Is pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy & look snooty at a party

[marenfuga]

Sunday 15 October. 8:55 a.m. Just nipped out for fags prior to getting changed ready for BBC Pride and Prejudice. (...) The basis of my own addiction, I know, is my simple human need for Darcy to get off with Elizabeth. Tom says football guru Nick Hornby says in his book that men's obsession with football is no vicarious. The testosterone-crazed fans do not wish themselves on the pitch, claims Hornby, instead seeing their team as their chosen representatives, rather like parliament. That is precisely my feeling about Darcy and Elizabeth. They are my chosen representatives in the field of shagging, or, rather, courtship. I do not, however, wish to see any actual goals. I would hate to see Darcy and Elizabeth in bed, smoking a cigarette afterwards. That would be unnatural and wrong, and I would quickly lose interest.

10:30 a.m. Jude just called and we spent twenty minutes growling "Fawaw, that Mr. Darcy." I love the way he talks, sort of as if he can't be bothered. Ding-dong! Then we had a long discussion about the comparative merits of Mr. Darcy and Mark Darcy, both agreeing that Mr. Darcy was more attractive because he was ruder but that being imaginary was a disadvantage that could not be overlooked.
Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Feilding.

Piensen en ese momento terrible en que sus cerebros gritan "Por Dios, me convertí en mi madre". Este es peor: "Por Dios, ¡me convertí en Bridget Jones!"