Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding
I have to be honest, I never actually finished the book, but I left it mere pages from the end, so I call that “read.” For such a cute movie, the book was incredibly boring. Not that I don’t love the daily musings of an overweight, unhappy, semi-alcoholic, semi-chain smoking Brit, but at some point someone just needs to tell the dear girl, “all right, so we’ve established that you have no control over your life whatsoever. No wonder you’re thirty-something and unmarried!” The problem is first that no one does tell her this. The other problem is that one can blame her. With such a mother, I would expect anyone would be as self-insufficient. In fact, I would almost give her credit for not ending it all herself. That does show the potential of a very strong and capable woman. Unfortunately, it is the only thing that would allude to this. When she’s not pining over her parasitic on-again-off-again with her boss, she’s whining about her weight (seriously, 128 is not fat), and complaining about a certain man who’s only fault is that he comes so acclaimed by her mother and friendly local busy-body. It’s never a good sign when a few hundred pages drags on for more than six hours, much less four days. And it’s an even worse sign when the final page is turned and the book makes its way across the room in a forceful but gentle arc as the words “Finally!” are heard from the next room.