Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 13

We went into the kitchen where my father demon-strated the juicer machine to an indifferent William. Henry, however, watched my father's every move with rapt attention.

Tania asked me how the book was progressing.

Perhaps if I stay awake for three days and nights on the trot I will be able to write it. Noel Coward wrote Private Lives over a long weekend with the aid of stimulants. I rang Nigel for help on how to track down some Pro-plus, but he was out at his grandma's funeral, Started on the introduction at midnight, when the household was relatively quiet.

h.e.l.lo Offal lovers, Man has lived on offal since time began: petrified offal has been found in ancient caves in France, proving that offal was once the staple diet of French cavemen. This legacy can still be seen today in the world-famous French cuisine, to which flock gourmets from throughout the world.

There is something about the last sentence that is not quite right. The syntax? The grammar? After spending an hour staring down at it, I went to bed, exhausted.

Wednesday November 5th Ivan has put a veto on a bonfire or fireworks in the garden, saying, 'They're primitive, barbaric and dangerous. It's time that Guy Fawkes Night was abolished.' The government seem to agree with him. The population of Britain are being urged to attend organized events with paramedics in attendance. I bought William some sparklers and he waved them about a bit on the patio. The New Dog watched through the patio doors. Worked on the introduction until 3 a.m.

The gourmets today still flock from their homes throughout the world to partake of the legacy which is offal!

It's still not quite right.

Thursday November 6th William had a mega-tantrum in Clarks. He wanted a pair of mini Doc Martens in red patent leather with twelve lace-holes. I wanted him to have a pair of black-leather Velcro-fastening 'school shoes'. He sank on to Clark's carpet and screamed. At the manager's request, I dragged him out of the shop. I ended up buying him some Bugs Bunny slip-on plimsolls from Woolworths. They are totally unsuitable for winter, but if he wears thick socks with them his feet should be warm enough.

When we got home my mother said, 'I thought you went out to buy winter shoes. He'll catch his death in those.' She looked down at the plimsolls disdainfully. I felt my parental confidence seep out of the house.

Friday November 7th I now have no income. I am eating into my capital. Rang the bank call centre in a panic, but forgot code word. I told the woman on the line that it was the name of a seaside resort on the east coast, but she simply repeated, 'I am afraid I must ask you for the fifth letter of your pa.s.sword, sir.'

I pleaded with her for my balance, but to no avail.

Have our financial services been colonized by extraterrestrials? Is it all a plot to send us mad and take over the world? I am not given to paranoid fancies normally, dear Diary, but I confide in you that I am seriously thinking of withdrawing all my money and placing it in a box under my bed. I've worked hard for that money and no Martian is going to get its slimy green hands (tentacles?) on it.

Sent the introduction and one further offal recipe to Arthur Stoat. A sense of achievement.

Sat.u.r.day November 8th What was I thinking of, dear Diary? I wouldn't dream of keeping my money under my bed. I shall hide it in several faux baked-bean tins, and keep them on the top shelf of the pantry.

Sunday November 9th Poppy Day I dropped a pound coin in a collecting tin by mistake today. I'd meant to give 20p. The old man shaking the tin was quite rude. He almost slammed the 80p change into my hand.

Monday November 10th Brick rang at 3 p.m., he said he'd had a fax from Arthur Stoat.

FAX MESSAGE.

To: Mr Brick Eagleburger From: Arthur Stoat Date: 10.11.97.

Dear Mr Eagleburger, Your client Mr Adrian Mole has reneged on his agreement with Stoat Books Ltd, to deliver the completed ma.n.u.script of Off ally Good!--The Book! by 1st November.

I seriously doubt that Mr Mole is capable of writing this book and suggest that you and Mr Mole find a ghost-writer with the ability to complete the task. He will, of course, be expected to meet any expenses incurred.

Given the somewhat 'hand-to-mouth' nature of Stoat Books' finances and the fact that we have missed a crucial opportunity to capitalize on the Christmas market, Mr Mole's failure to deliver means that the staff of Stoat Books will not now be enjoying their end-of-year bonus. This is especially disappointing as research conducted by Stoat Books Ltd has shown that one in ten male student viewers intended buying the book for their mother or stepmother.

I have moved the delivery date to the third week of December and hope to publish on January 14th to coincide with the first transmission of Ping with Singh.

Yours sincerely, A.N. Stoat Managing Director--Stoat Books Ltd What is this Ping with Singh? It's the first I've heard of it.

