Bridget Jones's Baby [antikvár]

Saturday 24 June Noon. London: my flat. Oh God. Oh God. Am beyond late and hung-over and everything is absolutely terrib— Oooh, goody! Telephone! 'Oh, hello, darling, guess what?' - my mother. 'We've just been at Mavis Enderbury's Brunch Time Karaoke and guess what? Julie Enderbury's just had her . . .' You could practically hear the screeching of tyres: like she was about to say the word 'fat' to a morbidly obese person. 'Just had her what?' I muttered, frantically putting the remains of a slice of goat's cheese log in my mouth followed by half a protein bar to ease the hangover, whilst trying to pull some sort of vaguely christening-friendly outfit from the mess all over the bed. 'Nothing, darling!' she trilled. 'What has Julie Enderbury just had?' I retched. 'Her boobs made even more gigantic? A lithe young Brazilian?' 'Oh, nothing, nothing, darling. She just had her third, but what I was really ringing to say was . . .' Grrr! Why does my mother always DO this? It's bad enough anyway careering towards baby deadline without . . . 'Why are you avoiding the subject of Julie Enderbury's third?' I rasped, jabbing wildly at the TV remotes for some sort of escape, only to ping up an advert showing an