Instead of rooting out emotional screwiness in others, she now commits it herself with total abandon, egged on by her companions and the advice of an entire library of dodgy relationship guides. The Edge of Reason sees Bridget actually achieving Nirvana in the form of finally getting a boyfriend, the swanky Mark Darcy with whom she disappeared into the sunset at the end of the last book, and then attempting to relieve herself of happiness as quickly as possible. Lack of self-knowledge, however, is the trademark of the humorous zeitgeisty diarist. A burgeoning reliance on self-help books and troublingly co-dependent friendships with fellow singletons Jude and Shazzer complete the picture, all of which sends Bridget fleeing in the distracting direction of frantic worry about Voyage cardigans and chocolate croissants. Bridget Jones's real problems, as any psychotherapist would suss out pretty quickly, are low self-esteem, substance addiction, an inability to form intimate relationships with members of the opposite sex and an insufficiently resolved bond with her mother. But within pages, we realise we are still in the hands of an obsessional neurotic, whose daily record of alcohol units, calories, negative thoughts and 1471 calls is less of an attempt to attain clarity than a continuing counsel of despair. In this second instalment, which will provide an immediate fix for Jones junkies and further infuriate her backlash-minded critics, matters have improved somewhat for our hung-up heroine. Reading Bridget Jones's Diary was one thing, but re-reading your favourite bits and quoting large chunks to your female friends was definitely something to keep quiet about once the columns about the BJD phenomenon got going.
Yet her character's multiple inadequacies - couldn't get a man, couldn't hold down a job, didn't know where Germany was - clearly delighted a certain demographic, for whom empathising with Bridget became a guilty pleasure. She might have sold over three million copies of Bridget Jones's Diary in 30 countries, but she didn't do herself any favours with the likes of Camille Paglia and Julie Burchill, or anyone else who thought that the days of women sitting by an unringing telephone, freaking out over their cellulite and pondering the pros and cons of kitten heel suede shoes should be left firmly behind us.