Tuesday November 11th I was in Safeway for the one-minute silence. The cash registers were turned off. An a.s.sistant on the cheese counter giggled nervously after thirty seconds.

Apparently Dev Singh has written a book on microwave cookery. Serialization rights have been bought by Good Housekeeping and there is already talk of a stage adaptation to be directed by Ned Sherrin.

Wednesday November 12th Ivan asked me in the kitchen this morning to get my own phone/fax line installed. He said that he is starting up a new business as a website designer and needs to use his line exclusively. I pointed out to him that the line did in fact belong to my mother, who was my blood relation; therefore I had more authorization over the line than he did.

He spluttered, 'That's patent nonsense. Your mother and I are life partners, and what's more I paid the last b.l.o.o.d.y phone bill, and fitted a new fax roll.'

When I reminded him that I paid PS40 a week to live in this house he said, 'We heavily subsidize you and William, who's constantly leaving the lights on and wasting food.'

Rosie came in, looking upset. She wiped the bread-knife on the corner of her pyjama jacket and said to Ivan, 'If you don't like it here, why don't you go home to your wife?'

Ivan said, 'I happen to be in love with your mother, and she happens to be in love with me, check?'

He went outside to sort his recycling bags before the dustbin men came. Rosie watched him from the window as she waited for her toast to cook. She said, 'Which do you hate most about him? His Birken-stocks, his hairy wrists, or the cap he wears when it rains?'

I said, 'The way he says, 'Enjoy,' before every meal.'

Thursday November 13th After taking William to school I went to the Housefinder centre and informed them that I urgently required a three-bedroomed detached house with a garden to rent for no more than PS60 per week. I stipulated that it must be in a superior area where there were no rough people. It must have trees and the garden should face south. The person behind the desk, a moustachioed youth wearing a too-big suit, said, 'We don't cover the Highlands of Scotland.' I gave him my card, but as I was pa.s.sing the window I saw him drop it into the wastebin.

When I picked William up from Kidsplay Ltd, he said, 'Your breath smells like poo, Dad.'

This was only half an hour after I had rigorously brushed my teeth. For how long has my breath smelled like poo?

I mobiled for an appointment and drove to the surgery, where Mr Chang the dentist broke the news to me that I have got a gum disease called pyorrhoea. Unless I have PS1,000 worth of treatment immediately I could be toothless in a year.

Mr Chang used to be NHS but he no longer caters for the poor: 'They bring tooth decay on themselves,' he said. 'They are always eating the confectionery.' So, Opal Fruits have brought me to this.

Mrs Wellingborough, Chang's receptionist, whispered to me that it might be worth getting a second opinion. Apparently Chang is up in front of the dentists' self-regulatory council next week for overcharging a woman for a clean and polish. Mrs Wellingborough recommended Jeffrey Atkins. 'He's the crime de la creme,' she said. I am seeing Atkins next Tuesday.

Rosie has found a fiendish method of causing Ivan pain. During a discussion at the dinner table about our lack of outings as children, Rosie said to my mother, 'You never took us nowhere.' She saw Ivan wince and whisper, 'Double negative,' to himself.

She has been torturing him grammatically ever since.

Sat.u.r.day November 15th I took William to Twycross Zoo today. It was a terrible mistake. When he saw that the lions were in cages, he wept and pleaded, 'Let them out, Dad, please, let them out.' He seemed to be under the impression that they were cartoon creatures, rather than live beasts capable of tearing his head from his shoulders.

Sunday November 16th It has been revealed that a millionaire with a fringe and aviator gla.s.ses--Bernie Ecclestone--has donated PS1,000,000 to the Labour Party's funds. The tiny formula One boss is anxious to keep tobacco sponsorship for his noisy sport. Tony Blair is baffled and hurt by public criticism and charges of corruption. 'I'm a pretty straight kinda guy,' he said. I have been pondering this statement. Break the sentence down and much is possibly revealed.

Bowels--blocked Mood--black Prospects--hopeless Breath--foul Monday November 17th People have been flinching away from me all day. My gums have turned me into a social pariah.

Tuesday November 18th Jeffrey Atkins was shocked at the shoddy state of my mouth and Chang's fillings. He examined me and said that my bad breath is the result of 'impacted food in one tooth only'.

As he probed my mouth he held forth on the state of the arts in Leicester. It was, of course, a one-sided conversation though I hope my eye-rolling was eloquent). I stumbled into the reception area where I asked Hazel the receptionist if it was possible to give Jeffrey a tip. She said, no, dental etiquette forbids tipping.

