Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years

  It is as I feared: Mrs Hedge is a slut. The phone rang non-stop. Took messages: ‘Ted phoned.’ ‘Ian rang.’ ‘Martin called.’ ‘Call Kingsley back.’ ‘Julian rang: Are you going to the launch on Tuesday?’

  I was mopping the kitchen floor when Mrs Hedge returned. She was carrying a large shrub and four tins of Carlsberg.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘It looks like I’ve struck lucky. Do you like housework, Mr Mole?’

  ‘I find it difficult to tolerate disorder,’ I said.

  She went out into the garden to plant the shrub, then sat on the patio on an iron chair, swigging Carlsberg out of the tin. She didn’t seem to notice the cold. When it started to rain, she came into the house, got a golfing umbrella from the jar in the hall, and went back out again. I went up to my room to work on my novel, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland.

  When I next went downstairs, there was no sign of Mrs Hedge. I was pleased to see three tins of Carlsberg still left in the fridge. She may be a slut and an eccentric, but, thank God, she is not yet an alcoholic.

  Monday March 4th

  Mrs Hedge was still in bed when I got back from work. The kitchen was a disgrace. The Carlsberg was gone from the fridge. She must have drunk them in bed! It is the only conclusion.

  Wednesday March 6th

  Went to Pandora’s to pick up my post. Nothing exciting. Letters from the Market Harborough Building Society, Reader’s Digest and Plumbs, a firm promoting stretch covers. How did Plumbs get hold of my name and address? I have never shown the slightest interest in soft furnishings. Pandora has turned my box room into a study. I opened a file on her desk marked, ‘Lecture Notes’. Didn’t understand a word. They were written in what was probably Serbo-Croat.

  Thursday March 7th

  I walked into the bathroom tonight without knocking. Mrs Hedge was in the bath, shaving her legs. I will buy a bolt for the door tomorrow. I’d guess she is at least 38C.

  Friday March 8th

  Mrs Hedge said, ‘Feel free to invite your friends round, Mr Mole.’ I told her that I hadn’t got any friends. I walk alone.

  When I told Leonora the same thing, she said, ‘Before our next session, please try to speak to a stranger; smile and initiate a conversation; and make a new female friend.’

  Saturday March 9th

  There was a stranger in the kitchen when I came down. He was eating Marmite on toast. He said, ‘Hi. I’m Gerry’

  I smiled and said, ‘Good morning. I’m Adrian Mole.’

  That was the extent of our social intercourse. I found it difficult to initiate a conversation with a man wearing a woman’s negligee and nothing else.

  I made myself a cup of tea and left.

  I wish I was back in my box room.

  Monday March 11th

  Mr Major on the news. He said, ‘I want us to be where we belong, at the very heart of Europe, working with our partners in building the future.’

  A peculiar thing: Mr Major cannot say the word ‘want’ to rhyme with ‘font’, which is the correct English pronunciation. For some reason, he says ‘went’. I suspect that this disability stems from childhood. When little John lisped, ‘I want some sweeties,’ etc., etc. Did his father leap down from his trapeze and shout, ‘I’ll give you want!’? Or shout, ‘Say want again and I’ll beat you black and blue,’ thus leaving little John sobbing into the sawdust of the Big Top and unable to pronounce that little English word?

  My heart goes out to him. He is obviously in urgent need of therapy. It seems to me that we have both suffered for having embarrassing fathers. I will bring the subject up when I next see Leonora.

  Tuesday March 12th

  Brown slipped down a grassy bank and bruised his coccyx at the weekend. He was collecting owl droppings. He has been incapacitated and is lying on a plank on his bedroom floor. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! Three cheers!

  Wednesday March 13th

  Brown’s deputy, Gordon Goffe, is throwing his weight (twenty stone) about. He is conducting an enquiry into ‘postage stamp pilfering’. This is just my luck. I was about to send the opening chapters of my novel Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland off to Faber and Faber today. I shall have to fork out for the stamps myself. Once they have read these chapters, they will be panting for the rest.

  Thursday March 14th

  The Birmingham Six have been released from prison.

  Gordon Goffe is lumbering around the offices, carrying out spot checks on our drawers. Megan was found to have an illicit box of DOE ballpoints. She has received an oral warning. No session with Leonora this week. She is attending a conference in Sacramento.

  Friday March 15th

  Barry Kent was on Kaleidoscope reading from Dork’s Diary. The little I heard was nihilistic rubbish. Goffe barged into my cubicle and said that I was not allowed to listen to Radio Four during office hours. I pointed out that Mr Brown had never objected.

  Goffe said, ‘I am not Mr Brown,’ a statement so stupid that I was lost for an answer. I’ve got an answer now, at three minutes past midnight, but it is obviously too late.

  Saturday March 16th

  Called round to Pandora’s flat for my letters. Nothing of interest: circular for thermal underwear; Reader’s Digest competition entry form – prize: a gold bar; Plumbs catalogue, offering discount on mock velvet curtains. I am twenty-four next month and I must confess, dear journal, that I had expected by now to be in correspondence with interesting and fascinating people. Instead, the world seems to think of me as a person who gets up in the morning, puts on his thermal underwear, draws his mock velvet curtains and settles down to read his new copy of Reader’s Digest.

