Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Home sweet home…

Saturday, February 5, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way, Gaitskell Estate

I cannot understand why nobody wanted to take on the tenancy of this house.

It is dry, centrally-heated, has three bedrooms, a new bathroom, a well-equipped kitchen and a large through lounge. The windows are double-glazed and there is a front garden with a hard standing area for a car and a back garden with a medium-sized tree. The council has completely redecorated.

When I asked Pamela Pigg from the council's homeless unit why the house had been vacant for over a year, she said, "I have to tell you, Mr Mole, that this house is notorious".

She wouldn't elaborate. Perhaps a famous Leicester person lived here once. Gary Lineker, perhaps, or Willie Thorne? Both came from humble beginnings before climbing their respective ladders to the land of fame.

Glenn and William have mixed feelings about the move. They are happy to have a bedroom each, but Glenn said, "I aint 'ard enough for the Gaitskell, Dad, and neither are you." William asked, "Why have all the shops got barbed wire over the windows?"

I told him a ridiculous lie about the Territorial Army using the shopping parade for a weekend exercise, but it was obvious that even he, the most gullible of boys, didn't believe me. It has to be faced: we are living among what sociologists call "the underclass", and what my father, reluctantly driving the box van containing my few sticks of furniture, called "Satan's spawn".

However, our immediate neighbours, the Ludlows, with whom we share a party wall, seem to be very quiet types. I haven't heard so much as a peep from them. I know their name because somebody has painted "the Ludlows live here" in black gloss paint on the front of their house.

Sunday, February 6

I left the boys watching TV and walked to the newsagents. There was a notice on the grilled door: "Glue or cigarettes will not be served to miners, and balaclavas must be removed." I removed my balaclava and went inside.

An Asian man stood behind the counter. A woman I took to be his wife was stocking the magazine racks with what appeared to be pornography.

"Good morning," I said cheerfully. "The Observer, please."

"You're too late, m'duck, the vicar's been in an' got the only copy," said the man, in a broad Leicester accent.

"You only stock one copy of a great national newspaper?" I checked.

"We got plenty more," he said indicating the News Of The World, the People and Sunday Sport."

I asked him to order two copies of the Observer in future. As I was leaving, I said, as pleasantly as possible, "Isn't it against your religion to serve pornography?"

He bridled and said, "No, I'm a Catholic, we're from Goa, an' anyway, what's wrong with the naked female body, eh? What you got against it?"

I fear I have got off on the wrong foot with the Goans. After being searched at the entrance of the mini-supermarket, Food Is U, by a fat man in a security-guard's uniform, I went inside and attempted to buy some croissants and a box of fresh orange juice. I returned home with a thick-sliced loaf and a bottle of Sunny Delight. There were two aisles of cakes and biscuits, and one aisle devoted entirely to fizzy drinks.

When I have settled in, I may write to the manager and point out that he should widen his customer base.

Friday, February 11

My mother visited my new home today. She was obviously unnerved by the journey through the estate. "You'll never survive it, Adrian," she said. She had brought the new dog to see us, but it refused to get out of the car. I posted a Valentine to Pandora and signed it "Oh Pandora, still adore ya."

Sunday, February 13

The Ludlows are back from "opening the caravan up in Chapel-Saint-Leonards". There are two adults, six children and three big dogs. The noise is indescribable.

Valentine's Day

Not a single card, not one.