Friday November 21st Michael Hutchence of INXS is dead, choked by his own belt, which was tied to a hotel doork.n.o.b. My mother said she couldn't understand why men choke themselves in order to achieve heightened s.e.xual satisfaction. She said, 'He made love to some of the most beautiful women in the world, so why would he want to hang off a door?'

Ivan said, 'Because it's less complicated than having a relationship with a woman. One doesn't have to tell a door twenty times a day that one loves it.'

Well! Well! Well! Is Ivan tiring of my mother's emotional neediness?

Sat.u.r.day November 22nd Pandora graced Wisteria Walk with her presence after her surgery at the health centre. She was tired and irritable and complained about the long hours she was working. She hates her const.i.tuents. Their incessant complaints about council-house transfers and on-in-the-day street lights are driving her crazy. She said, If it wasn't for Mandy and our Grand Plan I would go back to Oxford.'

Naturally I asked her what the 'Grand Plan' was. She said, 'I'm to be the first woman Prime Minister in Britain.'

I said, 'And Mrs Thatcher? She never existed?'

'Mrs Thatcher is a man in drag, everybody knows that,' she said contemptuously.

I reeled back at this revelation. 'What's her/his real name?' I asked, agog.

'Leonard Roberts,' she said. 'His parents disliked boys, so he was rechristened Margaret by a crooked vicar in Grantham and re-registered in the next district by a registrar who forged a new birth certificate. Leonard was dressed like a girl and treated like a girl.'

'And his genitalia?' I questioned.

'Abnormally small,' she said.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask. Did Denis know his wife was really a man?

And how did Thatcher give birth to the twins, Carole and Mark? I told Pandora about my 'William Hague is Thatcher love-child theory'. She said, 'No, William Hague is the result of a cloning experiment conducted in the sixties. The sperm was taken from Churchill and the eggs were donated by Thora Hird.'

She then went into the kitchen to have a 'girly' talk with Rosie and my mother. They laughed solidly more or less for an hour and a half, only stopping when I went in to complain about the cigarette smoke pouring out from under the door.

Sunday November 23rd To The Lawns to set fire to William's Christmas list in their open fireplace. This method of sending the list to Santa is a Mole tradition that I am determined to keep up. I won't easily forgive my parents for boarding up our own fireplace and putting a storage heater in the gap between the plywood and the fender. William wants: Po Tinky Winky Laa-Laa Dipsy And the other one whose name always escapes me.

My father said, 'You do realize, don't you, that there's none to be had?' He p.r.o.nounced the aitch in 'had'. He p.r.o.nounced 'that' as thet. He was wearing Timberland deck-shoes, and stroking Henry's glossy head. He is Eliza Doolittle to Tania's Henry Higgins.

Monday November 24th Took the New Dog to the vet's to get its nails cut. It keeps skidding across the kitchen lino like Torville or Dean, whichever is the hairiest.

An envelope containing my fan mail came today. A man in Wolverhampton, Edwin Log, wrote to tell me that he has eaten offal every day of his life for forty-five years and 'enjoys perfect health'. A woman in Battersea said I was encouraging the 'ma.s.s murder of the innocents'. She said she would like to see me hung by my intestines from Blackfriars Bridge.

Tuesday November 25th William asked me why I don't go to work like other daddies do'.

I told him that I am a published author and a TV presenter--a personality in fact. I pointed to the five fan letters on my desk/dressing-table and said, 'People out there love me.'

William went to the window and looked down on the street. 'There's n.o.body out there,' he said.

Thursday November 27th 3.30 a.m. I am at William's hospital bedside. He is being kept in overnight for observation after placing a coffee bean in his left ear 'to see if it would rattle'.

It has been removed, but they had to give him a general anaesthetic. It has been the most harrowing night of my life, it took me, my mother and two nurses to hold him down while a tiny woman doctor, called Surinder, examined his ear with an illuminated probe. The casualty department at the Leicester Royal Infirmary was rent with his screams. When the decision was made to operate I turned on my mother in my anguish saying, 'I hold Ivan Braithwaite responsible. It was he who introduced the coffee bean to Wisteria Walk.'

She didn't respond in the way I expected. Instead she said, 'I hear what you're saying, I hear your anger.'

I was in the recovery room with William when he came round from the operation. He cried for my mother. A nurse saw that I was upset by this and said, 'He doesn't know what he's saying.' But I think he did know. I now realize that I'm not the most important person in his life, as he is in mine.

