Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Postcode apartheid

Sunday, November 12, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

I was the only one on the BP garage forecourt today to respect the two-minute silence.

Monday, November 13

My agent, Brick Eagleburger, is beside himself with excitement. He is convinced that his Floridian postal vote will secure the presidency for Gore. He may well be right. If Gore wins by one vote, Brick plans to take the credit. He has booked a full-page advertisement in The Stage. It says, "Brick Eagleburger, theatrical agent, specialises in weather girls, celebrity chefs and animal acts, including the world famous Billy the Seal. Mr Eagleburger's postal vote determined the outcome of the American presidential election. New Artistes always welcome. 25 % commission. Tax and investment advice included."

I phoned Brick, and asked when he and I could meet to discuss my writing career. At 33, I am already too old to be eligible for the Young British Writers' Award. Why does nobody arrange competitions for the young middle-aged? It is sheer prejudice. Just because we are beginning to lose our hair and suffer from occasional sexual dysfunction, it does not mean that our literary faculties are clapped out. Brick told me in his hideous ungrammatical style, "I don't got no windows, Adrian." He said he was having trouble with Billy the Seal, who had developed a serious cocaine habit after working in a circus in Dublin, where he came under the malevolent influence of Declan Tourette and his amazing foul-talking dog.

Within seven days, poor Billy was snorting a serious quantity of the evil white powder. After a fortnight, he was seriously dependent on Tourette for his supply. Within three weeks, Billy's career was almost over, his nostrils were seriously damaged and he could no longer catch or throw a ball with his nose. Fortunately, Brick caught him in time and packed Billy off to a secret animal rehabilitation clinic in Milton Keynes. There, together with other damaged animals, Billy broke his expensive habit and cleaned himself up.

Tuesday, November 14

My life is incredibly boring, but today took the biscuit: absolutely nothing happened. I got out of bed. I made scrambled eggs. They were neither good nor bad, but sort of in between. I walked to the newsagent's, where I was just in time to see a man with a beard (a stranger) buy the last Guardian. I could tell from his accent that he wasn't from these parts. I think it is disgusting that people are allowed to buy goods willy-nilly, regardless of where they live, thus depriving the locals of vital supplies. I said as much to my mother. She said, "Are you seriously suggesting that people should be prohibited from travelling from one area to another? Are you, in fact, advocating a type of postcode apartheid?" I didn't know what to say to her. The truth was that, once again, I had reacted to a minor setback in a manner that was entirely inappropriate. Several people have commented that I should see a therapist. However, the waiting list to see a NHS therapist is two years and it would break my heart to fork out £25 a session to find out that there is nothing at all wrong with my personality or emotional make-up.

Wednesday, November 15

I have just emerged from the front room of a Jungian therapist called Dave Mutter. I sat on his pink velour sofa and cried about my Grandma's Yorkshire puddings for 55 minutes.

Thursday, November 16

I rang Dave and begged him for an urgent appointment. I am seeing him this afternoon. 5.30pm: I told Dave about my recurring dream — that Gordon Brown visits me at night and begs me to help him with the economy. Dave is my only friend. God, diary, I think I may be a little in love with him!