The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole Part 12

For how long did Pamela shop for this card? And when she found it, did she exclaim, "At last! This is the perfect card for Adrian Mole"? She must know by now that I hate thatch, dogs, tankards, fis.h.i.+ng, tweed - in fact, almost everything to do with the countryside. I am urbane to my very fingertips. Inside, Pamela had written: "Adrian, Mon Amour, let's try again. s.e.x is not everything, Love Piglet."

Query: do I want to try again with Pamela? Most of our trysts seem to end in tears, snot and recriminations. She is ludicrously oversensitive: last autumn, when we were walking in the woods, she wept because the leaves were leaving "their mothers" (the trees).

Sat.u.r.day, April 7 Against my better judgment, I rang Pamela and asked her to accompany me to Nigel's official coming-out party. I could not risk being mistaken for a single gay man. I regretted my invitation as soon as I saw her outfit. No woman over 17 should wear a sequinned b.o.o.b tube, in my opinion. And her comedy earrings were not at all amusing. Nigel's parents looked sh.e.l.l-shocked - his mother still thinks his h.o.m.os.e.xuality is a "silly phrase [sic] he is going through".

That night, after yet another failed attempt at s.e.xual congress (her fault, not mine), Pamela turned her back on me and began to weep piteously. I longed for sleep, but felt compelled to offer her comfort. Unfortunately, she was still there in the morning, naked, apart from the comedy earrings. When William barged into my bedroom, he said, disapprovingly, "You will have to get married now, Dad." He has never seen me in bed with a woman before, not even his mother.

Sunday, April 8 Pamela suggested that we go out for lunch "en famille". She recommended Ye Olde Carvery in Frisby-On- The-Wreake. Glenn and William were excited - they rarely eat out. On the way, in the car, I explained that Frisby-On-The-Wreake was a notorious centre for paganism. Pamela contradicted me violently, saying that Frisby had won best-kept hanging basket prize for three years running. I pointed out that the two could easily co-exist, and Glenn said diplomatically, "Yeah, a witch can 'ave 'an 'anging basket."

Ye Olde Carvery was full of wax-jacketed gits talking in loud voices about the poor cow who'd put her foot in it. I a.s.sumed they were banging on about foot and mouth, but Pamela had picked up a copy of the Mail On Sunday and told me the Countess of Wess.e.x had been entrapped by a reporter dressed as an Arab sheikh into calling John Major "wooden", William Hague "a puppet", and foxes "vermin".

The carvery did not cater for vegetarians. Indeed, a glance at the trays of ye olde foode congealing behind the bar told me that Ye Olde Carvery did not cater for any person with a normal appet.i.te, tastebuds, etc. On the way out, one of the gits laughed at Pamela's comedy earrings. I could hardly object.

Wednesday, April 11 Awake all night with irritating dry cough. Sweated profusely.

Thursday, April 12 TB has broken out only two kilometres from my door! And I have all the symptoms. Dr Ng was summoned. He angrily removed a red sequin from the back of my throat.

Friday, April 13, Good Friday Why do banks close on bank holidays? They should be open when so many are free to use them. I wished to query a statement saying I had spent PS104.49 on Belgian chocolates at a shop in Lewes, so rang a call centre in Southend. I told a youth called Gary that I never bought chocolate due to the effect it has on my skin, and had never been to Lewes.

He said, "Perhaps it was an internet transaction." I repeated testily that I could not tolerate chocolate. He said, "Perhaps you bought it for someone else - it is Easter." I said angrily, "I am a poor man: PS104.49 exceeds my weekly income." He snapped, "The standing order to your newsagent could keep an African village in food for a month." At this moment, Glenn shouted from the toilet that there was no paper. I put Gary on hold. When I came back, Greensleeves was playing, so I went to my bank, only to find the doors locked.

Glenn was miserable all day. He asked if he could paint his bedroom black. When I asked what was wrong, he said, " Why do they call it Good Friday? It weren't for poor Jesus, were it?"

He explained that he had trodden on a drawing pin this morning: "It brung it 'ome to me what it must 'ave been like on the cross." He then asked if he could have a Heroes Easter egg. William's egg of choice is Barbie. Worrying.

