Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Mrs Wormington's funeral

Monday, July 24, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

There was a surprisingly large turn-out for Mrs Wormington's funeral this morning. I hadn't known she was a member of so many societies and clubs. There were mourners representing Amnesty International, the Fox And Ferret ladies' darts team and the Cacti Club of Great Britain. I hadn't realised she had such Catholic tastes.

In the time she lodged with me, most of our conversations had been about biscuits, though towards the end of her life she spoke obsessively about the state of the Queen Mother's teeth. William begged to be allowed to go to the funeral; I gave my permission, but warned him against talking in the church. The boy has a voice like a town crier. He let me down only once, when he asked, in the lull between a hymn and a prayer, "Dad, why do old people smell?" The church was packed with the elderly, who failed to see the charm or humour in the boy's innocent question.

One old bloke along the pew shouted to his deaf neighbour, "He wants a bloody good hiding." I had warned William what to expect: that there would be a box called a coffin and that Mrs Wormington would be inside it, dead. He seemed to take in this fact, but when the coffin started to be lowered into the grave, William shouted, "You'd better get out now, Mrs Wormington." He said later, at home, that he'd thought dead people came back to life, like Kenny in South Park. At the service, I read a poem I'd written. It seemed to go down quite well — though my mother said afterwards at the funeral lunch that she thought it was gross self-indulgence on my part and should never have been torn from my pad of A4.

Requiem for Mrs Wormington

Several people asked me the significance of "warm again", not knowing that Mrs Wormington had died of hypothermia after holidaying in Mablethorpe.

Tuesday, July 25

Glenn and William are on holiday from school for six weeks. What am I going to do with them? I have no funds with which to entertain them. We are only one day into the break, but William has already declared himself to be «bored». I told him that, when I was a lad, I entertained myself with non-stop activities. But, in truth, all I can remember doing is staring out of the window and waiting for school to begin again.

Wednesday, July 26

I reluctantly drew out £50 from the building society, bought a family rail ticket and took my sons to Tate Modern. No one warned me about the vast metal spider in the Turbine Hall. William is an arachnophobe and froze with fear on seeing it. He then emitted a piercing scream. An American tourist asked me if William was an "auditory accompaniment to Louis Bourgeois's sculpture". I said «no», that he was just a little boy who was scared of spiders.

Thursday, July 27

Concorde is off the front pages; no British people were killed.