Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Misanthrope and whine

Wednesday, December 6, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

William still believes in Santa Claus, and he nagged me to take him to see «Santa» abseil down the side of Debenhams last night before ceremonially entering his grotto on the third floor. We stood at the front of the crowd and when Santa landed with his beard askew and his red suit in disarray from the harness, William shouted, "Santa, will you bring me a PlayStation 2 for Christmas." Santa replied, "Of course I will, lad." I could have killed the old git: How am I going to get the money together to buy a PlayStation; they are £200. And, anyway, there are none to be had in the land. Shall I tell the truth to William and inform him that the abseiling Santa was in fact a grizzled member of The Rockettes, the Leicestershire Rock Climbing Club (a person who has no authority to make promises about Christmas presents), or do I wait until December 25 to see the disappointment on the kid's face?

My extended family is in turmoil about Christmas arrangements. Nobody knows where to go on Christmas Day, Boxing Day, or New Year's Eve. Only one thing is certain; I will not be entertaining anybody in this house. I can't even afford the Barbie Advent calendar that William has set his heart on. I asked Mohammed in the garage if I could buy one for half price, being, as we are, half way through the month. But he refused! How mean can you get? He said he would put the Barbie Advent away until next year and get the full price. So much for good will to all men.

Thursday, December 7

Tania Braithwaite gave out a grudging invitation to us to join her at The Lawn on Christmas Day as we stood in adjoining queues in Safeway. She said, "Come round if you've nowhere else to go." A quick glance into her trolley reminded me of her turkeyless and chocolateless attitude to the festivities. Soya products predominated, and there were a dozen bottles of elderflower cordial. No wonder my father refuses to get better and shake off his hospital-borne infection. He planned to spend Christmas Day with Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse. The balloons, crackers and party-poppers are in the hospital steriliser even as I write.

Friday, December 8

Pamela Pigg rang today? She said, "I can't get you out of my mind, Aidey." Glenn overheard (her voice is rather shrill). He said darkly, "You'd 'ave to be outta your mind to go out with her again, Dad." Pamela has got a new job working with tramps, although she calls them the single homeless. She told me that there are several vacancies in the night shelter. She added that she thought I had all the qualities needed to work with such unfortunates. "Yeah, you ain't got no sense of smell," said Glenn. He was alluding to my recent failure to detect a packet of five-week-old prawns which I'd inadvertently left in the car next to the heater. Others were gagging as I drove, to my considerable bewilderment. Perhaps I should go to the Leicester Royal Infirmary and ask for a nasal efficiency test.

Saturday, December 9

My mother has covered the front of her house in a life-sized flashing bulb depiction of Santa on his sleigh. It is vulgar beyond belief. Her front garden is dominated by cardboard cut-outs of Posh, Becks and Baby Brooklyn. Each has a wire coat hanger and tinsel halo about their heads. "They are the holy family of the year 2000," she said. However, I predict that she will soon tire of the crowds who collect after dark every night. Somebody has already stolen Brooklyn's manger.

Monday, December 11

Brick Eagleburger is suing Peter Elf, his solicitor, for failing to protect his rights as an American Postal Voter, after Elf refused to act for Brick, saying he was "a bit rusty" on the intricacies of US constitutional law.