One of the main joys of my holiday (holiday!) was that it coincided with the new Bridget Jones. I had heard a lot of naysaying but honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Of course it was a different sort of novel from the earlier books, but surely it had to be? It couldn’t be another book about a wayward thirty-something trying to find her way. Instead, it’s a book about a bereaved fifty-something with two small children trying to find her way.
It’s fair to say that it’s not as laugh a minute as the first two, but equally the first two didn’t upset me. It really is upsetting. It really was happily ever after with Mark Darcy, but then happily ever after was abruptly terminated. It would have been easy to write the book of immediately after and deal with the sudden grief, but instead we see the numbness of four years later and the difficulties of getting back on the dating wagon. There are still the fuck ups we are used to, and they are deeply funny, but there is also a stronger, more mature Bridget, who can deal with vomit and diahorrea, and who in many ways is now a lot more grown up than her friends.
I really enjoyed it. It perhaps isn’t quite as joyful as the others, but who cares? It was a lovely revisiting. I particularly enjoyed Bridget’s foray into Twitter and her surprisingly casual handling of a toyboy. I’m glad it exists and I don’t feel betrayed, which is apparently a lot more than others of us can say.