Sat.u.r.day, April 14 Had an email from Hamish Mancini: "Yo, Adi, I'm FedExing a 100lb bag of Idaho's finest potatoes, because you don't got none in England, cos of the floods and plagues. We are praying for you and your family."

Sunday, April 15, Easter Day Pamela came round with an egg-decorating kit. William's eggs were a riot of primary colours; Glenn's depicted Jesus on the cross. He wrote a bubble out of Jesus's mouth, "Father, why hast thou forsaken me?", which disturbed Pamela: "For G.o.d's sake, Glenn lighten up. It's Easter!"

Later, while William played with the packing of his Barbie egg and Glenn watched The Greatest Story Ever Told, she led me to my room and gave an erotic Easter egg, the centre of which contained a pair of edible knickers. She was keen for me to break it open and retrieve them. I was less keen: a glance at the ingredients told me they were choc-a-bloc with obscure chemicals and multisyllable flavourings.

Sunday, April 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Last Sunday, I forced the boys to sit and listen to Go4it, the new Radio 4 children's programme. I was annoyed when, after only five minutes, Glenn complained, "It's for posh kids, innit?" William fell asleep during the Sir Steve Redgrave interview. I woke him and said, "Sir Steve has won five gold medals for this country. The least you can do is stay awake while he's talking."

This evening, we again sat down to listen. I was enthralled by the interview with Thunderbirds creator Gerry Anderson. I was once besotted with Lady Penelope. She was the subject of my first s.e.xual fantasy. I still like women who are a bit on the wooden side. Pandora Braithwaite MP, the love of my life, has a carved look about her. Though it is the Labour party who are now pulling her strings. Ha ha!

She was on the news tonight, wearing Prada Wellingtons and a tweed suit, trying to a.s.sure angry country folk why a ma.s.sive hole containing hundreds of thousands of noxious, decomposing cows and sheep, would not become a health hazard. A reporter shouted, "Have you signed the compact, Pandora?" She snapped, "The only compact I have any use for has the name Chanel embossed on the lid."

Monday, April 23 Pandora's remark has landed her in trouble with the CRE. She's been ordered to have her photo taken with a black or brown person. She rang to ask if William was available. I said, "The child's skin is not for hire." She asked me for Mohammed's mobile number and then rang off.

Tuesday, April 24 When I went to the BP garage for a box of Coco Pops, Mohammed was bursting with the news that Pandora had rung him and had invited herself and a Newsnight crew to dinner last night. She had requested chicken tikka masala. Mohammed said, "Me missus were a bit put out, coz she usually gets fish and chips on Tuesdays, but you can't deny Pandora owt when she orders you about in that posh voice, can you?" He asked me what side Newsnight was on.

Naturellement, I viewed the programme with great interest. Pandora was wearing her Alexander McQueen-designed Punjabi suit she'd last worn to the inaugural meeting of Ashby's Anglo-Asian women's rugby team.

Thursday, April 26, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, 10.30pm Thank G.o.d Phoenix has been reprieved. William cried himself to sleep last night, and Glenn spoke darkly about travelling to Membury in Devon and joining the junior wing of a militant vegetarian splinter group called Sprouts, who were planning to resist evil MAFF, the calf murderers. His motives were not entirely altruistic. He has been bewitched by Joanna Lumley since seeing her pleading so eloquently for the calf's life on TV. This is worrying: Ms Lumley is enchanting, but she is old enough to be his grandmother.

Sat.u.r.day, April 28 I went to the garage for milk early this morning, and was alarmed to find Mohammad being given oxygen by two paramedics. He had been overcome by the fumes emanating from a pile of the restyled Guardian Weekend magazines. I stayed until he had recovered enough to gasp, "This allergy could be the end of my career as a forecourt newsagent, Moley."

This afternoon, William ran home from the grotty recreation ground in tears, after a big white kid called him a "mongrel". I reminded him that he had in his veins the blood of a Nigerian aristocrat, a Norfolk potato farmer, a Scottish engine driver, a Welsh witch and that, by virtue of being born in this country, and as defined by the OED, he was as English as John Townend. The kid refused to be comforted, until he was invited by Glenn to watch a video of Joanna Lumley in her role as Purdey in the New Avengers.

