Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Feeling sheepish after the video nasty

Tuesday, December 12, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Crowds continue to flock to gawp at the Posh, Becks 'n' Brooklyn tableau in the front garden of my mother's house. Encouraged by the attention, she has added three kings bearing gifts. The first king (Tom Hanks) is dangling a Prada carrier bag from his cardboard fingers. The second king (Danny DeVito) is offering Baby Brooklyn a Gap fleece. The third king (Sylvester Stallone) is holding a bottle of Calvin Klein aftershave. I asked her where she got the life-sized cardboard cutouts. She said she had a contact in the film business. I predict disaster. The neighbours are furious because they can't park their own cars outside their own houses. The police have been called twice and warned my mother she could be charged with breaching the peace. Citing his fragile mental health, Ivan Braithwaite, my mother's most recent husband, has gone back to live with his ex-wife Tania, at The Lawns. My mother, Ivan and Tania all claim that this is only a temporary and platonic arrangement. But I'm not so sure.

When I drove Ivan away from Wisteria Walk with his overnight bag and his laptop, I saw him visibly relax. And when he stepped into the spacious, white-carpeted, quiet hall he was almost in tears. Tania greeted him with a glass of elderflower cordial and a homemade mince pie. Playing quietly in the background was a Charlotte Church CD. It was hard to decide which was the most sickly: the cordial, the mince pie or the trilling of Miss Church. I was glad to get out. As I closed the front door, I overheard Ivan say to Tania, "It's been absolute hell, Tania." I was alarmed to hear her reply, "You're home now, Ivan."

Wednesday, December 13

My poor father, he knows nothing about the new arrangements at The Lawns. Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse, said through her mask, "He mustn't be exposed to any emotional trauma, it could kill him." Adding. "He's in line for the Longest-Stay Patient award." I promised not to tell him that his new wife was once again living with her ex-husband. And that his ex-wife was riding roughshod over several laws of the land.

Thursday, December 14

I had to forge the following note from Santa tonight. I laid it on William's pillow before I put him to bed:

He cried for half an hour because Santa had written «yours», instead of «love». He is a very sensitive boy.

Friday, December 15

The Nativity play started 15 minutes late because one of the parents, a certain Mrs Lucy Morgan, tried to smuggle a video camera into the assembly hall. She refused at first to give it up, citing the Freedom of Information Act. The headmaster, Mr Tree, cited the European Privacy Law. Several Guardian readers got involved in the ensuing debate. Some were on the side of Mrs Morgan, others sided with Mr Tree. William was, quite frankly, a most disappointing shepherd. He dropped his sheep and in a bored manner began to kick it around the stage. At one point, the kicked sheep came dangerously close to toppling the baby Jesus (a swaddled Action Man) from his cradle. Glenn commented as we waited for William, "Mr Blair says it's all right for parents to smack their kids now, Dad." I said, "I can hardly beat William for being a bored shepherd, Glenn." He replied, "If he'd had Jesus outta his cradle, I'd 'ave jumped on the stage an' give him one myself."