Said goodbye to Pandora: she wept very touchingly. She brought me one of Blossom’s old horseshoes to take into hospital. She said a friend of her father had a cyst removed and didn’t come out of the anaesthetic. I’m being admitted to Ivy Swallow Ward at 2 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time.
6 p.m. My father has just left my bedside after four hours of waiting around for permission to leave. I have had every part of my body examined. Liquid substances have been taken from me, I have been weighed and bathed, measured and prodded and poked, but nobody has looked in my throat!
I have put our family medical dictionary on my bedside table so that the doctors see it and are impressed. I can’t tell what the rest of the ward is like yet because the nurses have forgotten to remove the screens. A notice has been hung over my bed; it says ‘Liquids Only’. I am dead scared. 10. p.m. I am starving! A black nurse has taken all my food and drink away. I am supposed to go to sleep but it is like bedlam in here. Old men keep falling out of bed. Midnight. There is a new notice over my bed; it says ‘Nil by Mouth’. I am dying of thirst! I would give my right arm for a can of Low Cal.
TUESDAY OCTOBER 27TH
New Moon
4 a.m. I am dehydrated!
6 a.m. Just been woken up! Operation is not until 10 a.m. So why couldn’t they let me sleep? I have got to have another bath. I told them that it is the inside of my body that is being operated on, but they don’t listen.
7 a.m. A Chinese nurse stayed in the bathroom to make sure I didn’t drink any water. She kept staring so I had to put a hospital sponge over my thing.
7.30 a.m. I am dressed like a lunatic, ready for the operation. I have had an injection, it is supposed to make you sleepy but I’m wide awake listening to a row about a patient’s lost notes.
8 a.m. My mouth is completely dry, I shall go mad from thirst, I haven’t had a drink since nine forty-five last night. I feel very floaty, the cracks in the ceiling are very interesting. I have got to find somewhere to hide my diary. I don’t want prying Nosy Parkers reading it.
8.30 a.m. My mother is at my bedside! She is going to put my diary in her organizer-handbag. She has promised (on the dog’s life) not to read it.
8.45 a.m. My mother is in the hospital grounds smoking a cigarette. She is looking old and haggard. All the debauchery is catching up with her.
9 a.m. The operating trolley keeps coming into the ward and dumping unconscious men into beds. The trolley-pushers are wearing green overalls and wellingtons. There must be loads of blood on the floor of the theatre!
9.15 a.m. The trolley is coming in my direction!
Midnight. I am devoid of tonsils. I am in a torrent of pain. It took my mother thirteen minutes to find my diary. She doesn’t know her way round her organizer-handbag yet. It has got seventeen compartments.
WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 28TH
I am unable to speak. Even groaning causes agony.
THURSDAY OCTOBER 29TH
I have been moved to a side ward. My suffering is too much for the other patients to bear.
Had a ‘get well’ card from Bert and Sabre.
FRIDAY OCTOBER 30TH
I was able to sip a little of Grandma’s broth today. She brought it in her Thermos flask. My father brought me a family pack of crisps; he might just as well have brought me razor blades!
Pandora came at visiting time, I had little to whisper to her. Conversation palls when one is hovering between life and death.
SATURDAY OCTOBER 31ST
Hallowe’en
3 a.m. I have been forced to complain about the noise coming from the nurses’ home. I am sick of listening to (and watching) drunken nurses and off-duty policemen cavorting around the grounds dressed as witches and wizards. Nurse Boldry was doing something particularly unpleasant with a pumpkin.
I am joining BUPA as soon as they’ll have me.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 1ST
Twentienth after Trinity
The nurses have been very cold towards me. They say that I am taking up a bed that could be used by an ill person! I have got to eat a bowl of cornflakes before they let me out. So far I have refused: I cannot bear the pain.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 2ND
Nurse Boldry forced a spoon of cornflakes down my damaged throat, then, before I could digest it, she started stripping my bed. She offered to pay for a taxi, but I told her that I would wait for my father to come and carry me out to the car.
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 3RD
Election Day, USA
I am in my own bed. Pandora is a tower of strength. She and I communicate without words. My voice has been damaged by the operation.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 4TH
Today I croaked my first words for a week. I said, ‘Dad, phone Mum and tell her that I am over the worst.’ My father was overcome with relief and emotion. His laughter was close to hysteria.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 5TH
Moon’s First Quarter
Dr Gray says my malfunctioning voice is ‘only adolescent wobble’. He is always in a bad mood!
He expected me to stagger to his surgery and queue in a germ-filled waiting room! He said I ought to be outside with other lads of my age building a bonfire. I told him that I was too old for such paganistic rituals. He said he was forty-seven and he still enjoyed a good burn-up.
