Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding, Book 7

This was read after a night at home watching trash tv and drinking too much wine.

Not that I'm making excuses, mind you. I do love an equally witty and intelligent parody of an already monstrously witty and intelligent author.

Helen Fielding b. 1951 in Yorkshire. Studied English at Oxford (go Helen) and worked for the BBC on various projects from 1979 till 1989 doing research and production and various things.

She was mostly unknown in the wider world until she was asked to write a column based on life as a single hag. Not unsurprisingly, she chose to write it anonymously and exaggerate the character. She was a bit of hit and the rest of the Bridget Jones story is history. Helen now spends her time between Los Angeles and London. You know, a lot of these successful writers have the double life situation. I think there must be something in it...

Anyways. Bridget Jones - trash bag and singleton. Expressing every woman's inner angst, one wine at a time. Interestingly, Wikipedia labels Bridget Jones as a franchise. And well they might, after reading a bit further. There is a third movie in the works and Helen is in the midst of scripting the stageshow! How about the Bridget Jones steamroller? Or who's that guy in X-Men? That's him! The Bridget Jones Juggernaut. It'll be a TV series next - any money. Can I bet that? Five hundred on Bridget Jones, the tv series in the next 3 years - containing most of the English cast from the movies but not Renee.

Back to Bridget. A smoking, weight-watching, borderline alcoholic singleton trying to get by whilst not particularly enjoying her publishing job. What the? Honey, do you KNOW how many people are dying to get into publishing? That point aside, she has to deal with an obnoxious toff a boss who spends her life on the phone deciding what house to purchase next.

Bridget's mother is a marvellous bundling up of Lydia and Mrs Bennet. Her father is an admirable version of Mr Bennett in many ways.

Daniel Cleaver the office getabout is a fantastic Mr Wickham substitute with just the right amount of initial mystery and temptation but soon turns into an annoying git upon closer inspection.

Mr Mark Darcy. Not far off a perfect copy of the original. I would actually say that we needed a bit more of him earlier on. He really only starts making an entrance in the last third, by which time he's made some pertinent declarations that show he's a bit interested in Our Bridg. But is there enough of her bumbling to base this on? I'm just not sure.

Bridget's anguish regarding her weight and age are fantastic and the cast of supportive and not-so supportive friends is brilliant.

The mother running off in search of a more glamourous life is clever beyond words in it's imitation of Kitty and in particular, the attitude displayed by her mother is similarly spot on and in itself an intelligent lampoon of that particular demographic.

This is definitely a book to be read with a bottle of wine - not in order to make the book more palatable but in order enhance your evening's reading enjoyment.

And the entire diary format that logs every minute of her drunken slurrings and her daily meltdowns makes it all the more intimate.

This is one clever little tome. I do recommend it.