Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

In good spirit

Friday, October 27, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Ivan Braithwaite is home from the mental hospital and is now confined in the box room at Wisteria Walk. My mother is acting as his nurse. I say «acting» because she is most ungracious about her new role. I overheard her talking on the phone to her brother, Pete, who lives in Norwich. It was a self-pitying monologue which I reproduce here, though it gives me no pleasure. .

"When I married Ivan I expected my life to change. As you know, Pete, Ivan is upper-lower-middle-class and he promised to stretch my horizons, but the only horizons I've seen lately have been the view from the fourth floor of the mental hospital and the vista of the back of my own back garden. I've blown it, Pete. I've turned into a bleddy nursemaid. I'm looking after our Adrian's kids as well, while he's at work.

[Pause]

"No, he's not paying me! He bought me a bunch of forecourt flowers last night and then complained because I'd given the kids lobster nuggets and oven chips for their tea instead of the stupid health stuff he'd brought round in the morning. They're growing lads, Pete. They need more than a few beansprouts and a lump of tofu. Anyway, I'd better go. I'm sorry we've not spoken for over 20 years, Pete, but Mum did promise me her charm bracelet when she died and your wife, Yvonne, had no right to claim it and wear it on her fat wrist at Mum's funeral.

[Pause]

"No! Mum promised it to me, Pete!

[Sobbing]

"She hated Yvonne. She used to call her Nixon. .

[Pause]

". . because of her five o'clock shadow, that's why!

[Pause]

"Oh, I'm sorry, Pete, I didn't know that Yvonne had died recently. How recently?

[Pause]

"Yesterday! Oh, my god! Oh, Pete. That's awful!

[Pause]

"So, you'll send me that charm bracelet in the post will you, Pete? Remember to register it."

At this point the call was disconnected at the Norwich end.

Saturday, October 28, The Dome, Greenwich

I am sitting here in Harry Ramsden's, waiting for Glenn and William, who are in the queue for the Body Zone. The waiting time is an hour and a quarter. When I suggested an alternative — that we visit the Prayer Zone, which did not have a single visitor — Glenn said, "You go in an' do a prayer, Dad. Me and Will'll catch you later."

The boy is getting to be more assertive by the day. He has already taken over the cooking at home and this morning I found a note in a milk bottle on our doorstep: "No milk today. Gone to the Dome. Cheers milkman, Glenn Bott-Mole". How long has Glenn had a double-barrelled name? And why is «Mole» second? Glenn Mole-Bott has a much more refined ring to it.

The Prayer Zone was still empty. The woman vicar in the pastel tracksuit was obviously grateful to see me and hear my religious views. I told her I had recently become a tree worshipper and asked if there was an organisation I could join. She looked through her index of the Book Of World Religions, without success before saying, "The Liberal Democrats may be your best bet."

Sunday, October 29

The scenes at St Pancras Station were pitiful last night, as desperate East Midlanders milled around on the concourse before setting off on their detours around the broken rails of Midland Main Line.

Monday, October 30

I woke at 3.30am to find that a twister was spiralling down our street. Several wheelie-bins were overturned and a lousy, stinking tree demolished my shed.