Call Me Miss Jones

It's Monday afternoon, late in the afternoon, and I'm in my pyjamas eating a cold lemon tart.

I should be studying, but once again, I have gotten bored of my Public Companies & Equity Finance textbook, and have decided to venture onto the world wide web to share my thoughts with whoever will be so kind as to read them.

This weekend, I spent much of my time thinking about how much I had in common with Miss Jones, the infamous character of the Helen Fielding series - you know her, the silly billy made a global phenomenon by Renee Zellweger?

These were the points of similarity I came up with:

Bridget writes in her diary. I write on my blog.

Bridget likes food and is relatively porky. I like food too, and though I may not be porky at this particular point in time, I have been (and will be) considerably porky at many a point in my life.

Bridget makes a fool of herself on an hourly basis. I make a fool of myself on a daily (maybe thrice weekly) basis.

Bridget had a man in her life, yet found it impossible to look beyond her perky British nose, to see that Mr. Darcy was the only person who would ever be able to tolerate her ridiculous behaviour. I had my Mr. Y, overreacted whenever he argued with me (apparently in my world, women can shout but men can't shout back), ignored all the wonderful things he did to make me happy, and honed in on all the negatives, forgetting that only a handful of people on the planet have ever been able to stomach me and my silly ways, and that 4 out of all 5 of them are tied to me by blood.

Bridget went crawling back to Mr. D, wondered at his ability to shun her advances, but somehow ended up being rescued by him after a disgraceful episode in Thailand. I have attempted to crawl back to my Mr. Y, and even though he ain't having none of it, he somehow found the time to help me revamp a presentation I'm due to give tomorrow.

Apparently folks, having the ins and outs of his private life published on the world wide blogosphere is something he detests and finds utterly unforgiveable. You would think I'd have considered that last week, after the Yote Strikes Back episode back in January?

I suppose I could argue that I'm not as bad as Bridget, because, her Mr. D was perfect, and mine was far from! But I guess when you consider how much of an effort he made with me, despite my acute inability to sort out the many silly problems I created in my life - like buying a pair of glasses on a whim, hating them, and then getting upset when Selfridges wouldn't let me return them; Or crying like a big baby when the piddly sums in my bank account were pilphered by some accursed rogue; Or skyving school, doing no revision, blogging for weeks, and crying like an even bigger baby when I realised my exams were only a day away; Or crying for well over two hours and refusing to go out, because of a hair cut that made little or no difference to my overall look; Or moaning about my hair or my weight, or my face, or my school work, or my social life, or my friends, or my family, or my career, or my groceries, or my tube travelcard, or my broadband, my wardrobe, my bank balance, the weather, my macbook, my esthetician, my cleaning lady, my fatigue, my boredom, my blog...

And when you consider that I was also unable to shoulder the costs of my bank-breaking telephone habit, or the costs of my bank-breaking duck curry addiction, and that he took on the former with only a twice monthly grumble, and indulged the latter (even throwing in the odd tub of strawberry cheesecake ice cream for good measure despite my phoney protests), I guess he wasn't doing too badly all along, was he? :(