  The cat looked thin, but was pleased to see me. I gave it a whole tin of cat food. Pandora was out, so I had a good look around the flat. Her underwear drawer is full of disgusting sex aids. Bluebeard is obviously not up to it.

  Sunday March 17th

  Had an interesting talk about the Russian elections with the girl in the local newsagent’s this morning. Then, as she handed me my Sunday Times, she remarked (joking, I presume), ‘It’s very heavy. Would you like me to help you carry it home?’

  ‘No,’ I jocularly replied. ‘I think I can just about manage.’ Though, as I took it, I pretended to buckle under its weight. How we laughed.

  She is quite pleasant-looking in a sort of unassuming sort of way.

  6.00 p.m. On rereading the above, I think I have been unfair to the girl in the newsagent’s. A gingham nylon overall is not the most flattering of garments. And I didn’t see her legs, as they were behind the counter at all times.

  I have just read the Sunday Times books section and was appalled, astonished and disgusted to see that Dork’s Diary is at number ten in the hardback bestseller list today!

  Monday March 18th

  Called in at the newsagent’s for a packet of Polos on the way to work. The girl joked that I was paying for fresh air, i.e. the hole! This hadn’t occurred to me before, so I handed the Polos back to her and said, ‘Okay, I’ll have Trebor Mints instead.’ Again, we laughed uproariously. She has certainly got a good sense of humour. Legs still behind the counter. Brown still malingering at home. Goffe still rampaging in the office. Leonora will be pleased to hear about the girl in the newsagent’s.

  Tuesday March 19th

  A letter from Pandora, my first at Sitwell Villas:

  Sunday, March 17th

  Adrian,

  I have asked you many times to return the front door key to this flat. You have not yet done so. I’m afraid I must give you an ultimatum. Either the key is in my possession by 7 p.m. on Tuesday night, or I call out a locksmith, have the lock changed and send the bill to you. The choice is yours. I will no longer tolerate you:

  a) interfering in the cat’s feeding pattern;

  b) snooping in my underwear drawer; or

  c) helping yourself to food from the refrigerator when I am not there.

  As I have said, I will continue to redirect your post (such as it is) and relay any mess
ages that I consider to be urgent.

  At 6.59 p.m., I pushed an envelope containing the key, a ten-pence piece and a terse note under the door of Pandora’s flat. The note said:

  Pandora,

  a) In my opinion, the cat is too thin and appears to be lacking in energy;

  b) I vividly remember you saying that ‘Suspenders, etc. are symbols of women’s enslavement to men’s lust.’ Ditto vibrators;

  c) The pot of crab paste in the refrigerator was mine. I purchased it on February 20th this year. I have the receipt to prove it. I admit that I did help myself to a slice of bread. I enclose, as you cannot fail to see, a ten-pence coin, as remuneration for the slice of granary.

  Wednesday March 20th

  How do I get the legs out from behind the counter?

  Thursday March 21st

  Her name is Bianca. A strange name for somebody working in a newsagent’s. They are usually called Joyce. I saw her carrying boxes of crisps from a delivery lorry into the shop. Legs okay, but ankles a bit bony, so, on a scale of one to ten, only five.

  9.00 p.m. Leonora was in a strange mood tonight. She was annoyed because I was fifteen minutes late. I pointed out to her that she would be paid for the full hour.

  She said, ‘That’s not the point, Adrian. Our sessions together are carefully structured. I insist that you are punctual in future.’

  I replied, ‘My chronic unpunctuality is one of my many problems. Shouldn’t you be addressing it?’

  She crossed her shapely legs under her black silk skirt and I saw a flash of white. From that point on I was helpless and could only nod or shake my head in answer to her questions. Speech was beyond me. I felt that if I opened my mouth I would utter crude inarticulate protestations of lust, which would frighten her and signal the end of our time together.

  Ten minutes before the end of our session she said, ‘You are displaying typically regressive behaviour at the moment, shall we take advantage of it?’

  I nodded and she encouraged me to talk about my earliest memories. I remembered being bitten by a dog and my grandma applying iodine to the wound. I also remember my (now dead) grandad kicking the dog round the kitchen.

  Then it was time to fork out £30 and leave.

  Saturday March 23rd

  Mrs Hedge asked me if she should marry Gerry, sell up and move to Cardiff. I advised against it. I have only just settled in, found out how to work the grill pan, etc. I can’t face looking for alternative accommodation. Anyway, why ask me? I’ve only spoken to the ugly brute a few times.

  Sunday March 24th

  The lavatory seat was up, so I guessed that Gerry was in situ. I went to buy my newspaper from Bianca and, on my return, sure enough, Gerry and Mrs Hedge were in the kitchen eating eggs and bacon. Mrs Hedge didn’t look pleased to see me. I threw a few Rice Krispies into a bowl and took them up to my room. But, by the time I’d got upstairs, they had stopped snapping and crackling and popping, which annoyed me considerably. I loathe soggy cereals.

