I saw her in the Co-op this afternoon. Maxwell House was having a tantrum at the checkout so I was spared from speaking to her. The poor woman looked dead miserable. Still it serves her right for being promiscuous. I wonder who the father is?
FRIDAY JUNE 11TH
My father is getting fed up with his job as a canal bank renovation supervisor. He says that no sooner do Boz, Baz, Maz, Daz and Gaz, his gang, clear a section of canal than some slob comes along in the night and tips a month’s household rubbish on the virgin bank.
The gang are getting a bit disheartened and morale is low. I offered to set up a vigilante group but my father said that anyone who has carried an old mattress 300 yards in the dark is not going to be put off dumping it by a gaggle of spotty schoolboys.
SATURDAY JUNE 12TH
I have written to Mr Tydeman at the BBC and sent him another poem. I chose Norway as my theme, as I am quite an expert on the Norwegian Leather Industry.
Dear Mr Tydeman,
I had a few moments to spare so I thought I would pen you a letter and also send you my new poem ‘Norway’. It (the poem) is in the modernist school of poetry, in other words it isn’t about flowers and stuff and it doesn’t rhyme. If you can’t understand it, could you pass it on to someone who will explain it for you? Any modern poet will do.
Yours faithfully,
Adrian Mole (Aged 15%)
P.S. If you bump into Terry Wogan in the corridor could you ask him to mention my grandma on the air? Her name is May Mole and she is a seventy-six-year-old diabetic.
Norway
Norway! Land of difficult spelling.
Hiding your beauty behind strange vowels.
Land of long nights, short days and dots over ‘O’s.
Ruminating majestic reindeers
Tread warily on ice floes
Ever aware of what happened to the
Titanic.
One day I will sojourn to your shores
I live in the middle of England
But!
Norway! My soul resides in your watery fiords fyords
fiiords
Inlets.
SUNDAY JUNE 13TH
First after Trinity
Spent the day at Grandma’s reading the News of the World and eating proper food for a change. We had roast lamb and mint sauce made from the window box. Grandma is hoping that her next grandchild is a girl. She said, ‘You can dress girls nicely.’ She has already knitted a purple matinee jacket and half a pair of bootees.
She is using neutral colours ‘just in case’. I am dreading the day when there are feet inside the bootees.
MONDAY JUNE 14TH
Moon’s Last Quarter
Our usual postman has been replaced by another one called Courtney Elliot. We know his name because he knocked on the door and introduced himself. He is certainly no run-of-the-mill postman, he wears a ruffled shirt and a red-spotted bow tie with his grey uniform.
He invited himself into the kitchen and asked to be introduced to the dog. When the dog had been brought in from the back garden Courtney looked it in the eye and said, ‘Hail fellow, well met.’ Don’t ask me what it means; all I know is that our dog rolled over and let Courtney tickle its belly. Courtney refused a cup of instant coffee, saying that he only drank fresh-ground Brazilian, then he gave my father the letters saying, ‘One from the Inland Revenue I fear, Mr Mole,’ tipped his hat to my mother and left. The letter was from the tax office. It was to tell my father that they had ‘received information’ that during the previous tax year he had been running a spice rack construction company business from his premises, but that they had no record of such a business and so could he fill in the enclosed form? My father said, ‘Some rotten sod’s shopped me to the tax!’ I went off to school. On the way I saw Courtney coming out of the Singhs’ eating a chapati.
TUESDAY JUNE 15TH
Today Courtney brought a letter from the Customs and Excise Department. It asked my father (in very curt terms) why he hadn’t registered his spice rack business for VAT.
My father shouted at the letter and said, ‘Somebody’s got it in for me!’ My mother and father counted how many enemies they had made in their lives. It came to twenty-seven, not counting relations.
WEDNESDAY JUNE 16TH
My father is getting to dread Courtney Elliot’s cheerful knock on our door in the morning. This morning it was a letter from Access threatening to cut my father’s card in half.
I was hit on the head by a cricket ball today. It was my own fault. When I saw it coming towards me I shut my eyes and ran in the opposite direction. I am at home in bed waiting to see if concussion sets in.
