Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

The bleeding countryside

Friday, March 16

I went to visit my father today in the isolation ward. He was due to be discharged yesterday, but has contracted yet another hospital superbug. Some of his blood, and several of his mucous membranes, are in the hospital laboratory being tested. Tracy, his barrier nurse, was reading aloud to him an article on foot and mouth from the Daily Telegraph. When she quoted, "Farmers are the custodians of the countryside", my father roared, "The bastards have ruined the bleeding countryside. They have pulled up the hedges, polluted the rivers, fed their animals on shit, and bled the taxpayer dry." My father is wildly prejudiced against farmers. In the early days of their marriage, he suspected that my mother had an affair with a maggot farmer. It is strange how such a tenuous connection can colour our opinions. I, myself, have not stepped foot in the county of Kent since my enemy, Barry Kent, had his novel short-listed for the Booker prize.

I didn't stay long at his bedside, as I was anxious to get back to my prehistoric novel, Krog From Gork. I am enjoying the challenge of writing a book set in a time before language was invented. I tried to interest my father in the challenge, but could tell by the way he yawned and closed his eyes that he had little enthusiasm for my latest literary endeavour. After a desultory conversation about the umpiring in Sri Lanka, I left the stifling atmosphere of his isolation cubicle.

Tracy resumed her reading. As I got to the end of the ward, I heard my father shout, "Nobody compensated me when the electric storage heater industry collapsed. Nobody came to film the rusty heaps of storage heaters lying in the fields."

Saturday, March 17

My mother has been released from Holloway. The Crown Prosecution Service has lost the papers relating to her case. She was distraught to discover that her newish husband, Ivan Braithwaite, was back living at The Lawns with his ex-wife, Tania. They claim that they are living like brother and sister.

Sunday, March 18, lunchtime

There was a farmer's wife on the midday news sobbing because her healthy baby lambs were going to be slaughtered. Me, William and Glenn watched with tears in our eyes. Then Glenn said, after blowing his nose, "Dad, what would 'ave 'appened to them little lambs if foot and mouth 'adn't broke out?"

I try not to lie to my sons. I replied, "Those little lambs would have been herded into a truck, driven to a far-away abattoir, killed and hung on a hook, before being cut into pieces." Perhaps I shouldn't have been so graphic, as both boys have since informed me that, from now on, they will eat only vegetarian food. This is extremely annoying. As I write, a leg of lamb is cooking in the oven.

Monday, March 19

I rang Pandora on her mobile; she was at Wells-next-the-Sea, trying to charm a crowd of suspicious whelk workers. Apparently, female whelks are still mutating and growing penises. "And the bloody cod have practically disappeared," she complained. I tried to comfort her by saying, "At least you were not called to give evidence in front of Elizabeth Filkin and her committee in the Vaz case." Her phone immediately cut off. The signal must be weak on the Norfolk coast.

Tuesday, March 20

Progress on the novel:

Krog squatted behind his wife, picking lice from her matted hair. Her belly was big with child. Krog did not know why. Krog wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her. He wished that somebody would hurry up and invent language and clothes and shampoo. Then Krog spoke to his wife: 'You woman, me man.