Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Death and the maiden

Wednesday, July 19, Ashby-de-La-Zouch

The summer weather in Mablethorpe has killed Mrs Wormington. She was a perfectly fit, 90-year-old when she left my house in Ashby-de-La-Zouch on Friday, July 14, at 1.15pm. I am being specific about details because Eunice, Mrs Wormington's daughter- in-law, has just left this house after calling to collect the dead one's belongings. She accused me of sending "an ailing woman to the east coast, to die".

It was only after she had driven off in her Reliant Robin that I realised that she was virtually accusing me of murder. I immediately called my mother, who is an acknowledged expert on litigation (she haunts the small-claims court). She advised me to seek the advice of her solicitor, Charlie Dovecote. It cost me £50, plus VAT, to be told by Dovecote that allowing a nonagenarian to ride a donkey in a stiff east wind may have been foolhardy, but did not constitute murder.

I found a bundle of old letters under Mrs Wormington's mattress when I stripped her bed. I was glad that the horrible Eunice had missed them.

This, I presume, was Mrs Wormington's maiden name. Social intercourse was conducted with such delicacy in those days. It's no wonder that Mrs Wormington was shocked at Denise Van Outen's grubby little TV show. Even I, an admirer of the female breast, begin to tire of prime-time mammaries.

Thursday, July 20

William wanted to know where Mrs Wormington had gone. I said she had gone on a long journey to a place where she would be in peace. I went on a bit, about Mrs Wormington running up hills and picking wild flowers under the warming rays of the sun, etc. Perhaps I went too far down the pastoral path, because when William was watching Glenn clean his roller-blade boots I heard him say, "Mrs Wormington's not dead, Glenn. She's gone to live in Teletubby Land."

Friday, July 21

A car in which Jack Straw was being conveyed was stopped by police for speeding at 103mph. I hope the full might of the law is brought to bear on the miscreant. I am still smarting from the tirade of abuse I received from a traffic policeman because I drove at 32mph in Foxglove Avenue, a 30mph zone. When I remarked, humorously, "I'm not exactly Jeremy Clarkson", the policeman sneered, "No, he's taller, got more hair, and is almost certainly richer and more famous than you are, sir." I thought of reporting him to the Police Complaints Board, but wasn't sure if sarcasm counted as assault — though I still feel hurt by it.

Saturday, July 22

I went to see Pandora at the MP's surgery today. I wanted to talk to her about my theory that Mr Blair has secretly embarked on a course of hormones that will transform him from Tony to Toni. I reminded her that he'd recently stated that he disliked wearing a suit.

"Don't be so bloody ridiculous," she snapped. "Get out and give your seat to a constituent with a genuine problem." I pointed out that there was nobody else waiting to see her. "Apathetic bastards," she raged of the electorate. "I could have stayed in London and picked up my bowling bag from Prada."

I had no idea she'd taken up such a middle-aged, boring sport.