Sunday, April 29 Filling in the census form took longer than expected. I agonised over the work-related questions. Eventually, I ticked the "Yes" box, and admitted that I had worked for three hours on my novel, Krog From Gork.

William didn't seem to belong to any ethnic group. I rang the helpline and spoke to a bloke called Len Cook. He seemed irritated by my explanation of William's various bloodlines. In the end, I settled for box B - Mixed other, and wrote British/Black African.

Glenn hovered over the religious question, but eventually declared himself to be a Buddhist after I had given him a breakdown of the world's other great religions. He liked the fact that Buddhists shaved their heads and were careful not to tread on ants.

Sat.u.r.day, May 5 Dear Prime Minister, I have just watched your foreign secretary, Robin Cook, on the TV news. However, I have no idea what the man was talking about since I could not understand a word he said. Surely it is time he was given an official translator. Failing this, perhaps subt.i.tles could be used. I am a keen follower of foreign affairs, and resent being disenfranchised by Mr Cook's incoherent babble.

Incidentally, I like the new spectacles - they give you gravitas, something you have been lacking lately due to your own casual articulation.

I remain, sir, AA Mole An official called Colin Dodge telephoned from customs and excise at Heathrow airport this afternoon. He informed me, (rather curtly, I thought) that the Idaho potatoes sent as emergency food by Hamish Mancini had been confiscated under the anti-Colorado-beetle restrictions. I emailed Hamish and warned him against sending any more food parcels, and told him that the foot and mouth crisis was now under control and that food was now available in the shops.

Hamish emailed back: "I seen the weekly news round-up today, oh boy! There was crowds of crazy reds an' anarchists rioting in London town. When's it gonna be safe for me and mom to visit? I wanna vacation in that cute thatched cottage you live in."

Monday, May 7, bank holiday Vince Ludlow, my neighbour, threw a "Welcome Home Ronnie" party today. He has never met Biggs, but obviously feels an affinity with the train robber. All day, and long into the night, our street was clogged with criminal traffic. A rumour circulated that Mad Frankie Fraser was sitting on the Ludlows' settee, eating crab paste sandwiches. The noise was intolerable. But I decided not to complain, as I did not wish my feet to be sawn off at the ankles. Instead, I took Glenn and William for a ramble in the countryside. On the outskirts of Little Snickerton, I parked in a lay-by and tried to get the boys to leave the car, but neither of them would budge. They are both under the impression that the countryside is ruled by despotic farmers who hate city dwellers. Eventually, I turned the car round and drove back.

Tuesday, May 8 Glenn brought a note home from school today: Dear Parent/Guardian/Princ.i.p.al Carer, Dr Pandora Braithwaite MP, a former pupil of Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, will address the school a.s.sembly on Thursday, May 10, at 9.10am sharp. On the subject of apathy. Please make every effort to attend.

Yours faithfully, Roger Patience, OBE, Head Teacher (Please note: The smoking of cigarettes, pipes and cigars, the drinking of alcohol and the ingesting of hot food are not allowed in the a.s.sembly hall.) NB. Mr Grimley, the caretaker, would like me to make it clear that the car park is for the use of school staff only. Visitors ignoring this instruction are liable to have their vehicles towed away by Grimly Bros Auto Services.

Thursday, May 10 I was forced to park three streets away, in Woodp.e.c.k.e.r Crescent. I ran to the school and arrived at the a.s.sembly hall at 9.11am. Grimley jangled a large bunch of keys and barred my way, saying, "Yer too late, Mole." Grimley and I have clashed several times in the past, most recently last month, when Glenn was accused of writing "All caretakers are fascists" on the boiler-room door. Fortunately for me, a large black car drove into the car park. The driver walked away. Grimley licked his lips like a vulture about to pick its victims bones.

Roger Patience was coming to the end of his introduction: "Pandora Braithwaite owes her glittering academic and political success to Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, she is undoubtedly the breast [sic] thing to come out of this school." There was uproar, the laughter lasted a full three minutes.

Pandora, who was wearing an unsuitably low-cut red dress, folded her arms. I waved to her from the back of the hall, but she ignored me. For the next 45 minutes, she harangued the children and the few parents who had bothered to turn up. She said we didn't "deserve the vote", and that if we were not careful the country would be led by fascists, like Grimley, whom she remembered had once reported her to the head teacher of the time, Mr Scruton, for wearing red knickers in contravention of the school's uniform regulations.