Forty-seven! It explains a lot, he should be pensioned off.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 6TH
My father is taking me to an organized bonfire party tomorrow (providing I am up to it, of course). It is being held to raise funds for Marriage Guidance Councillors’ expenses.
Pandora’s mother is cooking the food and Pandora’s father is in charge of the fireworks. My father is going to be in charge of lighting the bonfire so I’m going to stand at least a hundred metres away. I have seen him singe his eyebrows many times.
Last night some irresponsible people down our street had bonfire parties in their own back gardens!
Yes!
In spite of being warned of all the dangers by the radio, television, Blue Peter and the media they went selfishly ahead. There were no accidents, but surely this was only luck.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 7TH
The Marriage Guidance Council bonfire was massive. It was a good community effort. Mr Cherry donated hundreds of copies of a magazine called Now! He said they had been cluttering up the back room of his shop for over a year.
Pandora burnt her collection of Jackie comics, she said that they ‘don’t bear feminist analysis’ and she ‘wouldn’t like them to get into young girls’ hands’.
Mr Singh and all the little Singhs brought along Indian firecrackers. They are much louder than English ones. I was glad our dog was locked in the coal shed with cotton wool in its ears.
Nobody was seriously burnt, but I think it was a mistake to hand out fireworks at the same time the food was being served.
I burnt the red phone bill that came this morning.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 8TH
Twenty-first after Trinity. Remembrance Sunday
Our street is full of acrid smoke. I went to see the bonfire, the Now! magazines are still in the hot ashes, they are refusing to burn properly. (Our red phone bill has disappeared, thank God!)
Mr Cherry is going to have to dig a big pit and pour quicklime over the Now! magazines before they choke the whole suburb.
Went to see Bert. He was out with Queenie.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 9TH
Back to school. The dog is at the vet’s having the cotton wool surgically removed.
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 10TH
My nipples have swollen! I am turning into a girl!!!
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 11TH
Veterans’ Day, USA. Remembrance Day, Canada. Full Moon
Dr Gray has struck me off his list! He said nipple-swelling is common in boys. Usually they get it when they are twelve and a half. Dr Gray said I was emotionally and physically immature! How can I be immature? I have had a rejection letter from the BBC! And how could I have walked to the surgery with swollen nipple
s?
I don’t know why he calls it a surgery anyway; he never does any surgery in it.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 12TH
Told Mr Jones I couldn’t do PE because of swollen nipples. He was extremely crude in his attitude. I don’t know what they teach them at teacher-training college.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 13TH
Pandora and I had a frank talk about our relationship tonight. She doesn’t want to marry me in two years’ time!
She wants to have a career instead!
Naturally I am devastated by this blow. I told her I wouldn’t mind her having a little job in a cake shop or something after our wedding, but she said she intended to go to university and that the only time she would enter a cake shop would be to buy a large crusty.
Harsh words were exchanged between us. (Hers were harsher than mine.)
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 14TH
Charred Now! magazines are blowing all over our cul-de-sac. They seem to have special powers of survival. The council have sent a special cleaning squad to try and trap them all.
The dog’s ears are now clear of cotton wool. It only pretends not to hear.
Went to see B.B. but he is out with Queenie. She is pushing him around the leisure centre.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 15TH
Twenty-second after Trinity
Read A Town Like Alice, by Nevil Shute, it is dead brill. I wish I had an intellectual friend whom I could discuss great literature with. My father thinks A Town Like Alice was written by Lewis Carroll.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 16TH
I came home from school with a headache. All the noise and shouting and bullying is getting me down! Surely teachers should be better behaved!
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 17TH
My father is a serious worry to me. Even the continuing news of Princess Diana’s conception does not cheer him up.
Grandma has already knitted three pairs of bootees and sent them off care of Buckingham Palace. She is a true patriot.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 18TH
Moon’s Last Quarter
The trees are stark naked.
Their autumnal clothes
Litter the pavements.
Council sweepers apply fire
Thus creating municipal pyres.
I, Adrian Mole,
Kick them
And burn my Hush Puppies.
I have copied it out carefully and sent it to John Tydeman at the BBC. He strikes me as a man who might like poems about autumn leaves.
I have got to get something broadcast or printed soon else Pandora will lose all respect for me.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 19TH
Pandora has suggested I start a literary magazine using the school duplicator. I wrote the first edition during dinner-time. It is called The Voice of Youth.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 20TH
Pandora looked at The Voice of Youth. She suggested that instead of writing the whole magazine myself, I invite contributions from other talented scribblers.
She said she would do a piece about window-box gardening. Claire Neilson has submitted a punk poem, it is very avant garde, but I am not afraid to break new ground.
Punk Poem
Society is puke,
Soiled vomit.
On the Union Jack
Sid was vicious
Johnnie’s rotten,
Dead, dead, dead.
