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Sophie Barlow's Diary
by bard of felpersham
 Recent events have been given the Bridget Jones treatment on the Fantasy Archers topic of .
Monday 16 October 2006
Alcohol units: 6 (oopsie), Cigarettes: 0 (v. good though seductive voice slipping a bit), Â鶹ԼÅÄs wrecked: nearly 1 (yay!)
All went (almost) according to plan, dear diary. David looked ravishing in his distressed, vintage lambswool cardi and I'm not sure but I think he had washed the afterbirth off his horny herdsman's hands, all for little old Sophie. Of course, the path of true love never runs smooth and I had to spend a good two minutes getting rid of Mum, on the phone blubbing about my barely-cold father. When will she get over it and use it to her advantage like I've tried to do! As her daughter, I can't be expected to be there for ever can I?
Benedict, patron saint of farmers, was smiling on me though - Lynda got held up so I had Dreamy David all to myself. He made a half-hearted attempt to talk about the Kiddy Spaz Garden, but no sooner did the immortal words "You're a great girl Sophie" pass his lips than I had kissed them, in all their rugged, outdoorsy splendour. Those same lips as had breathed life into countless congested newborn lambs were mine again at last! My poor sweet, simple farmer was clearly overcome with emotion, as he rushed out in a frightful flap. Perhaps he needed to quell the stubble-fire in his loins and erase my heady perfume from his simple country tweeds with a drive past the silage clamp before he returns to The Northern Drudge to tell her it's all over. Not so Smug Married now are they…
Have picked up some Weekend minibreak brochures from Borchester Travel and practised writing "Sophie Archer" to sign in the hotel register all afternoon. I hear Hungary is marvellous at this time of year….
Tuesday 17 October
Alcohol units: 17, Cigarettes: 0 (seductive voice completely vanished, why oh why do I sound like the vicar on top of everything else?), Â鶹ԼÅÄs wrecked: still only nearly 1
Its all gone horribly wrong dear diary. I'd hung around since dawn's crack without my negligee, leafing through my "Autumn In Budapest" minibreak brochure and waiting for my agricultural Adonis to come and plough my rich loamy furrow after he beat his hasty retreat on Sunday. He phoned eventually and sounded so odd, never once telling me what a great girl I am. He said he's resigning from the committee - how could he do that to me? I mean how could he do that to the poor little disabled children? Its just so unlike him, he sounded so strange - I think the Northern Drudge has had an un-manicured, dirt-engrained hand in this and has wielded Sam's plate meter to devastating effect on his most intimate anatomy. She was probably listening in on the extension, so I played along and got in a quick jibe at his quaint country ways and told him I'd gone off the idea and was booting my whinging mother back to Henley with me - honestly anyone would think they'd never heard of affairs in Ambridge!
On second thoughts, I think David's playing hard to get, but I won't lower myself to his farmyard farce anymore. Now, Phil - there's a real man with style and substance. He always looks so dashing in his manure-encrusted overalls and urine-spattered gumboots…..
Former Bridget Jones parodies
More parodies - from Agatha Christie to Damon Runyon
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