Friday, May 11 Pandora's official car is still in the Grimly Bros vehicle pound.

Sat.u.r.day, May 19 Mohammad rang last night and asked if I would like to accompany him to Lord's to watch the England versus Pakistan test match. I said no, so Glenn will go in my stead. I have boycotted cricket since David Gower stole my parking place outside Grimsby's chip shop on Welford Road in Leicester, in October 1991. I was taking my driving test at the time, and Gower's selfishness resulted in me having to take a further 12 lessons with the BSM. I developed a mental block every time I tried to park the driving school car. A vivid flashback of Gower's triumphant punch in the air caused my arms to lock at the elbow, which necessitated the instructor taking the wheel. I only pa.s.sed at my fifth attempt after the intervention of a hypnotist. Gower owes me big money.

Tonight I took Pamela Pigg to the Raj Mahal restaurant on Aylestone Road, to discuss ending our relations.h.i.+p. I'm sick of the sight of her. And the sound of her. And the text messages she sends me from early in the morning until late into the night.

Over the poppadams, we bickered about the election. Pamela will vote Liberal Democrat. She said she was influenced by watching Charles Kennedy's parents playing their musical instruments on TV the other night during a party political broadcast. "That's the sort of family life I want." She choked. Her eyes brimmed with sentimental tears. I pointed out to her that I am tone deaf and suggested that she should try a night out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer she sits next to at work.

Over our biryanis, we quarrelled about the Prescott egg incident. She thought Prescott should resign and go into exile. (The Isle of Wight was mentioned). I argued pa.s.sionately that the mullet-haired egg-thrower, Craig Evans, deserved a thorough pasting. The waiter came over and politely asked us to keep our voices down.

Sunday, May 20 Glenn has just returned home. He was disconsolate, saying, "We lost, Dad." I said, "England won, you fool." Glenn said, "I wanted Pakistan to win." The boy is culturally confused. This is what comes of living in Britain's first multicultural city. Glenn is growing ringlets, like his new hero, Ryan Sidebottom.

Friday, May 25 I visited my father in his isolation cubicle today. I couldn't be bothered to go through the showering, putting on sterile gown, mask and boots rigmarole, so I was gesticulating to him through the observation panel in the door. I was just about to give him the thumbs up before leaving for home, when his consultant, Mr RT Train, approached, trailed by a gang of medical students. I moved aside and was present throughout Train's lesson in diagnostic technique. He pointed through the gla.s.s to my father, who was sitting up in bed reading a laminated, germ-free copy of the Daily Express.

"Take good notice of that patient," drawled Train. "He is recovering from repeated hospital infections, but he is also suffering from an interesting psychological condition. Can anyone guess its nature?" A small Chinese youth said, "Does he think that the Daily Express is a newspaper, sir?" When the laughter had died down, Train said indulgently, "Well done, w.a.n.g. Anyone else?" The students took it in turns to peer at my father. Eventually a black woman - who reminded me a little of my ex-wife Jo-Jo - said, "There are three portraits of William Hague in the room. Is he an obsessive?" Train said, "Well observed." He then spoke to the fat Englishman in the group. "Read the patient's notes and give me your diagnosis, Dr Worthington." Worthington's fat face creased in concentration. He read through my father's notes. Eventually he looked up and said, "The poor sod's delusional. He thinks Hague is going to be the next prime minister."

A defeated looking woman cleaner approached with a bucket of filthy water and a rancid mop. She was wearing a cheap nylon overall, emblazoned with the logo Priva Clean. She tried to go into my father's room before being stopped by Train, who ordered her to change the water in the bucket, and don sterile clothes. She whined, "I ain't got time. I gotta clean three more wards and an operatin' theatre before I knock off."

Sat.u.r.day, May 26 Pandora has abandoned the electorate of Ashby-de-la-Zouch and gone to Hay-on-Wye to seek a private audience with ex-president Clinton. She packed what she called a Lewinsky frock.

She clearly has no morals whatsoever.

