Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

The truth about Father Christmas

Wednesday, December 1, 1999 Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

I found a tin of Whopper Hot Dogs in my mother's bed this morning. It was a disturbing image; reminding me somehow of my one and only visit to Amsterdam. I was intending to wash her bed-linen as a surprise for when she returned from her honeymoon in Pompeii. But in the circumstances, I simply pulled the duvet straight and plumped up the pillows.

Thursday, December 2, 1999

After waiting three weeks, I've finally got to see the new GP, Dr Ng. I asked him if he was related to the Dr Ng in Soho, whom I occasionally consulted. He said no. I said I was surprised, as Ng was an unusual name. For some reason, he took offence at this and snapped, "There are millions of Ngs in the world."

I sensed that I had committed a faux pas and changed the subject to that of my health. I explained that, for some five years, I have needed to consume at least five packets of Opal Fruits a day. He furrowed his brow. "Opal Fruits?" he checked.

"They've since changed the name to Starburst," I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I told him about the panic attack I had recently when I discovered there were no Opal Fruits in the house. Of how I had walked to the BP garage in the rain at 3am to buy some. "Do you have any advice?" I asked.

"Yes," he said turning to his computer, where my records were displayed. "Buy them wholesale."

I had booked a double appointment, so I took my time while I filled him in about my latest phobia — falling in the crater of a live volcano. Should I seek help? "No," said Dr Ng, "you should keep away from volcanoes." For the first time in my adult life, I left the surgery without a prescription. On my way out, I asked Mrs Gringle, the receptionist, what the yellow sticker on the front of my medical records denoted. "Time waster," she said coldly. She has never liked our family since my mother called the doctor out on Christmas Day after my father swigged a decanter full of Stolichnaya vodka, believing it to be Malvern water.

Friday, December 3, 1999

An awkward moment at breakfast. Glenn said, "I reckon you should tell William the truth about Father Christmas, Dad." Apparently, William has worked out on the computer at nursery school that it would take Father Christmas 15 trillion hours to visit every child in the world. Should I continue the charade that the toys are made in Greenland by elves, or should I confess that the plastic rubbish he craves is shipped from Taiwan, then brought to Toys 'R' Us by container lorry?

Saturday, December 4, 1999

William is confused about the Blair baby. He's got it into his head, from watching the news on TV, that it will be the new Messiah. How Glenn and I laughed! Though when I asked Glenn what he knew about the Messiah, it turned out that he'd never heard of him. "I was just laughin' to keep you company," he said.

Sunday, December 5, 1999

Went to The Lawns for tea today with my father and his paramour, Tania. To my joy, Pandora was there, looking ravishing in pink cashmere. I told her that I had overheard complaints in the Post Office that she was neglecting her constituents. "I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she said, angrily. I took this opportunity to ask for her help with jumping the council house queue. She said "Are you mad, I couldn't possibly be seen to be helping my half-brother." She pressed speed-dial on her mobile and left a message. "Ken, darling! Dobbo's camp are telling the press you've caught a fatal fungal infection from the newts." She dialled again: "Dobbo darling, Ken's people are telling the press you've been seen in B&Q buying a noose." She always was a stirrer.