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Grief takes many forms. My grief on hearing of the death of Mark Darcy was profound. Sleepless nights, Elbow on repeat, too much ice cream. I’m still in denial.
The perfect, stoic, sizzling man is dead, replaced in the Bridget Jones universe by the young pretender, Roxster. I cannot.
I’m just going to hide for a while.
As I mourn, I’m haunted by the questions of why, how, who, why, why Helen, why? The answers will be in a book, Mad About the Boy, which I probably will not read, so the questions will never leave me and the ghostly spectre of Mark Darcy’s awkward charm will remain unfinished man business.
But let us not rest in mournful sorrow. Let us rise up in celebration of a life well-lived and of his enduring example of reserved, classy manliness, the Mark against which all future generations of suitors will be judged. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we remember:
That time he smiled at you.
That time he made you feel a bit guilty for fancying a man wearing a reindeer jumper.
That time he wanted your wobbly bits.
That time he kicked ass (well, tried to) for you.
That time he dragged Hugh Grant outside and got a bit wet for you.
That time he literally jumped head-first through a glass window for you.
That time he helped you make blue soup.
That time he got you off that drugs charge.
That time he went all meta and confused you.
That time he was a king and you were his queen.
That time he liked you just the way you are.
That time he just stood there in the snow looking ravishingly at you.
That time he…
Oh god. Too many emotions. Cut to commercial.