Sat.u.r.day, June 2, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Glenn woke me early with the alarming news that Prince Charles had gone mad with a Kalashnikov and killed his entire family, "Cos of Camilla". I switched on Five Live and was rea.s.sured that the ma.s.sacre had taken place in Kathmandu, and that (presumably) our own royals were safe and reasonably well.

Sunday, June 3 Pandora knocked on my door as I was was.h.i.+ng up this morning. She placed a hand on my cheek and purred, "Can I count on your vote, as usual, sweetie?" I coldly informed her that I had become disillusioned due to her habit of breaking promises and that I intended to vote for the Socialist Alliance candidate, Abbo Palmer. She left her canva.s.sers on the rain-lashed street and pushed her way into my kitchen, snarling, "What broken promises?"

I counted out the disappointments on my fingers. I was still wearing my yellow Marigolds at the time, so the effect may not have been as dramatic as I had intended. When I got to the last rubber digit I said, "Finally, Pandora, you promised to marry me as soon as we were 16 years of age and could afford the train fare to Gretna Green." I took out my wallet and produced the written evidence: a note she had scribbled in a double geography lesson more than 20 years ago. The sight of her childish, loopy, handwriting almost brought tears to my eyes.

Pandora scanned the note then turned it over. On the back was a graph showing the decline of Britain's manufacturing base under Thatcher. She murmured, "Interesting," then asked if she could have the note, as it meant so much to her. I replied,"Certainly not, I have kept this love note in my wallet, close to my heart for two decades. It reminds me of the time when we were 15 and rapturously in love." We were interrupted when a woman canva.s.ser, in need of Immac for the upper lip and chin, knocked on the door and said, "The Newsnight camper van has just crashed into your car, Pandora. Jeremy Vine wants your insurance details."

Midnight Pandora has just been interviewed on Newsnight, by an unusually deferential Jeremy Vine. The set consisted of the blown-up note. (On the graph side).

Friday, June 8, Ashby-de-la-Zouch I woke at 9.30 to find myself on the sofa. The television was showing Ffion's sad but brave face. Glenn was sitting on the floor slopping cornflakes on to the new Ikea rug. With his mouth full, he said, "Tory boy's doin' a runner, Dad." There was the smell of burnt toast, William came in with a plateful of b.u.t.tered cinders, half of which fell on to the rug. I was too exhausted to shout and sank back on to the new Ikea tapestry cus.h.i.+ons. I do not function well on two hours' sleep.

When I next woke, Tony and Cherie were in a small British car being driven to the palace. Glenn and William were still in their pyjamas eating fruit c.o.c.ktail and the Haagen-Dazs ice cream that I keep for Sunday teatime use only. I croaked to Glenn, "Did Pandora get in?" A tiny cube of pineapple and a dribble of juice fell from the teaspoon he was wielding like a garden spade.

The rug now resembled a small munic.i.p.al tip, the ethnic pattern could hardly be seen. Glenn swallowed, and, sounding alarmingly like Peter Snow, gabbled, "Yes, Dad, she got in with 23,431 votes, a majority of 8,157, tha's 52.06% of the vote, but she's down a bit cos there were a swing to the Tories of 3.64%. An there was a 65.79% turnout, tha's a lot 'igher than the national average."

I was impressed with the boy's grasp of statistics. I may steer him towards a degree in mathematics. William brought me a cup of tepid tea and placed it on the rug. Thirty seconds later, the cup lay on its side, having been toppled by Glenn demonstrating a kick-boxing move.

Midday I ordered the boys to get dressed for school. When I next woke it was four o'clock and the school day had ended. Glenn said, "My 'ead of year rang, Dad, he wanted to know why I ain't been to school. So I told 'im I 'ad to stay at 'ome to look after you, cos you wunt get off the settee."

I snapped back. "Couldn't you have invented a stomach upset or something?" Glenn said, "I jus' told the truth, Dad. Were I wrong?"

Since I'd been ranting about the dishonesty of politicians throughout the election campaign I didn't know how to answer the boy, so I feigned sleep.

Thursday, June 14 Glenn asked what I do for a living today. I told him I was a writer. "I never see you do no writin'," he said accusingly. I told him that I am an unpublished writer, and explained that there was a conspiracy in the publis.h.i.+ng industry to keep me out. He took the ma.n.u.script of my latest novel, Krog From Gork, to read in bed. I am enormously pleased that he is taking such an interest in my literary life.

