did you have in mind?>

<@_Roxster @JoneseyBJ Tuesday?>

Headed back down to the kitchen beaming. Everything is marvellous! Have date with gorgeous, funny, hunky twenty-nine-year-old toy boy and house full of rosy-cheeked children, sweet-smelling food, sledges and willies (I mean wellies – where did that come from?).





DO NOT TWEET ABOUT DATE DURING DATE


Sunday 20 January 2013

Twitter followers 873, tweets from @_Roxster 7.

11 a.m. Tweeting is going sensationally. More and more followers have come since the whole #twunkbirds thread thing. Cannot help noticing that Roxster has gone rather silent since the agreement about the date. But maybe, being a man, he feels that a level has been accomplished, as with Xbox, and there is no need to keep on at it.

Helen Fielding's books