Bridget, Miranda and me

Remembering the mishaps and misadventures of my younger self

Me and my best friend mid-laughter, aged 19.

This week I went to see the new Bridget Jones film with a friend. I wanted to see it not because of the hype, but for the simple reason that I couldn’t resist the fascination of seeing how Bridget has ‘grown up’ – not to mention the novelty of seeing a sequel made 24 years after the first came out.

Being roughly the same age as Bridget, I am now firmly in midlife, having passed from the heady, carefree days of my twenties through that transmogrifying experience of bearing and raising children (although mine have just reached adulthood, unlike Bridget’s surprisingly young kids). I didn’t work in the advertising world or go to champagne-filled work parties – lobbying MPs on the latest conflict in the Middle East, or designing conflict analysis tools was my paid preoccupation – my day job was rather more serious. Nor was I chased by two improbably handsome men (my husband may care to differ), wear Big Pants, or serve Blue Soup at dinner parties. But I did share her effortless ability to make a fool of myself, create hapless innocent mistakes, and put my foot in it on more occasions than I care to admit.

Take the time I managed to set fire to my hair on the first day of my first job – with BP, no less, not some small charity. We’d gone out to lunch at a local pub that had candles stuck in wine bottles on the table (remember those?). That morning I must have applied a particularly generous dose of hair mousse to my shoulder-length, permed hair (remember those?). As I leant forward to find my place down the side of the table, whoosh, my hair caught fire. I can’t remember how I put it out, but the smell of my burnt hair is as memorable as my boss’ face. Thankfully he had a sense of humour.

Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

Or the time when I threw up on the House of Lords’ carpet after a dodgy mushroom stroganoff in the House of Parliament canteen (yes, really). The memory of wandering desperately down a corridor in the House of Commons to find the ladies, alas too late, and realising in horror that the carpet was not the navy blue of the Commons, but the claret red of the Lords will never leave me. And the kind, plummy voice of a Dame or Baroness exiting said missed toilet to enquire if I was alright?

The grand House of Lords. Of all the places to throw up in….Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash

And let’s not forget what happened when I went to see the first Bridget Jones film. It was a Saturday night, the nation was abuzz with the new film, so I went with two girlfriends at the local multiplex. Knowing us, we were no doubt chatting and giggling about something as we looked for the screen it was being shown in. Walking in, we discovered the film had already started, and that our seats had been taken. Not wanting to cause any bother, we quickly found the only 3 seats left – at the front – and hastily sidled into them, ignoring the slightly disgruntled and puzzled looks from the people around us.

The first sight to greet us was Mark Darcy’s Christmas jumper, filling the entire, enormous screen. I loved Colin Firth (still do) but even that was too close for comfort. It was like watching Bridget Jones under a microscope. Wondering how long I could last without getting a crick in my neck from straining backwards, I didn’t have to worry – because 25 minutes later the credits started to roll. Yes, we’d gone into the wrong cinema screen. We collapsed in a fit of laughter, until we realised that we needed to make a run for it to find the correct screen we had actually booked – which had started 10 mins ago! So, in one night I managed to see Bridget Jones twice, but never the beginning. We still laugh about it.

Room for any more? This post wouldn’t be complete without recounting the famous time that I managed to pop a bath bomb into my mouth whilst watching Sister Act at the local theatre. I’d gone to see it with a group of mum friends (yes, I’m now supposedly a sensible mum). One of the presents I was given in the foyer beforehand was a box of chocolates and a tube of something described as ‘Elderflower Fizz’ by Oliver Bonas. Not realising Oliver Bonas didn’t sell sweets (it had only recently opened), nor looking too closely at the packaging whilst we downed our pre-show drinks, I mistook them for strawberry bonbons, my favourite sweets as a kid. I’d not had one for yonks so, mid-show, I decided to try one and share them around.

They seemed pretty big for a bonbon but hey, if gobstoppers can be giant, why can’t Bonbons? In my defence, it was very dark so I couldn’t read the tiny letters describing them as ‘Bath marbles’. Within seconds of popping it in my mouth, I quickly realised it was meant for the bath, and not my mouth. Cue me foaming at the mouth, scrabbling around for my glass of water (which served to merely accelerate the foaming), followed by me spitting it out ingloriously into my pint glass!

The infamous bath marbles

To make matters worse, it happened during the one quiet, serious song of the entire raucous show, forcing me and my friends to shake with barely controlled laughter until the number ended and the lights went up. My black jeans, seat and auditorium were covered with a liberal dusting of pink bath bomb powder. After explaining to the row behind us what the mayhem was all about, we made a fast exit. It was a Sister Act, alright.

When the lights went up after the Bath Bomb mishap….

I think you get the picture. My life has rarely been without drama or faux pas. As a good friend once wryly observed to my husband some years ago, ‘You’ve married a lifetime of entertainment there!’

It’s all rather Miranda, who, if I had a heroine, would be her. Not, in fact, Bridget, who is far too trim and smooth-faced for a 51yr old widow with two young kids, and who walks around like she has a carrot up her backside. Plus she doesn’t say ‘thrust’, or gallop about in bookshops.

Sitting there in the cinema this week, watching the now grown-up Bridget fall into milder versions of her twenty-something escapades, brought me back to thinking about the young, slightly silly, (relatively) care-free young woman that I was – a woman I realised I now hardly recognised.

It’s not entirely surprising. The past few years haven’t exactly been conducive to embarrassing antics or silly behaviour. There’s nothing like juggling the care of a parent, neurodivergent brother and older children to make you lose a little of your sparkle and happy-go-lucky attitude to life. Parenting, let alone caring on top of that, ushers in a whole ship-load of serious issues to navigate, and endless lists to tick off, not to forget the ever-present tiredness.

To be fair, my life was no smooth run before I had kids aged 33: it took me several years to get the job I had studied my Masters for, I had chronic fatigue aged 28 and a full-on job for much of it. I also had a lot of grief and loss to process. It’s so easy to assume life is easier for those who aren’t responsible for others.

But there’s no doubt it does shape you, does matures you – and maturing is surely something to be celebrated? After all, aged 54, I feel more grounded, more sure of who I am, have a more rounded understanding of life and others. I care even less about what people think when I get into a scrape (and it does still happen occasionally!) But most importantly, there’s a depth to my life, to my relationships, that comes with years of living, loving, giving and receiving.

Life isn’t easy, but it is rich and rewarding, and does come with some precious gems of fun.

And I now do wear Big Pants.

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And if you’ve not seen the latest Bridget Jones, go!