Bridget Jones: Reincarnated

In the same week that the Beast from The East hit the UK, my Karma decided to hit me with a gust of (not so natural) disasters. 

Whilst visiting one of my friends in sunny Salamanca, my friends and I encountered a nightmare situation with the hotel we were staying in - almost getting scammed into paying a €600 fine for a window that was probably broken before we arrived. Police were involved and passports were checked, and I doubt anyone has ever packed their case and pegged it in such a record time before. (This was our first big lesson of adulthood. Never book a cheap hotel in a foreign country.) 

(More to come about Salamanca soon.)

Back in the UK, I decided to treat myself to some funky new garments of clothing. Slinky palazzo trousers? Essential. Black high waist flares? Straight in my basket. I even treat myself to next day delivery. 

Unfortunately, I was out when my parcel was delivered - but not to worry, they'd been delivered next-door. 

'This will be nice,' my friend says to me as we ring my neighbours doorbell. 'A way of getting to know the other students on the street.'

Lovely, there it is. He hands me my plastic pink delivery before I head back to mine. I can't wait to rip it op--

Hang on. There's a big tear in it. I empty the contents, and low and behold, the black flares are awol. Just the plastic bag they were supposed to be in remains. 

Back we bounce to my neighbours, inquisitive as to where the trousers are. Their story changed and made us suspicious - but they insisted the package had been delivered like this. There was only one girl living there, and unless one of the boys gets a thrill from shimmying around to Le Freak in these figure hugging flares, I placed my bets on her having them.

When the conversation wasn't getting anywhere, we returned home, trying to work out if it could have been a fault on the retailer's behalf. The next day I walk home from a gruelling 10 hour shift, and as I cross the road I see my neighbours lurking outside their house. Great, just the awkward encounter I want today. But as I unlock my door, something catches my eye. I turn and look at the girl. No, surely she wouldn't. She catches me looking at her, I stare harder. There they are. Two and a quarter hours worth of my wage. On her legs. She is wearing my black high-waist flares. 

Then, at the end of the week, the cherry on top of the cake. I rock up to a party feeling like absolute fire in a Gerri Halliwell outfit, only to match Union Jack costumes with a boy I had seen a few times last year, and who I did not want to bump into again. As my friend leaned in and whispered 'you're matching, it's meant to be', I struggled to find the humour in a situation only our nation's fave, Bridget Jones, would've found herself in. 

I'd half-heartedly joked about it before, but after my usual conundrums condensed into just one week, I really started thinking about who I was becoming. We all applauded as the credits of Bridget Jones Baby rolled and the nation felt some sort of relief when Bridge finally ends up with Mr Darcy and a super cute babba (at least, in the film version).

But dear Helen Fielding, I think you're forgetting something. The dating world is now more complicated than ever, with social media, iMessage and Tinder intervening with anything genuine. Not to mention the fact that everything must now have a label on it - exclusive? Dating? Polyamorous?  

So here I am. Merging my inner Carrie Bradshaw anthropologist, with my less discreet Bridget Jones, to deliver to you the dating problem that is sweeping across the nation, and reincarnating in a new form for our generation.

So Helen, I write back to you with the real Beast that has just been unleashed. Boy do I have some tasty tales for you all.