Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Love is in the air

Tuesday, February 15, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way

Vincent Ludlow, my next-door neighbour, knocked on my door at 11.30 tonight and asked if I could "let him 'ave a few fags until the mornin'."

I told him that I was a life-long non-smoker. He looked back at me with an expression of disbelief.

"You don't smoke?" he checked.

"No," I said, and gave him a brief talk about the dangers of smoking, citing the Royal College of Physicians' latest report. I was interrupted by his wife, Peggy, shouting, "'urry up, Vince, I'm bleedin' gaspin' 'ere", from their doorstep.

Two of their three big dogs escaped from the house and preceded to fight in my front garden. "Satan! Devil!" roared Ludlow. "Get back in the 'ouse!"

The ill-trained animals ignored their master and carried on with their fight. Eventually, they were joined by the third dog, Kane, who entered the fray with evident enjoyment. Mrs Ludlow ran from the house with a sweeping brush and set about the dogs with the wooden handle. They were quickly subdued, and slunk back into the house with their tails between their powerful legs. "Bleeders," said Ludlow, fondly, as he watched them go. I couldn't take my eyes off Peggy Ludlow: she was panting from her exertions, causing her magnificent bosom to rise and fall beneath her food-stained dressing gown. She looked like a beautiful, long-haired version of Ann Widdicombe. I felt my manhood stir for the first time in many months.

Wednesday, February 16

This morning, I saw Peggy Ludlow in her back garden, hanging washing on the line. I splashed a little Ralph Lauren's Polo on to my cheeks and hurried down to my own garden, where I pretended to examine the tree. I glanced over the fence. Peggy was wearing full make-up, her raven hair was blowing in the wind. She held a clothes peg tantalisingly between her carmine lips. She nodded to me.

"Just looking at my tree," I croaked.

"The last bloke what lived in your 'ouse murdered his brother-in-law then 'ung himself from that tree," she said with obvious relish. I went back inside and phoned the homeless unit. I left a message on Pamela Pigg's voicemail, demanding an immediate transfer.

Friday, February 18

Nigel came round tonight and brought me a bunch of Stargazer lilies. As he handed them to me, he said, "Congratulations on finally coming out, Moley."

After I had vehemently protested my heterosexuality, Nigel said, "Well, I was told by a council worker that you had claimed on an official form that you were a gay single father. You're obviously in denial."

He and his partner, Cliff, have planned a "coming out" dinner party for me. "It'll just be a few close friends," he said. "Cliff's doing the Naked Chef's aubergine-and-pasta bake." I told him that I loathed aubergines, and he snatched the lilies back and left. A pity. He is my best, indeed only, friend and I need to confess to somebody about my growing passion for Mrs Peggy Ludlow.

Saturday, February 19

Glenn's maths homework project is to draw a graph illustrating the result of the Livingstone, Dobson, Jackson mayoral race. Clorette Ludlow, the eldest daughter, is pregnant! I heard the row through the party-wall. Peggy screamed, "Why din't you take precautions, you stupid mare?" Clorette screamed back "Tony an' Cherie slipped up, an' they're both brain-boxes, so shurrup, our mam". I fear that the PM and his wife are not setting a good example to the nation's young, contraception wise.

Sunday, February 20

Glenn is in despair over his maths homework: "It's no good, dad," he said after putting the Electoral College results into his calculator. "It don't matter how I do the percentages, I still can't work out how Mr Dobson won." I wrote a note to the school saying that the boy had tried his best.