Pamela Pigg has taken my advice and is going out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer. She rang to tell me that their first date went "splendidly". He took her to The Friends tandoori restaurant. She said that Pandora was dining at an adjacent table with some metropolitans who were opining that Ann Widdecombe is the result of an experiment at Porton Down. Apparently, she escaped before the trials could be concluded. This explains a lot.

Friday, June 15 I asked Glenn what he thought of Krog From Gork. He looked s.h.i.+fty and mumbled, "I ain't got past the third page yet." I asked him what he thought of the three he had read. Glenn stroked his new mohican haircut and said, "Nothin' 'appens, dad."

I snapped, "Of course nothing happens. I'm writing about a prehistoric man who suffers from ennui. What do you expect him to do all day? Send text messages to his fellow primitives?"

At 11.30am, Glenn returned from school with a note: "Dear Parent/ Guardian/Principle Carer, Glenn arrived at school this morning with a most alarming haircut. Within minutes of entering the playground he was surrounded by a large circle of 'admirers'. Several of the first-year boys were literally sick with excitement. The school rules state unequivocally that 'students' hair must not be subject to the vagaries of fas.h.i.+on'. Glenn is hereby excluded until his hair can be described in these terms." From now, I'll teach the boy at home.

Sat.u.r.day, June 16 Watched the Trooping of the Colour with the boys. I was filled with pride. Is there another country on earth whose soldiers would march through torrents of water without complaint?

I was annoyed to overhear Glenn say to William, "The monarchy's finished, w.i.l.l.y. They ain't got the sense to come in out the rain."

Sunday, June 24, 2001 I had a minor breakdown in the vinegar aisle of the supermarket this morning. I was completely unable to choose between the 64 vinegars on offer. I walked up and down in an agony of indecision. Glenn said, "Dad, we've bin 'ere 20 minutes. What's up?"

I didn't trust myself to speak, for fear that the tears gathering in my eyes would be released. Eventually, Glenn grabbed a bottle at random and threw it into the trolley. I saw that it was lemongra.s.s flavour and tried to replace it on the shelf, but Glenn prevented me and we moved on to the oil aisle, where once again I was confronted with a horrific choice.

They stretched into the distance: grapeseed, extra-virgin olive, sesame seed, sunflower, Crisp 'n' Dry, basil, stir-fry... As I was hovering between them, an announcement came over the in-store Tannoy - a woman who sounded as though she had a small grapefruit stuck in her mouth intoned: "Would Mr Mole return to the cr?che immediately. Mr Mole, return to the cr?che."

I left Glenn with the trolley and rushed off, lurid images of cr?che-type accidents filling my mind: had William been suffocated by the myriad coloured b.a.l.l.s that filled the toddlers' jumping pit? Had he stabbed a paintbrush in his eye? Was he lying unconscious at the foot of the toddlers' jungle gym? If so, I would pursue the supermarket through the courts and force them into paying record amounts of compensation. Nothing less than PS30m could possibly compensate me for an injury done to my precious child.

The supervisor, whose badge told me she was Mary-Lou Hattersley, was waiting for me with a tearful William. Ms Hattersley (six out of 10: large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, clear skin, blonde hair, but needs a good cut, legs hidden by trousers) said, "He wants his mummy." I was astonished to hear this. William never mentions his mother. I explained that my ex-wife lived in Nigeria. She flicked her hair back and murmured, "Have you re-married, Mr Mole?"

I a.s.sured her that I was single, then, by way of conversation, asked her if she was related to Lord Hattersley, the hothead revolutionary. "Incontrovertibly," she said. I am in love. Glenn's shopping came to PS185.99.

Sat.u.r.day, June 30 I am still in love with the supervisor of Safeway's in-store creche, Mary-Lou Hattersley. She has the widest vocabulary of any woman I have ever known - and that includes Pandora, who lectured in semantics at Oxford for a while.

Mary-Lou, or ML as she likes to be called, claims that both she and Roy Hattersley, her very distant relation, have inherited the same genes from Isiah Hattersley, "an autodidact night soil man". He was a follower of "disestablishmentarianism", she told me as she pinned William's name-badge on his new Shrek T-s.h.i.+rt.

