"Don't worry, babe," said Tom. "They'll have forgotten all about it in ten minutes, you'll see. You can make a comeback."

2.45 p.m. Feeling much better now. Have realized answer is not to obsess about own problems but help others. Have just spent an hour and fifteen minutes on phone cheering up Simon who was clearly not in bed with Shazzer. Turns out he was supposed to see this girl called Georgie tonight, who he has been intermittently secretly shagging on Saturday nights, but now Georgie says she doesn't think Saturday night is a good idea because it seems too much like they are an 'item'.

"I'm a love pariah doomed by the gods always to be alone," Simon raged. "Always, always. The whole of Sunday stretching ahead."

As I told him, it is great being single because we are free! Free! (Somehow hope Shaz does not find out exactly how free Simon is, though.)

3 p.m. Am marvellous: have been almost like therapist all day. As I said to Jude and Tom, any time day or night they can call me, not just be sad on their own. So you see I am very wise and well-balanced almost in manner of the Mother Superior in The Sound of Music. In fact can easily imagine self singing 'Climb Every Mountain' at wall in middle of 192 with Jude kneeling appreciatively behind.

4 p.m. Phone just rang. Was Shazzer on verge of tears but trying to pretend she wasn't. Turns out Simon just called her with the Georgie scenario (v, annoying as obviously own Mother Superior act was not sufficient for the, now realize, emotionally greedy Simon).

"But I thought you were 'just good friends'?" I said.

"So did I," she said. "But I now realize I was just secretly fantasizing that we were in a higher form of love. It,s just awful being single," she burst out. "No one to put their arm round you at the end of the day, no on, to help you mend the boiler. The whole weekend stretching ahead! Alone! Completely alone!"

4.30 p.m. Hurrah! Everyone is coming round, Shaz, Jude and Tom (though not Simon as in disgrace for Mixed messages), and we are going to get an Indian takeaway and watch videos of ER. Love being single as you can have fun with all different People and life is full of freedom and Potential.

6 p.m. A terrible thing has happened. Magda just called, "Put it back in the potty, Put it back in! Listen, I don't know if I should tell you this, Bridge, but Put it back. Put the Ploppy BACK IN!"

"Magda..." I said dangerously.

"Sorry, hon. Look, I just rang to tell You that Rebecca ... now look that's really nasty, isn't it? Yakky! Yakky! Say yakky."

"WHAT?"

"Mark's coming home next week. She's invited us to a Post-election welcome back dinner for him and ... NOOOOOOO! OK, OK, put it in my hand."

I stumped dizzily at the kitchen table fumbling for a cigarette.

"All right. Put it in Daddy's hand, then. The thing is, Bridge, would you rather we said yes or are you doing another one? Well, do it in the potty, then. In the potty!"

"Oh God," I said. "Oh God."

6.30 p.m. Am going out for fags.

7 p.m. Whole of London is full of couples holding hands in spring, shagging each other shag, shag, shag, and planning lovely mini-breaks. Am going to be alone for rest of life. Alone!

8 p.m. Everything is turning out fantastic. Jude and Tom came round first with wine and magazines and were taking piss out of me for not knowing what a pashmina was. Jude decided Stacey had a big bum and also kept putting his hand on hers and saying 'Happee?,' which she had not revealed before and definitely meant he was out of the window.

Also, everyone agreed it was good that Magda should go to the hateful Rebecca's dinner party as a spy, and that if Mark really is going out with Rebecca then he is definitely gay, which is good - especially for Tom, who was really cheered up. Also, Jude is going to have election party and not ask Rebecca. HA!

AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! Next thing, Shaz turned up in tears, which was really nice in a way because usually she does not show that she minds about anything.

"Bloodybloodys," she got out eventually. "It's just been an entire year of emotional fuck-ups, and I'm so confused."

All rushed to first aid with Vogue, sparkling wine, cigarettes etc. and Tom announced there was no such thing as platonic friendship.

"Of course there blurry is," slurred Jude. "You jus obsessed with sex."

"No, no," said Tom. "It's just a fin-de-millennium way of dealing with the nightmare of relationships. All friendships between men and women are based on the sexual dynamic. The mistake people make is ignoring this, then getting upset when their friend doesn't shag them."

"I'm not getting upset," muttered Shazzer.

"What about friends when neither fancies the other?" said Jude.

"Doesn't happen. Sex is what drives it. 'Friends' is a bad definition."

"Pashminas," I slurred, slurping on my Chardonnay. "That's it!" said Tom excitedly. "It's fin-de-millennium pashmina-ism, Sbazzer is Simon's "pashmina" because she wants to shag him most so he diminishes her and Simon is Shazzer's pashmaster"."

At this, Sharon burst into tears, which took twenty minutes to sort out with another bottle of Chardonnay and packet of fags until we could come up with a list of further definitions, as follows:

Pashmincer: A friend who you really fancy who's actually gay. ("Me, me, me," Tom said.)

Pashmarried: A friend who you used to go out with and is now married with children who likes having you around as memory of old life but makes you feel like mad barren pod-womb imagining vicar is in love with self.

Ex-pashspurt: An ex-partner who wants to get back with you but pretends just to want to be friends then keeps making passes and getting cross.

"What about 'pash-hurts'?" said Shaz sulkily. "Friends who turn your own private emotional disaster into a sociological study at the expense of your feelings."

At this point I decided I'd better go out for cigarettes. Was just standing in sordid pub on corner, waiting for change for cigarette machine when nearly jumped out of skin. Across the bar was a man who looked exactly like Geoffrey Alconbury, only instead of a yellow diamond patterned sweater and golfing slacks, he was wearing pale blue jeans, ironed with a crease down the front and a leather jacket over a black nylon string vest. Tried to compose self by staring furiously at a bottle of Malibu. It couldn't be Uncle Geoffrey. Glanced up and realized he was talking to a boy who looked about seventeen. It was Uncle Geoffrey. It definitely was!

Hesitated, unsure what to do. Briefly considered abandoning cigarettes and departing to spare Geoffrey's feelings. But then some Gazza-esque inner angriness reminded me of all the times Geoffrey has totally humiliated me in his environment, bellowing at the top of his voice. Ha! Ahahahaha! Uncle Geoffrey was on my territory now.

Was just about to go over and bellow "Who's this then? Durr! Got yourself a young whippersnapper" at the top of my voice, when felt a tap on my shoulder. Turned round to see no one there and felt a tap on my other shoulder. This was Uncle Geoffrey's favourite trick.

"Ahahahaha, what's my little Bridget doing in here, looking for a fellah?" he roared.

I couldn't believe it. He'd put a yellow sweater with a cougar on over the vest, the boy was nowhere to be seen, and he was trying to brazen it out.

"You're not going to find one in here, Bridget, they all look like Julian Clarys to me. Bent as a 10-bob note! Ahahaha. I've just come in for a packet of slim panatellas."

At that moment the boy reappeared holding the leather jacket and looking all twitchy and disturbed. "Bridget," said Geoffrey as if with the full weight of

Kettering Rotary behind him, then ran out of steam, and turned to the barman. "Come on, lad! Have you got those slim panatellas I asked you for? I've been waiting twenty minutes."