And that was it. Right there. That was the moment. I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine... and I'd finally die, fat and alone, and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians. Or I was about to turn into Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

Shazzer, journalist. Likes to say "fuck" a lot.

(Answering phone) Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess, with a very bad man between her thighs... Mum, hi.

At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventualy be eaten by alsatians... or not, and this time i choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, i choose vodka. And Chaka Khan.

Now, these are very silly little boots, Jones. And this is a very silly little dress. And, um, these are- fuck me, absolutely enormous panties. ~Daniel

Bridget: Wait a minute, nice boys don't kiss like that.
Mark: Oh yes, they fucking do.

It all began on New Years day, in my 32nd year of being single. Once again I found myself on my own and going to my mother's annual turkey curry buffet. Every year she tries to fix me up with some bushy-haired, middle-aged bore and I feared this year would be no exception.

My mum, a strange creature from the time when a gherkin was still the height of sophistication.

Resolution number one: Obviously will lose twenty pounds. Number two: Equally important, will find sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts. And especially will not fantasise about a particular person who embodies all these things... Unfortunately he just happens to be my boss, editor in chief Daniel Cleaver, and for various slightly unfair reasons relating to this year's Christmas party I suspect he does not fantasize about me.

Tom, 80's pop icon who only wrote one hit record then retired because he found that one record was quite enough to get him laid for the whole of the 90's. Total poof, of course.

Major dilemma. If actually do, by some terrible chance, end up in flagrante surely these would be most attractive at crucial moment. (holds up thong) However, chances of reaching crucial moment greatly increased by wearing these scary stomach-holding-in pants very popular with grannies the world over.

(rummaging through her fridge) Where the fuck is the fucking tuna?

(imitating her line on TV) This is Bridget Jones for Sit Up Britain searching for the tuna.

Don't be silly, Bridget. You'll never get a boyfriend if you look like you've wandered out of Auschwitz. ~Mother

Mother, I do not need a blind date. Particularly not with some verbally incontinent spinster who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and dresses like her mother. ~Mark