Killed by greyness.
England stinks.
Sewer of the world.
Cess-pit of Europe.
Hail punks,
Kings and Queens
Of the street.
She wants it put in under an assumed name, her father is a Conservative councillor.
Nigel has written a short piece about racing-bike maintenance. It is very boring but I can’t tell him because he is my best friend.
We go to press on Wednesday.
Pandora is typing the stencils over the weekend. Here is my first editorial:
Hi Kids,
Well here’s your very own school magazine. Yes! Written and produced entirely using child labour. I have tried to break new ground in our first edition. Many of you will be unaware of the miracles of window-box gardening and the joys of racing-bike maintenance. If so, hang on to your hats, you’re in for a magic surprise!
ADRIAN MOLE, EDITOR
We are going to charge twenty-five pence a copy.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 21ST
Pandora’s father has stolen a box of stencils from his office. As I write, Pandora is typing the first pages of The Voice of Youth. I am half-way through writing an exposé about Barry Kent. It is called ‘Barry Kent: The Truth!’ He hasn’t dared to lay a finger on me since Grandma’s dramatic intervention, so I know I shall be safe.
Too busy to go and see Bert, I will go tomorrow.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 22ND
Last after Trinity
Finished the exposé on Barry Kent. It will rock the school to its foundations. I have mentioned Barry Kent’s sexual perversions – all about his disgusting practice of showing his thing for five pence a look.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 23RD
Had a Christmas card from Grandma, and a letter from the post office to say that they are cutting the phone off!
Forgot to call round and see Bert. Pandora and I were too busy putting the paper to bed. How I wish I was putting Pandora to bed.
2 a.m. What am I going to do about the phone bill?
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 24TH
Nigel has just gone off in a sulk. He objected to the editing I did on his article. I tried to point out to him that one thousand five hundred words on bicycle spokes was pure self-indulgence, but he wouldn’t listen. He has withdrawn his article. Thank God! Two pages less to fold.
The Voice of Youth hits the classrooms tomorrow.
Must go and see Bert tomorrow.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 25TH
We have been hit by a wildcat strike! Mrs Claricoates, the school secretary, has refused to handle The Voice of Youth. She says there is nothing in her job description to say she has to mess about with school magazines.
The editorial team offered to duplicate copies ourselves, but Mrs Claricoates says that she alone knows how to ‘work the wretched thing’. I am in despair. A whole six hours’ work wasted!
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 26TH
Thanksgiving Day, USA. New Moon
Pandora’s father is photocopying The Voice of Youth on his office machine. He didn’t want to, but Pandora sulked in her room and refused to eat until he agreed.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 27TH
Five hundred copies of The Voice of Youth were on sale in the dinner hall today.
Five hundred copies were locked in the games cupboard by the end of the afternoon. Not one copy was sold! Not one! My fellow pupils are nothing but Philistines and Morons!
We are dropping the price to twenty pence on Monday.
My mother phoned and wanted to speak to my father. I told her that he is on a fishing weekend with the Society of Redundant Electric Storage Heater Salesmen.
A postcard from the post office to say that unless my father phones the post office before five-thirty our phone will be disconnected.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 28TH
A telegram! Addressed to me! The BBC? No, from my mother:
ADRIAN STOP COMING HOME STOP
What does she mean ‘Stop coming home’? How can I ‘stop coming home’? I live here.
The phone has been cut off! I am considering running away from home.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 29TH
Advent Sunday
My mother has just turned up with no warning! She had all her suitcases with her. She has thrown herself on the mercy of my father. My father has just thrown himself on the body of my mother. I tactfully withdrew to my bedroom where I am now trying to work out how I feel about my mother’s return. On the whole I am over the moon, but I’m dreading her looking around our squalid house. She will go mad when she finds out that I have lent Pandora her fox-fur coat.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 3
0TH
St Andrew’s Day
My mother and father were still in bed when I left for school.
Sold one copy of The Voice of Youth, to Barry Kent. He wanted to discover the truth about himself. He is a slow reader so it will probably take him until Friday to find out. We are going to try dropping the price to fifteen pence to try to stimulate demand. There are now four hundred and ninety-nine copies to be sold!
My mother and father are in bed again and it’s only 9 p.m.!
The dog is very pleased my mother is back. It has been going about smiling all day.
TUESDAY DECEMBER 1ST
I called the post office and pretended to be my father. I spoke in a very deep voice and told a lot of lies. I said that I, George Mole, had been in a lunatic asylum for three months and I needed the phone to ring up the Samaritans, etc. The woman sounded dead horrible, she said she was fed up with hearing lame excuses from irresponsible non-payers. She said that the phone would only be reconnected when £289.19 had been paid, plus £40 reconnection fee, plus a deposit of £40!