Stick Insect has walked past our house six times.
THURSDAY JUNE 17TH
I have just found a list at the bottom of my mother’s shopping bag.
FOR IT AGAINST IT
Might be a girl
More family allowance Loss of independence
George doesn’t want it
Months of looking like the
side of a house
Pain during labour
Adrian bound to be jealous
Dog might not take to it
Am I too old at 37?
Varicose veins
PAS
FRIDAY JUNE 18TH
I pretended to be enthusiastic about the baby at breakfast today. I asked my mother if she had thought of any names yet. My mother said, ‘Yes. I’m going to call her Christabel.’
Christabel! It sounds like somebody out of Peter Pan. Nobody is called Christabel. The poor kid.
SATURDAY JUNE 19TH
Nigel and I went for a bike ride today. We set out to look for a wild piece of countryside so that we could get back to nature and stuff. We pedalled for miles but all the woods and fields were guarded by barbed wire and ‘keep out’ notices, so we could only get near to nature.
On the way back we had a philosophical discussion about war. Nigel is dead keen on it. It is his ambition to join the army. He said, ‘It’s a good life, and when I come back to civvy street I’ll have a trade.’
I thought, ‘What, as a contract killer?’ But I didn’t say anything. Most of the army cadets I know forget that real soldiers have to kill people.
SUNDAY JUNE 20TH
Second after Trinity. Fathers’ Day
My father has hogged the television for over a week, watching the lousy, stinking World Cup. This afternoon when I asked if I could watch a BBC2 documentary about rare Norwegian plants he refused to let me switch over, and he sat in the dark watching France versus Kuwait. He was sulking because I forgot it was Fathers’ Day. I made an official protest to my mother but she refused to arbitrate, so I went up to my room and brought my Falklands campaign map up to date. I also checked my Building Society account to see if I can afford a black-and-white portable. I am sick of being dependent on my parents’ television set.
I went downstairs just in time to see a dead good pitch invasion led by an Arab bloke in a head-dress. I don’t mind watching an interesting pitch invasion, it’s the football I can’t stand.
MONDAY JUNE 21ST
Longest Day.New Moon
Mr Scruton summoned the whole school into the assembly hall this morning. Even the teachers who are atheists were forced to attend.
I was dead nervous. It’s ages since I broke a school rule but Scruton makes you feel dead guilty somehow. When the doors were closed and the whole school was lined up in rows Scruton nodded to Mrs Figges, who was sitting at the piano, and she started playing ‘Hallelujah!’
Some of the fifth years (including Pandora) sang along using different words: ‘Hallelujah! What’s it to you?’ etc. It was quite impressive. Though I thought it was time that the blind piano tuner called again.
When the singing stopped and Mrs Figges was still, Mr Scruton walked up to his lectern, paused, and then said, ‘Today is a day that will go down in history.’ He paused long enough for a rumour to travel along the rows that he was resigning, then he shouted, ‘Quiet!
’ and continued, ‘Today at three minutes to nine a future King of England was born.’ All the girls, apart from Pandora (she is a republican), said, ‘Ooh! Lady Di’s ’ad it!’
Claire Neilson shouted: ‘How much did he weigh?’
Mr Scruton smiled and ignored her.
Pandora shouted, ‘How much will he cosf?’ and Mr Scruton suddenly developed good hearing and ordered her out of the assembly hall.
Poor Pandora, her face was as red as the Russian flag as she walked along the rows to the exit door, when she passed me I tried to give her a supportive smile, but it must have come out wrong because she whispered, ‘Still leering at me, Adrian?’
Mr Scruton dismissed the school after giving us a talk on what a good job the Royal Family do for British exports.
Went to bed early; it had been a long day.
TUESDAY JUNE 22ND
The new prince left the hospital today. My father is hoping that he will be called George, after him. My mother said that it’s time the Royal Family came up to date and called the Prince Brett or Jason.
Scotland are out of the World Cup. They drew 2-2 with Russia. My father called the Russian team ‘those Commie bastards’. He was not a bit gracious in defeat.
