Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Pottering about

Sunday, February 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

I organised my library tonight using my own idiosyncratic alphabetical system. So, the first book on my Billy bookcases was AA Gill's Collected Works. The last was zzz's, The Insomniac's Handbook.

In between, of course, were the tomes penned by the masters and mistresses of literature. How I longed to join them!

I went to bed after loading the washing machine with a pile of mixed coloureds but woke only an hour later worrying about the escalating tension in Iraq. Glenn keeps asking me awkward questions about Britain's role in the protection of the no-fly zone. Such as: "'Ow can it be cold protection, Dad, when old people an' little 'uns got killed?" He is an unsophisticated boy and can't quite grasp the subtleties of the situation. I tossed on my pillow, haunted by past humiliations: the time my mother came to a parents' evening at Neil Armstrong comprehensive wearing yellow tights; the day my father and I sat on a bus together and he began to sing “If I Ruled The World”; my wedding night, when I couldn't unfasten the cord of my pyjama trousers and my bride, Jo Jo, was forced to cut it with the scissors on her Swiss army knife, my screams brought the night porter to our room having been summoned by an irritable executive next door.

At 4.10am I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. I sat at my desk in the living room alcove and found myself beginning the first sentence of a new novel. I don't have a title yet but I am rather pleased with the first page.

Chapter 1

Larry Topper blinked through his owl-like glasses as the public school, The Academy, hove into view. He turned to his guardian, Uncle Edward (his parents were both dead, killed by a bomb whilst on holiday in Iraq). 'I say, Uncle Ted, piped Larry, 'I rather think I'm going to be jolly happy here. Larry's glance took in the topiary which littered the large, vibrant green, well manicured, soft underfoot, lawns. Uncle Ted's kindly eyes twinkled like fairy lights before the fuse blows.

'I should hope so, young sir, Ted rumbled in his voice which sounded like the distant roar of a bomber taking off.

Uncle Edward crunched his antique car along the gravel drive until it came to rest at the main entrance where a bored looking boy stood smoking a St Moritz menthol cigarette. This was Brett Longshank, head boy and aristocrat who was a star of the rugger field and a genius in the classroom.

Larry gawped in awe at Brett's exquisite air of nonchalance. 'I say, Uncle, he said, 'what a spiffing role model that fellow is.

Uncle Ted's brow furrowed and looked like a ploughed field after several horses had dragged a plough over it.

'That's Lady Nancy Longshank's son, he said disapprovingly. 'And I happen to know that he is addicted to crack cocaine, keep away from him, Larry, d'you hear me? Keep away from him.

Monday, February 19

I may give Larry magical powers. I could have an entirely original bestseller on my hands!

Tuesday, February 20

Pamela Pigg is hounding me with romantic, indeed sexually explicit, text messages. I texed her back and asked her to stop, but her ardour seemed only to intensify. Her last message came at 2.15am. She wrote: U R 4 Me I No u Luv Me 2.

I have decided to call my new novel Larry Topper, Boy Wizard. I have emailed the first page to Brick Eagleburger, my agent.

Wednesday, February 21

Dreamt that Gordon Brown was prime minister. Received a text message from Brick. It read: JK Rowling, you aint. But stupid U R.