Friday November 28th William is a lovely boy--especially when slightly sedated by prescription drugs. I am writing this in the hospital restaurant--Nightingales. I am alone in the seventy-seat non-smoking section. Whereas the small smoking section is crammed full of doctors and nurses. Why don't they see the light and give up? Had an All-Day Breakfast, was annoyed when they forgot my black pudding. Went to counter to complain, was told it was either mushrooms or black pudding. I offered to pay extra for the black pudding, but was told the computerized till wouldn't allow this. Raised voice to fat girl with pretty face behind counter.

She said, 'It's not my fault.'

I said, 'n.o.body accepts responsibility for anything any more. n.o.body apologizes, n.o.body resigns.'

She looked mystified.

Went back to non-smoking section to find smokers goggling and All-Day Breakfast congealed on the plate.

3 a.m. Still here, at bedside. Nurses in love with William. He has told them that he is having all four Teletubbies for Christmas. A very nice staff nurse called Lucy came up to me and said, 'If you've got a source, I'm desperate for a Po.'

I confessed that I had no Teletubby 'insider knowledge'. This is quite worrying: perhaps I should start a search.

I asked why William had not been discharged yet. Staff Nurse Lucy (blonde, slim, fair hairy arms, b.r.e.a.s.t.s 5/10) said, 'Dr Fong is slightly concerned about the bruising on his lower back.' I explained that William had fallen off the arm of the sofa while pretending to take a corner as Jeremy Clarkson. Lucy, who has a three-year-old daughter, said, 'They're mad at that age, aren't they?' and laughed. However, Dr Fong had never heard of Jeremy Clarkson, and obviously didn't believe my explanation.

Sat.u.r.day November 29th Royal Infirmary--Nightingales Still here. William's body and mind are under investigation. I have pleaded with him to stop saying, 'No, Dad, no,' etc., but he has turned into a fiend. I left him surrounded by his adoring grandparents and step-grandparents, who are showering him with toys and sweets and pop-up books. No wonder he doesn't want to come out.

Lucy is a single parent like me. Her daughter is called Lucinda. Staff Nurse Lucy said that Lucinda can also be a fiend, and once shouted, 'Are you going to lock me in the cupboard when we get home, Mummy?' in the queue at Homebase. Lucy's relationship with a policeman has just broken up because of his deception when on a late shift. She said, 'I really enjoy talking to you, Mr Mole, or can I call you Adrian?'

Ten reasons why I am not attracted enough to Staff Nurse Lucy to ask her out.

Hairy arms--blonde hairs but far too many of them.

Has seen Sir Cliff Richard in Wuthering Heights, eleven times.

Thought Tolstoy wrote Love in a Cold Climate.

Lucinda.

Prefers normal to lemon Jif.

Thinks it's exciting that Chris Evans has bought a radio station from Richard Branson for eight million pounds. She thinks they are 'two fun guys'.

Likes Princess Anne because she is 'hard-working'.

Failed the Auberon Waugh test.

Unwittingly let on that she has a neon sign in her lounge window, which flashes 'Merry Yuletide' every three seconds.

Claims never to have even heard of the Independent, let alone read it.

My father was there. He said, sounding like his old self, 'If you don't shut your trap, lad, I'll shut the bleeder for you.'

William shut his trap and allowed me to dress him in his outdoor clothes. He was escorted out of the hospital by his entourage, consisting of me, Rosie, my father, my mother, Ivan and Tania.

He held my hand in the car and refused to let it go. It was a bit awkward changing gear, but I didn't mind.

Monday December 1st Phoned bank successfully! I have got PS7,961.54 in a high-interest account. I know it's correct because a robot called Jade told me.

My mother has written a poem called, 'A Weeping Womb'. She is sending it to the Daily Express, to a bloke called Harry Eyres. I told her that it stood no chance of being published. Harsh, I know, but I can't bear her to be disappointed.

Sunday November 30th Dr Fong has allowed William to go home, even though William shouted, 'Please, Dad, please, I want to stay with Staff Nurse Lucy.'

The Weeping Womb by Pauline Mole Hush! Is that weeping? Listen awhile--'Tis something within me--Not distant (a mile) Quiet! Is that sobbing?

From whence does it come? My pelvis is throbbing Quite near to my b.u.m, Hark to the crying! Pay heed to the pain My womb--it is dying! Ne'er fertile again!