WEDNESDAY JUNE 23RD
Pandora has been put into isolation at school. She is working at a desk outside Scruton’s office. I left the following note on her peg in the cloakroom:
Pandora,
A short note to say that I admired your spirited stand on Monday.
From Adrian Mole, your ex-lover P.S. My mother is with child.
THURSDAY JUNE 24TH
Midsummer Day (Quarter Day)
Found a note on my peg at break this morning.
Adrian,
We were never lovers so it was inaccurate, indeed libellous, of you to sign your note ‘ex-lover’. However, I thank you for your note of support.
Pandora P.S. I am shocked to learn that your mother is enceinte. Tell her to ring the Clinic.
FRIDAY JUNE 25TH
My thing is 14cm extended and about 3cm in its unwoken state. I am dead worried. Donkey Dawkins of Five-P says his thing comes off the end of a ruler, yet he is only a week older than me.
SATURDAY JUNE 26TH
It was with great pleasure that I saw Mr Roy Hattersley on television tonight. Once again 1 was struck by his obvious sincerity and good vocabulary. Mr Hattersley was predicting that there will be an early election. He denied that Mr Michael Foot is too scruffy to be the next Prime Minister.
SUNDAY JUNE 27TH
Third after Trinity
I can’t go on with this charade of churchgoing every Sunday. I will have to tell Grandma that I have become an agnostic atheist. If there is a God then He/She must know that I am a hypocrite. If there en’t a God then, of course, it doesn’t matter.
MONDAY JUNE 28TH
Moon’s First Quarter
Bert rang me when I got home from school to bellow that Social Services had paid for him to have a phone in-stalled in his pensioner’s bungalow. Bert told me that he had already phoned one of his daughters in Melbourne, Australia, and Queenie had phoned her eldest son in Ontario, Canada. They had listened to Dial-a-Disc, the Recipe for the Day, the Weather Forecast, the Cricket News, and they were both looking forward to listening to the GPO’s Bedtime Story. I pointed out to Bert that he would have to pay for each phone call he made, but he laughed his wheezy laugh and said, ‘I shall probably be a gonner before the bill comes in.’ (Bert is nearly ninety.)
TUESDAY JUNE 29TH
Usual last-minute discussion about where we are going for our summer holiday. My father said, ‘It’ll probably be our last. This time next year we’ll have the nipper.’ My mother got dead mad, she said that having a baby was not going to restrict her. She said that if she felt like walking in the Hindu Kush next year, then she would strap the baby on her back and go.
The Hindu Kush! She moans if she has to walk to the bus stop.
I suggested the Lake District. I wanted to see if living there for a bit would help my poetry.
My father suggested Skegness. My mother suggested Greece. Nobody could agree, so we each wrote our choice on a scrap of old till roll and put them into a Tupperware gravy maker. We didn’t trust each other to make the draw so my mother went and fetched Mrs Singh.
Mrs Singh and all the little Singhs came and stood in our kitchen. Mrs Singh asked, ‘Why are you having this procedure, Mrs Mole? Can’t your husband decide?’ My mother explained that Mr Mole had no superior status in our house. Mrs Singh looked shocked, but she drew a piece of paper out of the hat. It said ‘Skegness’. Worse luck!
Mrs Singh excused herself, saying that she must get back to prepare her husband’s meal. As she left I noticed my father glance wistfully at her in her pretty sari and jewelled sandals.
I also noticed him looking sadly at my mother in her overalls and ankle boots. My mother said, ‘That poor downtrodden woman.’
My father sighed and said, ‘Yes.’
WEDNESDAY JUNE 30TH
My mother wants to move. She wants to sell the house that I have lived in all my life. She said that we will need more room ‘for the baby’. How stupid can you get? Babies hardly take any space at all. They are only about twenty-one inches long.
summer
THURSDAY JULY 1ST
Dominion Day(Canada)
Nigel has arranged for me to have a blind date with Sharon Botts. I am meeting her at the roller-skating rink on Saturday. I am dead nervous. I don’t know how to roller-skate - let alone make love.
FRIDAY JULY 2ND
Borrowed Nigel’s disco-skates and practised skating on the pavement in our cul-de-sac. I was OK so long as I had a privet hedge to grab at, but I dreaded skating past the open-plan gardens where there is nothing to hold on to.
I wanted to wear my skates in the house so that I would develop confidence, but my father moaned about the marks the wheels made on the cushion floor in the kitchen.
SATURDAY JULY 3RD
12.15p.m. Got up at 6 a.m. for more roller-skating practice. Mr O’Leary shouted abuse because of the early morning noise, so I went to the little kids’ play park and practised there, but I had to give up. There was so much broken glass and dog muck lying about that I feared for the ballbearings in the skates. I waited for the greengrocer’s to open, bought a pound of grapes, went home, had a bath, washed my hair and cut my toenails etc. Then I put my entire wardrobe of clothes on to the bed and tried to decide what to wear.
It was a pitiful collection. By the time I had eliminated my school uniform I was left with: three pairs of flared jeans (flares! Yuk! Yuk! Nobody wears flares except the worst kind of moron), two shirts, both with long pointed collars (long points! Yuk!), four of Grandma’s handknitted jumpers (handknitted! Ugh!). The only possible clothes were my bottle-green elephant cords and my khaki army sweater. But which shoes? I had left my trainers at school and I can’t wear my formal wedding shoes to a roller-skating rink, can I?
At 10.30 I rang Nigel and asked him what youths wore at roller-skating rinks. He said, ‘They wear red satin side vent running shorts, sleeveless satin vests, white knee socks, Sony Walkman earphones and one gold earring.’ I thanked him, put the phone down and went and had another look at my clothes.
The nearest I could get were my black PE shorts, my white string vest and my grey knee socks. I am the only person in the world not to have a Sony Walkman and I haven’t had my ears pierced so I couldn’t manage those two items, but I hope that Sharon Botts won’t mind too much.
Do I go in my shorts etc. or do I change when I get to the rink? And how will I know which girl is Sharon Botts? I’ve only seen her in school uniform and in my experience girls are unrecognizable when they are in civilian clothes.
Must stop, it’s time to go.
6 p.m. That’s the first and last time I go roller-skating. Sharon Botts is an expert. She went whizzing off at 40 mph, only stopping now and again to do the splits in mid-air.
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She sometimes slowed down to say, ‘Let go of the barrier, Dumbo,’ but she didn’t stay long enough for me to divert her into having a longer conversation. When it was time for the under-twelves to monopolize the rink, she sped to the barrier and helped me into the coffee bar. We had a Coke then I clumped off to the cloakroom to get the grapes. When I gave her them she said, ‘Why have you bought me grapes? I’m not poorly.’ I dropped a hint by looking knowingly at her figure in its lycra body stocking and miniskirt but then the roller disco started and she sped off to do wild disco dancing on her skates.
She was soon surrounded by tall skated youths in satin shorts so I staggered off to get changed.
I rang Nigel when I got home. I complained that Sharon Botts was a dead loss. He said that Sharon Botts had already rung him to complain that I had showed her up by dressing in my school PE kit.
Nigel said that he is giving up matchmaking.
SUNDAY JULY 4TH
Fourth after Trinity.American
Independence Day
I was just starting to eat my Sunday dinner when Bert Baxter rang and asked me to go round urgently. I bolted my spaghetti Bolognese down as quickly as I could and ran round to Bert’s.
Sabre, the vicious Alsatian, was standing at the door looking worried. As a precaution I gave him a dog choc and hurried into the bungalow. Bert was sitting in the living room in his wheelchair, the television was switched off so I knew something serious had happened. He said, ‘Queenie’s had a bad turn.’ I went into the tiny bedroom. Queenie was lying in the big saggy bed looking gruesome (she hadn’t put her artificial cheeks or lips on). She said, ‘You’re a good lad to come round, Adrian.’ I asked her what was wrong. She said, ‘I’ve been having pains like red-hot needles in my chest.’
Bert interrupted, ‘You said the pains were like red-hot knives five minutes ago!’
‘Needles, knives, who cares?’ she said.
I asked Bert if he had called the doctor. He said he hadn’t because Queenie was frightened of doctors. I rang my mother and asked for her advice. She said she’d come round.