We are not all Bridget Joneses

Single women with plenty of disposable cash are in the news again this week, due to a study by Close Wealth Management. It estimates that the market, whose bank balances total £10.2 billion already, will continue to grow. And the name of this market, according to the media? The Bridget Jones market.

This astounds me - only last week Bridget Joneses were being held responsible for the differences in the nation's shopping basket (our weekly purchases have gone from pipe tobacco to leg wax, thanks to these affluent Bridgets). The week before, Bridget Joneses had their fertility to worry about, according to medical research showing that women were choosing to have children later and later.

The creature now known as a Bridget bears no relation to the column creation. These days, anyone counts as a Bridget, as long as they're female. I, myself, would be called a Bridget by the current terminology, even though I am not single, I am not about-to-be-unemployed, I am not in my thirties, I do not own a lacy cardigan and I've never been in Notting Hill's 192 restaurant. The only thing today's Bridgets have in common with the original one is that they are not married.

Now, the fact is Bridget Jones was a satirical creation of some distinction. She wasn't married to start with, no, but that was by no means her defining feature - far more important were her qualities of daftness and ineptitude. Helen Fielding, about as close to Bridget as anyone ( fiction be damned) now lives in LA, is happily ensconced with a scriptwriter and is as coupled as rolling stock.

Let's get this straight. If you're talking about a woman very like the original character - amusing, lacking in self-control, hopeless, all over the place - then say "Bridget". And if what you really mean is "spinster", then have the courage to say so, and take the feminist tongue-lashing you deserve.

But now, thanks to the eighth Earl of Cadogan, we have a chance to see whether the phrase might have some positive benefit after all.

The Earl is taking property developer Dano to court. He wants land that was originally designated for "the housing of the working classes" to be developed as such; Dano wants to build £1.5 million houses for anyone who can afford it ("we contend there is no such thing as 'working class'," it says).

But while it's all very well to sweep away terms like "working class" in the interests of modernity, you can't sweep away the fact that some people don't earn very much, and still need somewhere to live. You can call them "working class" or you can call them "policemen and nurses" or, hell, you can call them all Merv, but you mustn't thieve their scant privileges in the name of ersatz, Dano-style equality.

The middle-classes are a lot like grey squirrels, only with added forward-planning facilities. When they announce the dismantlement of the class system, you can be sure that they're going to be the receivers.

However, the cold truth about slumber parties in the adult world is that they don't exist, they are simply fabricated by women who want to have an affair. It really is that simple, otherwise they'd just get a taxi home.

And there we were, thinking there was a lack of men in New York - if there are enough for all celebrities to have one at home, plus a bit on the side, then there must be more than we thought.