Yes, it’s true. The new Bridget Jones movie, as yet unnamed, was just announced (it’s not even on IMDB yet) and will be based on the weekly columns that Helen Fielding wrote for the Independent from 2005 to 2006. We read through them all to get an idea of what the new movie’s plot will revolve around (spoiler alert: Bridget wants a baby), and boy did we find some dirt.
Bridget seems to be making the same relationship mistakes all over again.
8am. In bathroom. Gaaah! Gaaah! Have accidentally shagged Daniel. Is trail of black lacy underwear and clothes from living room to bedroom. Daniel is naked in self’s bed. Am desperate prostitute and ex-whore (not in sense of former whore, but ex-boyfriend whore, if see what mean). Calm and poised. Gaaah!
And she also seems to be making some new ones.
Right. Am going to emerge from Denial. These are the things I could do: Not tell Mark or Daniel am pregnant. Tell them I’m pregnant but pretend that neither of them is the father. Tell both of them they are the father. Tell both of them the other one is the father. Find out who is the father and then if the one who isn’t the father is upset about it, offer to have another baby with whoever isn’t the father afterwards.
She has retained all of her self-deprecating tendencies and neuroses.
Wonder if you can do a DNA test before you actually have the baby? Oh God, cannot believe have got self into such a sordid situation. Feel like a crack whore. Or one of those people in The News of the World who has got pregnant by her own grandson.
Only now, instead of being eaten alive by her dogs, it will be her baby.
What if am alone with baby when die and no one realises and he’s left just crying for his mummy? Oh, God, thought all neurosis and anxiety would end when had baby, but realise has opened up a lifetime of fears for him. Have to stop worrying. Anyway, given way he lunges at me like a little snuffle-pig, he would probably survive by eating me. And truth is, although scary, I like this worrying re being eaten by own child so much better than years of worrying that would die alone, as tragic barren spinster, and be found weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian.