Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Sex is not everything

Friday, April 6, Arthur Askey Way, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

A belated birthday card from Pamela Pigg. On the front, a picture of a middle-aged git, sitting at a rustic table outside a thatched pub. A black labrador lies at the git's feet, next to a wicker basket from which protrude several fishing rods, nets, etc. The git is wearing a green waxed jacket and a deerstalker, and is raising a foaming tankard to his self-satisfied lips. In the background is a vintage car, presumably owned by the git.

For how long did Pamela shop for this card? And when she found it, did she exclaim, "At last! This is the perfect card for Adrian Mole"? She must know by now that I hate thatch, dogs, tankards, fishing, tweed — in fact, almost everything to do with the countryside. I am urbane to my very fingertips. Inside, Pamela had written: "Adrian, Mon Amour, let's try again. Sex is not everything, Love Piglet."

Query: do I want to try again with Pamela? Most of our trysts seem to end in tears, snot and recriminations. She is ludicrously oversensitive: last autumn, when we were walking in the woods, she wept because the leaves were leaving "their mothers" (the trees).

Saturday, April 7

Against my better judgment, I rang Pamela and asked her to accompany me to Nigel's official coming-out party. I could not risk being mistaken for a single gay man. I regretted my invitation as soon as I saw her outfit. No woman over 17 should wear a sequinned boob tube, in my opinion. And her comedy earrings were not at all amusing. Nigel's parents looked shell-shocked — his mother still thinks his homosexuality is a "silly phrase [sic] he is going through".

That night, after yet another failed attempt at sexual congress (her fault, not mine), Pamela turned her back on me and began to weep piteously. I longed for sleep, but felt compelled to offer her comfort. Unfortunately, she was still there in the morning, naked, apart from the comedy earrings. When William barged into my bedroom, he said, disapprovingly, "You will have to get married now, Dad." He has never seen me in bed with a woman before, not even his mother.

Sunday, April 8

Pamela suggested that we go out for lunch "en famille". She recommended Ye Olde Carvery in Frisby-On- The-Wreake. Glenn and William were excited — they rarely eat out. On the way, in the car, I explained that Frisby-On-The-Wreake was a notorious centre for paganism. Pamela contradicted me violently, saying that Frisby had won best-kept hanging basket prize for three years running. I pointed out that the two could easily co-exist, and Glenn said diplomatically, "Yeah, a witch can 'ave 'an 'anging basket."

Ye Olde Carvery was full of wax-jacketed gits talking in loud voices about the poor cow who'd put her foot in it. I assumed they were banging on about foot and mouth, but Pamela had picked up a copy of The Mail On Sunday and told me the Countess of Wessex had been entrapped by a reporter dressed as an Arab sheikh into calling John Major «wooden», William Hague "a puppet", and foxes «vermin».

The carvery did not cater for vegetarians. Indeed, a glance at the trays of ye olde foode congealing behind the bar told me that Ye Olde Carvery did not cater for any person with a normal appetite, tastebuds, etc. On the way out, one of the gits laughed at Pamela's comedy earrings. I could hardly object.

Wednesday, April 11

Awake all night with irritating dry cough. Sweated profusely.

Thursday, April 12

TB has broken out only two kilometres from my door! And I have all the symptoms. Dr Ng was summoned. He angrily removed a red sequin from the back of my throat.