Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Low profile

Monday, November 27, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Today is only the first day of Ramadan, yet Mohammed at the BP garage is already in a bad mood due to the fasting laws imposed on him by his religion. In a normal day at work, he would eat three packets of cheese-and-onion crisps and a Kit Kat or two. I remarked to him that he could do with losing at least four stone in weight. To my astonishment, he burst into an angry denunciation of my character and appearance, ending up with, "You should take a good look at yourself in the mirror, Moley.

You've got enough hair sprouting out yer nostrils to weave a mouse's shoppin' basket. And you look five months pregnant". I apologised at once for my rudeness. I tried to explain that my therapists, Dave Mutter and Anjelica House, were encouraging me to be honest during social intercourse. This seemed to exacerbate his anger, but thankfully he was diverted from giving me another tongue-lashing by a strident female motorist complaining about the lack of toilet paper in the ladies.

As I walked across the forecourt, I pondered on our conversation. From where did Mohammed get his image of my nasal hairs being woven into a mouse's shopping basket? And what was his reference to my looking five months pregnant about?

Tuesday, November 28

I took off my clothes and examined myself carefully in the wardrobe mirror this morning. My front view is quite nice. My shoulders are slightly stooped, my pectorals are perhaps lacking definition, but I am still above average in the looks department. However, my profile leaves a lot to be desired and, yes, Mohammed, my old schoolfriend, you spoke the simple truth: in profile, I do look five months pregnant. My belly, once a discreet concave, is now distinctly convex. How did this happen without my noticing?

I am shocked to discover that my son, Glenn, is keeping what he calls a top secret dairy. He has also written on the cover in barbed-wire writing "Open This Dairy At Your'e Perul". I was very tempted to find out what the boy had written about me, and had I been able to prise the lock off without it being detected I may well have found out.

Wednesday, November 29

Can anybody tell me why we British export our beef to France and why the French export their beef to Britain? I have asked many people, but nobody has been able to provide me with a satisfactory answer. I had a session with Dave Mutter tonight after work. I told him about Mohammed's remark about the mouse's shopping basket. Dave said he found Mohammed's imagery to be "extremely disturbing". He suggested that Mohammed seek professional psychiatric help.

I am pleased to report that my fixation with Dave Mutter is over. He is simply a dull baby boomer with a Minnie Mouse voice and an out-dated pony tail. However, Anjelica House, my second opinion therapist, is a truly magnificent woman. Why did I not appreciate the attractions of late middle-aged women before? How come I have never noticed the beauty of their crows' feet or the delicious way their upper arms sag when they plump a cushion?

Midnight

Pandora has just rung to find out if my father has recovered from his hospital-borne infection yet. I told her that he was still being barrier nursed. She was delighted: she wants to use him to illustrate a point about privatised hospital cleaning services. Before she rang off, she hinted that the row between John Prescott and Dominique Voynet was in fact more of a lovers tiff! So, were they slaking their lust while the world festered on its axis? If so, we, the world's population, should be told.