  Monday March 25th

  Gerry is now a fixture. I am like a cuckoo in the nest. A gooseberry in the strawberry patch. A piranha in the goldfish bowl. Conversation stops when I enter the kitchen or sitting room and they are there. I wanted to watch the Oscar ceremony on television tonight, but Gerry snatched the remote control and kept it on his lap, thus denying me the pleasure of seeing that gifted and modest actor Jeremy Irons win an Oscar for Britain. I had to hear this wonderful news on Radio Four and visualize Mr Irons’s delight myself. Whoever said that the ‘pictures are better on the radio’ was completely wrong.

  Tuesday March 26th

  I have asked Bianca to give me prior warning, should a suitable-sounding postcard arrive at the shop offering accommodation. She agreed. I think she finds me personable. Haste has changed the meaning of the above sentence: postcards cannot walk into a newsagent’s and talk suitably. Leonora cancelled tonight’s appointment. ‘An emergency,’ she said.

  Am I not an emergency? My sanity hangs by a gossamer thread. Leonora is the only barrier between me and the public ward in a lunatic asylum. How will she live with herself if I am admitted foaming at the mouth and struggling inside a straitjacket?

  Wednesday March 27th

  Mr David Icke, who is a famous Leicester person, has revealed that he is a ‘channel for the Christ spirit’. He went on television and told the goggling press that his wife and daughter were ‘incarnations of the archangel Michael’. He blamed the planet Sirus for bringing earthquakes and pestilence to the world. Gerry and Mrs Hedge mocked him and said he is barmy, but I’m not so sure. We Leicester people are known for our level heads. Perhaps Mr Icke knows something that we ordinary mortals cannot even guess at.

  Thursday March 28th

  Bianca studied Astronomy in the sixth form. She said this morning, ‘There is no such planet as Sirus.’ But, as I pointed out to her, ‘David Icke did say that Sirus was undiscovered, so naturally no reference would be found to it in the books, would it?’

  A queue formed, so we were forced to break off our discussion. I called in on my way home from work, but Bianca was busy – some old git was complaining about his newspaper bill.

  Friday March 29th

  The more I think about David Icke’s predictions, i.e. that the world will end unless it ‘purges itself of evil’, the more it makes sense. He is a successful man, who was employed by the BBC, no less! He was also a professional goalkeeper for Hereford City. We should not be too quick to scoff. Columbus was once mocked for remarking that the world was round. Something that was verified by the first US astronauts.

  My mother rang tonight to ask me what I want for my birthday next week. I told her to get me the usual, a book token. She went on to say that Leicester was agog about David Icke, and that ‘there has been a run on turquoise track suits’ (worn by Mr Icke’s followers). She said she felt sorry for his mother. Apparently, Mr Icke claimed he was born on the planet Sirus, whereas his mother said in the Leicester Mercury that she distinctly remembers giving birth to him in the Leicester General Maternity Hospital.

  I ran out of bananas tonight. I had to walk to the outer suburbs before finding an off-licence that stocked them.

  Saturday March 30th

  Posted two birthday cards to myself. I put second-class stamps on, so they should get here by Tuesday morning.

  Spring

  Monday April 1st

  A man with a Glaswegian accent rang me in my cubicle this morning and said, ‘I have just finished reading the opening chapters of your novel Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland and I want to publish it next year. Would an advance of £50,000 be acceptable?’

  I stammered out, ‘Yes,’ and asked to whom I was speaking.

  ‘A. Fool!’ laughed the imposter, and slammed the phone down.

  How cruel can you get? For fifteen seconds, I had achieved my ambition. I was a professional writer living in my own house. I’d learned to drive. I had a car in the garage. I had a Rolex watch and a Mont Blanc pen. There was an air ticket to the USA in the pocket of my cashmere coat. Fan letters bristled inside my leather briefcase. Invitations to literary events were stacked on the mantelpiece. Then my dream was shattered by the hoaxer and I went back to being simple Adrian Mole, who was halfway through writing a report on newt movements, in a cubicle in a DOE building in Oxford. I suspect Goffe.

  Tuesday April 2nd

  Birthday cards from Mother, Rosie, Father, Grandma, Mrs Hedge and Megan. Six cards in all. Not bad, I needn’t have posted two to myself.

  Presents

  1) Ten pound book token from mother.

  2) W. H. Smith voucher from father (fiver).

  3) 2 pairs of socks from Mrs Hedge (white).

  4) Cactus plant from Megan (obscene).

  No surprise party. No candles to blow out. No singing. No Leonora until Thursday.

  Wednesday April 3rd

  I am twenty-four and one day old. Question: What have I done with my life? Answer: Nothing.

  Gra
ham Greene died today. I wrote to him four years ago, pointing out a grammatical error in his book The Human Factor. He didn’t reply.

  Thursday April 4th