Oh God I just love it! Going to the semi premier (Well you know, the latest screening time in the first day of screening) with your late-twenty-singleton-girl friends, who, just like you, would love to see more of film stars who are with a bit of substance instead of another bony blonde stick, and laugh outrageously at vulgar jokes, and when the film ends you pretend to be looking at the screen but really you are eavesdropping. And what do people say about you, anyway? “ My God! Who was that crazy woman that's been laughing so unapologetically LOUD in the cinema? Doesn't she feel embarrassed?”
No. I was enjoying myself too much. Frankly, I couldn't care less about my 'image'. so to speak.
***
Strangely it was a book that had always gone past me in the bookshops, no matter how popular it was with the other shoppers. My neglect was such that it'd never even appeared to me that this book could be a novel! You see in this modern era of image, everything must be decided at a glance. The book cover just didn't look naughty enough to be worthy of my literary attention. Consequently, I never took any notice of Bridget Jones until a dear friend began her pleased ramblings, on and on about how funny it was, and how I would love it, too.
A few weeks later, girl friend B said , "Let's go see a film." Initially we were going to do American Sweet Heart, but with the launching of the trailers of the film Bridget Jones's Diary, us three unanimously voted out American beauty Julia Roberts, and favoured BJ, the British "sex goddess" of a somewhat quirky flair.
To be continued…
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