Instead of doing a weekly shop, I now find myself visiting the store daily. William is complaining that he is fed up with the creche, but I have bribed him with the promise of a trip to McDonald's. Yes, I have sunk that low! But I am a prisoner of love. I have to see her dirty blonde hair. Those fiery, intelligent eyes. She wore a skirt yesterday, so I was able to a.s.sess her legs. They are not bad, though when we are better acquainted I will advise her to avoid shorts and miniskirts.

Monday, July 2 Glenn asked if he can have the day off school to watch Henman get beaten. For some reason he hates him; he can't explain why.

On no account must I tell ML how I feel about her. I have made that mistake before. In my experience, women don't like protestations of love from strangers. They fail to return calls, ignore messages, and sometimes get their brothers to throw you off the doorstep.

My mother rang from Majorca to tell me that my father spent the night in the police station in Palma. He had a fight in the taxi queue at the airport. Apparently, he was maddened by thirst and the heat, and when a French family pushed in front of him he cracked and screamed, "Oi, Frogface! Hop off!" The Frenchman said something about foot and mouth, and my father went berserk and kicked the man's luggage into the gutter.

It was news to me that my mother and my father have gone on holiday with each other. Have their spouses given their permissions?

Tuesday, July 3 Glenn has been very subdued lately, he has stopped talking and is off his food. I tried to talk to him, but he brushed me off as though I were a loathsome insect.

I consulted the handbook Parents Are From Hove, Teenagers Are From Brighton. On page 31 it said, "Keep the channels of communication open, but do not let your teen control the domestic agenda. If your questions are ignored, smile and say, 'I hear your silence. Should you wish to share your thoughts with me, I will always be here for you, 24-seven.'"

William has put his small foot down and has refused to be deposited into Safeway's creche twice a day at 8am and 4pm. This means that I no longer have a valid excuse to see Mary-Lou Hattersley, the divine supervisor of that kiddies' establishment. I will have to borrow a toddler. I have to see her.

Prince Philip and Prince Charles were on the news, stamping about in knee-high boots and wearing c.o.c.ked hats, medals and epaulettes; they looked like extras from Zulu. Don't they know the game is up? It is ridiculous in the age of interactive television. In fact, I may write to the privy council and suggest that in future the royals withdraw from public life and satisfy the l.u.s.t of their monarchist followers by appearing in a Big Brother-like TV show. They could then dress up and swagger around in as many costumes as they liked. It would certainly cut down on their transport costs, which I understand are considerable.

Wednesday, July 4 (American Independence Day) Glenn is being bullied at school. He is the only boy in his cla.s.s who does not have his own mobile phone. He is a pariah.

b.u.mped into Pamela Pigg in Safeway. She is still going out with Alan Clarke. He was wearing an Arran sweater. It is chilly by the frozen food cabinets, but I was comfortable enough in my s.h.i.+rtsleeves, so perhaps he was going on to a "gig" after shopping. I suppose there must be a few folk clubs left in the land.

Mr Blair was said to have been "savaged" by his own backbenchers at prime minister's questions. This was a gross distortion. He was asked a few facetious questions by a trio of toothless curs.

Monday, July 16, Ashby-de-la-Zouch This morning I borrowed a toddler from the Ludlows next door and took it to Safeway's creche, which is supervised by the most erotically intelligent woman alive on the planet earth, Mary-Lou Hattersley. It is my only means of seeing her, and William refuses to cooperate, the ungrateful little swine.

The toddler was very quiet in the back of the car. I wasn't surprised, the Ludlows don't believe in talking to their children. As Mrs Ludlow told me once: "It only encourages 'em to prattle on an' ask stupid bleedin' questions." Secretly, I have some sympathy with this child-rearing theory. I have often been tormented by William's constant demands to know "how", "when" and "why". Only yesterday, as we watched the riots on Sky News, he asked me why it was "always men and boys fighting and never the ladies and girls?" I told him that females have a subtler method of conducting warfare, but this led to a further raft of questions, which stopped only when I pretended to fall asleep on top of the was.h.i.+ng machine.