Nearly two years ago I sat at my desk in a job that meant nothing to me and typed the word “blog” into Google. A month later I had one of my own. I'd intended it to be a reaction against the Bridget Jones phenomenon that implied eating was wrong, being stupid was cute and if you didn't have a bloke to bring stability to your life then you were pretty much fucked.

Over the last couple of months I've been feeling uneasy about my association with Bridget. There are some similarities between us, I grant you. I'm a little clumsy, I (used to) work in marketing and I still can't quite kick the smoking habit. But that is where it ends. I eat healthily and without guilt, I'm certainly not stupid, and during the course of this blog I've been both single and in a relationship and, importantly, have remained the same person throughout.

I've loved writing this blog and I'm flattered that people have kept coming back to read it. But during the last year my life has changed significantly and "Bridget Who?" no longer fits, "Ms Jones" no longer fits.

And so I invite you all to follow me on the next stage of my journey. If you've enjoyed reading "Bridget Who?" then I really hope you'll enjoy... After the Rat Race.

See you in my next life!

*drums fingers*

What to write, what to write?

"So there's a 2 there, and a 2 there, so there must be a 2 here and that means that because there's a 3 there and a 3 down here, then there must be a 3 across there. There's a 4 here and a 4 there so the 4 in this group can be here, here or here, so I need to figure out what goes there and there and across there, which means that if there's a 5 here and here and a 4 down there, then this box can either be a 6, a 3 or a 9..."

I looked up to find I'd missed my stop.

Sweet Lord above! I thought getting out of the rat race was supposed to make life slower, calmer and less hectic.

WRONG!!!!

Here I am running round like a blue arsed fly, holding down a part time job, applying for an MSc, re-mortgaging, doing my accounts, steeling myself for my tax return and trying to secure some freelance writing work on the side to keep me afloat.

Hello???

I sit here with my first cup of tea of the day and I'm worried. Let's not even think about the tax return that's due the end of next month. No. We'll sweep that one under the carpet for today. No, let's think instead about the meeting with my mortgage advisor that I've got in a couple of hours.

Yes, it's that time. My fixed rate is up and I've got to remortgage. The only problem is that when I first applied for my mortgage I was a salaried marketing manager earning a lot of money. Now, I work for a charity part time earning not very much money at all and I try and eek out a supplimentary living as a self-employed freelancer.

So, my big question for today is this: Will they be nice and give me a nice mortgage with a nice rate, or... will they fuck me up the arse with a root vegetable?

There is something deeply satisfying about wielding a chainsaw. Well okay, so it wasn't actually a chainsaw rather than a fuck-off, huge hedgecutter. But the principal is the same: a highly dangerous machine with lots and lots of blades that you hold in both hands and cut things with. It looks a bit like this, only bigger. Much bigger.

As you know, I've spent the last two weeks in France, the first with some friends and the second with my parents. They live on an old farm deep in the French countryside and I decided to stay on an extra week so I could hang out with them and my brother, Dr Jones, who was visiting with his girlfriend.

By the time my friends had gone back I was getting a little bit tired of the various combinations of eating, sleeping, drinking and swimming we'd been experimenting with all week. I needed to "do" something. I'm a "doing" kind of person and there's only so much lounging about I can deal with before I get a bit hyper.

"Dad," I handed him a beer. "I need something to do!"

"Why don't you read a book? You're on holiday."

"No. I need to do something. I need manual labour." I shook my arms to indicate that I was feeling extremely restless.

"Well, I've got something for you, but it's a bit back breaking, you know. It's pretty hard work." He looked uneasy.

"Excellent. Bring it on."

It was thus that I found myself some twenty minutes later attacking a thirty metre long, seven foot high hedge with a weapon of minor destruction wearing a halter-neck bikini and Factor 10.

It was brilliant. All that was lacking was a Guns & Roses soundtrack and sadly I'd left their greatest hits at home.