Words and Artwork by: A. Louise 

Sitting down to write this article feels Bradshawrian; reflecting on my love life as a 20-something white woman in the big city. Wow, how original!

Yes, most of my weekends are spent clad in a leather jacket and slinging a vintage purse, sitting around a table of half-drunk overpriced G&Ts with my talented friends at rooftop bars in the inner East. And what are they doing? Oh, just casually dating partners at PWC, landing jobs at national newspapers, or travelling first class cross country to attend conferences with their law firms.

Safe to say my social circle could rival Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha’s.

And just like any self-deprecating main character I have an atrocious dating history. I once unintentionally turned an atheist physicist into a devout Presbyterian — don’t ask, it’s a long story. And my most recent ex? He spent a year trying to win me over, only to leave me after another year because he “resented” my successful university career and my surprisingly good relationship with his own dad.

But, what really seals the deal on my early 2000s rom-com main character complex is that I’m a journalist. I have a lifelong dream to work in the publishing industry, and I’m self diagnosed with an incurable disorder whereby I become attached to any moody dark-haired man over 5’8” who stares in my general direction. Bonus points if he’s wearing a dishevelled white shirt, or hails from somewhere in the UK.

Blame it on Jude Law, particularly that scene in ‘The Holiday’ when he wears those ridiculous fake prescription glasses. Or Hugh Grant, standing in the doorway of his ‘Notting Hill’ bookshop stammering over his confession of love.

But, the real culprit is none other than Colin Firth, my lifelong crush. Who seems destined to play nothing but British hunks with a sour attitude, for which the only cure is falling desperately in love with an obstinate, headstrong girl. It doesn’t help that he has a penchant for starring opposite Elizabeth Bennet or likewise-coded characters. In other words, he’s my kryptonite — given that I’m a chronically overworked, hopelessly clumsy, medium-ugly girl who needs to get her nose out of a book every once in a while.

The deeper I go and draw comparisons between myself and every one of Colin Firth’s costars, it becomes increasingly clear that I am not like Renée Zellweger, Meryl Streep, Jennifer Ehle, Emma Thompson, Scarlett Johansson or any A-lister Colin has fucked onscreen.

In reality, I am Bridget Jones. Frump extraordinaire who drinks a little too much on the bad days, and a little too much on the good days as well (balance, right?). À la the physicist and the manchild, I have the dating horror stories to match. And, just like the Londoner who became famous for flashing her knickers during a live TV broadcast, I have had my fair share of journo mishaps too.

Perhaps, however, the defining feature of my Bridget Jonesness is my unexpected sex appeal that reveals itself only after I’ve managed to act a fool in front of the hottest man in the room. Apparently, my pathetic nature only highlights my pussy’s magical aura.

Like the time I got blackout drunk at a Christmas party with a stranger, and woke up hungover in his childhood bedroom in a country town, only to have some pretty banging sex. Or the time I gave a guy — and I quote — “the best blowjob of his life”… in the Chadstone car park.

The point is, despite all the hilarity, embarrassment and frumpiness, I’ve come to embrace my existence as a byproduct of being raised on 2000s rom-coms.

I will happily sip G&Ts, listen to my friends’ workplace stories, and enjoy the memories of being messy in my 20s.

And I will always have a soft spot in my heart for brunette Englishmen, especially those with a brooding attitude to rival Colin Firth’s for a place in my heart… and my bed.