Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Rhyme and reason

Wednesday, July 5, Arthur Askey Walk

My father originally went into hospital with fractures of the leg and various other injuries, caused when he fell off a ladder while constructing a Japanese-style pagoda for his new wife, Tania, who is obsessed with all things Oriental.

He's been in hospital for months, suffering from a hospital-borne infection, and is now completely institutionalised. When he hears the food trolley arrive at the end of the ward at 7am, 12 noon and 5pm, his mouth fills with saliva. He claims to be happy there, says he has no worries: other people pay the bills, walk the dangerous streets, get immobilised in traffic jams, and do the Sainsbury's run.

Sharon Bott, the mother of my son, Glenn, works as a cleaner at the hospital. She says that, as part of an infection-control programme, her mop was taken away for laboratory tests. She said that when the mop was returned to her, "It looked as if it had been through the mill."

Thursday, July 6

I have just found a sheaf of poems hidden inside the panel surrounding the washbasin. They are in Glenn's handwriting. Why he feels the need to hide the evidence of a fine sensibility is a mystery to me. This house is devoted to the creative spirit. William, for instance, has a passion for making miniature gardens in old shoe-boxes. Perhaps he will grow up to be a landscape gardener like Capability Brown or Charlie Dimmock.

My favourite poem is entitled Why?

Why?

I will have to correct Glenn on an inaccuracy in this poem. Flies are not nice. They have vile personal habits. My second-favourite poem is called Patsy:

Patsy

When Glenn came home from school, I tackled him about the poem. He hung his head and blushed scarlet. "Don't tell no one, Dad," he said.

Saturday July 8

My mother has called a family conference. I am the subject. My father was on the end of his hospital telephone. Others present were: Ivan Braithwaite, Tania, Mrs Wormington, and my auntie Susan, a prison warder. They are concerned that I am wasting my life. I pointed out that I am a full-time carer of two boys and a 90-year-old woman. My mother said, "What was the point of reading all those books if all you're going to do with that knowledge is to wash and iron and cook. You might as well have been born a woman."

Auntie Susan stubbed out her cigar and raked her fingers through her number two before saying, "Adrian, I could get you a job in the prison library."

To shut them all up, I promised to think about it but the thought of being in contact with even literate prisoners fills me with horror. Tania said that, in her opinion, I had an unhealthy fixation with old people. "Why can't you be content to do voluntary work in a retirement home? Why do you feel the need to have one living with you in your home?" I was unable to give her an answer. When they had gone, Mrs Wormington asked, "Who was that stuck-up bitch in the kimono?"

Monday, July 10

Next week, I go to Wind-on-the-Wolds prison to be shown around the library. There is a part-time job available, worse luck!