Dear Bridget
11 stone, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0
Fiona Gibson does some surreptitious reading between the lines of Ms Jones’ diary
Please excuse me for having a sneaky look at your diary. But, having read that you’ve survived not one, but 61 whole days without fags or alcohol – and noticing you’ve been spending an awful lot of time in the office toilet, making very unfeminine retching noises – I’ve finally figured it out.
You are pregnant. This will explain your recent mood swings – veering from crabby to swooning and ethereal, as if you’re carrying a little secret with you. Which, of course, you are.
Naturally, you have not the foggiest notion what motherhood really involves. Before this (unplanned) pregnancy, you nurtured occasional, fluffy fantasies starring you, slender mother, tossing aethetically-pleasing infant into the air. You reckoned you'd be all grown-up and sorted with your nails done nicely - not to mention, of course, being settled in a gorgeous flat with the man of your dreams.
The real stuff, as you're discovering, is trickier. I've seen you, Bridget, staring at the cigarette packets behind the till. One day, I swear, you actually drooled. I was pleased to note that you resisted, but spotted you inhaling deeply when someone lit a ciggie in the street.
Anyway, let’s be positive.
Those short skirts of yours were starting to look a little dated; soon, as you’ll discover, your growing bump will cause them to rise up at the front, so you’re really going to have to wear longer lengths. Don’t think you’ll get away with floaty Ghost-type clothes in slightly larger sizes. As you balloon to the size of an articulated truck, you’ll find joy in elasticated waists.
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