Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Love in a cold climate

Thursday 24 August, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

Glenn has been upstairs for an hour with the unopened envelope with contains his GCSE results.

I can hear him muttering to himself as I write this diary entry. The tension in the house is unbelievable. I have promised to take him to Wells-Next-The-Sea if he attains anything over a D. He has fallen in love with a girl called Courtney, who works in French's fish and chip shop on the West Quay. The lad is certainly a quick mover. We were only in Wells for an hour-and-a-half. Apparently they bonded when Glenn knocked a tub of curry sauce off the counter.

She called him a stupid wanker and that was it. They swapped e-mail addresses and have been in constant contact since. I am a little hurt that Glenn told me none of this and that I had to hear his news from my mother. Why doesn't the boy trust me with the secrets of his heart. I am his father, after all. Even David Archer has started to confide in Phil, since Ruth's chemotherapy treatment commenced.

Incidentally, I hope Mel has been kicked out of Big Brother by the time you read this. Her motives are so transparent: she obviously intends to set up a chain of massage parlours across the nation. Mark my words, Mel's Massage Parlours will soon be appearing on every high street.

1pm

Glenn has just been down and shown me his results. They are not bad, considering the boy could hardly read when he was 13. He said he would have done better if it hadn't been for the girls in his class distracting him with their good behaviour and hard work. I sympathised: my own academic ability plummeted when Pandora Braithwaite joined my class. I simply couldn't tear my eyes away from the slight swelling under her school blouse and put them on the blackboard where they belonged. It's her fault I got poor GCSE results. She has ruined my life.

Saturday 26, Plot 49, Pinewood Caravan Site, Wells-Next-The-Sea

Glenn's romance is over before it began. Courtney has been "long promised" to her second cousin, a lad called Eli, who works on the whelks and cockle store on the quay. Things are certainly feudal down here. They are but simple folk — untouched by the sophisticated outside world. It is impossible to get a Leicester Mercury. William is on the beach as I write, digging a pit in which to bury me "until you're dead day". Does he harbour subconscious patricidal desires? I don't think I'll risk getting into his pit.

Sunday 27, The Caravan

I have been consumed by caravan fever! My every waking thought is taken up with finding a method of buying a caravan of my own. I have long suspected that I may have Romany blood coursing through my veins. (I cannot stop my feet tapping when flamenco is played.) However, it is not a traditional barrel-shaped horse drawn caravan I lust for.

Specifically, it is a Willerby Westmorland; a double-glazed six-berth, with microwave and private veranda in a tasteful beige. I have worked out that it would just about fit into my mother's front garden. So, for £18,999, I could have the best of both worlds: complete independence for me and my boys together with baby-sitting services only five yards away. Why didn't I think of it before?

I have obtained the services of an independent financial adviser, a very nice man called Terry "the shark" Brighton. He is nicknamed shark because he once caught a record-breaking creature of that name while enjoying a shark fishing honeymoon in Australia with his fourth wife. I asked him to help me raise the finance for my Willerby Westmorland. Terry said no probs, but asked me to send him a cheque for £500 as a returnable deposit for his services. I won't tell my mother about the caravan just yet. It will be a lovely surprise for her.