The True Confessions of Adrian Mole, Margaret Hilda Roberts and Susan Lilian Townsend
Page 12
Well, old girl, most stop now, I have to bathe in the stream and later rebuild my little hut which blew down in the night.
Yours with love and devotion
Cecil Parkhurst
PS. Could you make it a large jar?
Wednesday June 1st
I saw Cecil tonight! We sat inside his crude hut illuminated only by the candle I had slipped inside my knickers. He told me the whole sordid story: how he had been cruelly seduced by a girl who, instead of doing the decent thing and going to Switzerland for nine months, had stayed in the district and paraded her shame for all to see. Cecil, poor pet, had subsequently been banished from Grantham (Father has forbidden his name to be mentioned in our shop).
I swore to Cecil that I would not rest until he was reinstated into some high office in the Youth Club. I asked what other skills he possessed.
He said, ‘Well, I used to be quite good at tinkering about with the electrics on my Hornby train set.’
Thursday June 2nd
Mother was seen hob-nobbing with Mrs Arkwright this morning; they were admiring each other’s aprons. Father warned her against getting too familiar. He said, ‘As a Christian you have a duty to avoid the ungodly.’
Mother replied, ‘Oh go and stick your head in the pickle barrel you stuck up prat!’
And this in front of Mrs Arkwright! Father sent Mother upstairs immediately. After she had slammed the bedroom door he turned to me and said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you Margaret, steer well clear of the working classes. Not only do they pollute the air, they also have a deleterious effect on the vocabulary.’
This evening in my role as Chairwoman of the Methodist Youth Club I proposed that Cecil be given the job of rewiring the premises – he would be Head of Electricity. There were a few grumbles but the motion was carried and a runner (Wriggley Ridley) was sent to inform Cecil that his period in the wilderness was over.
Friday June 3rd
Mother has gone on strike. She stayed in bed all day reading Madame Bovary and eating violet creams. Nothing father said or did would shift her. She is demanding a wage for her work in the shop! I fear this is a sign of madness. She will surely end up in the Grantham Insane Asylum. This is tragic for us all. Father may have to employ somebody to help in the shop and keep the house. And how will we afford the bus fare to the lunatic asylum once a week?
Saturday June 4th
Mother has come to her senses. She was downstairs as usual this morning. Her day of insurrection has not been mentioned.
Sunday June 5th
Glancing through the accounts I noticed a new entry: ‘Mrs Roberts, wages: sixpence a week.’
So, Father has capitulated to industrial action has he? How despicable! That is something I would never ever do.
We have not yet had a reply from the King. We are most displeased. When we are Queen we will remember this insult. We will take our revenge on our royal relations. The Throne! The Throne! The Throne!
Correspondence of a Queen in Waiting
Dear Claire,
We are a woman of sixty plus years old, married to a man much older than myself. Our children have long fled from the nest. I have a demanding and fulfilling full-time job. I live in several comfortable homes. My social life is rich and varied and I travel the world and meet interesting, powerful people. I have a very posh accent and am terribly good at things.
My problem is this. Nobody likes me. I know this for a fact. Wherever I go people grovel and fawn and smile to my face, but they do this out of fear; their eyes show their terror.
I am so unhappy, Claire; what do you advise?
Size Fourteen of Westminster.
Dear Size Fourteen,
Well, well, well. You are in a dither aren’t you? Is there a possibility that you have halitosis, or an offensive body odour? Or perhaps you are too good at things. How about a public failure? Have you considered coarsening your accent? You say your husband is much older than yourself. Does this mean that you have ceased to have a warm, loving relationship? If so why not try awakening his desires? There are some wonderful multi-coloured condoms on the market now, any of which would add pep to your marriage bed.
Claire.
Dear Claire,
1 Four Metropolitan Police sniffer dogs have examined me for halitosis and body odour. All four pronounced me odour free.
2 I have already tried public failure: four million people are unemployed in this country.
3 I occasionally forget myself and coarsen my posh accent in the heat of debate.
4 I sent for the condoms and gave them to my husband; saying, ‘for the bedroom dear’. He blew them up and hung them over the bed.
What am I to do?
Size Fourteen of Westminster.
Dear Size Fourteen,
I now know who you are. If you want friends you must resign. There is no alternative.
Claire.
Dear Earnest Eggnogge,
How dare you waste my time; don’t you know I am a de facto royal personage? I’ve received some whining, snivelling, wipe my eyes, pass the Kleenex letters in my time, but yours truly takes the Huntley and Palmers. Quite frankly, I don’t give a toss that your old mother died of hypothermia last winter or that your zit-faced, moronic teenaged lout of a son has not worked since leaving school. And the news that your wife has been waiting for six years to have her nasty, infected womb removed left me cold. Haven’t you got a sharp knife, for God’s sake? Show some initiative, man, borrow a surgical handbook from the library (be quick, I’m thinking of privatizing them), scrub the kitchen table, put your wife on her back and delve in there. (Wash your hands first.)
In your horrible working-class handwriting you inform me that your stinking lavatory pan has been leaking for over a year and that rats regularly cavort in your living room. Can’t you see the obvious solution, you contemptible prole? Train the rats to do simple tricks – jumping over cans of baked beans, etc., charge the public an entrance fee to goggle at the spectacle and with the proceeds you can stroll around a bathroom supplies centre and nonchalantly order yourself a whole bathroom suite, should you so wish.
You dare to say that I am out of touch with ‘real people’ and suggest that I ‘jump on a train and come up North’.
Firstly, Mr Eggnogge, I am married to a ‘real person’. Denis is, contrary to appearances, neither a robot, nor an extraterrestrial being, nor an aqueous creature who crawled out of a deep lake.
Secondly, I would rather spend the night with Guy the Gorilla (yes, I know he’s dead) than climb aboard one of those vile, rattling contraptions and visit you all up there in slag heap land. We have nothing in common. I hate ferrets, dripping, pigeons, corner shops and fat, ugly pale people who are unable to speak in complete sentences and who don’t understand how the International Monetary Fund works.
Finally, at the end of your letter you bleat on about your dole payment, calling it a ‘pittance’ and an ‘affront to your dignity’. This last bit made me laugh quite a lot. What did you get for Christmas? A subscription to Marxism Today?
Listen, parasite, that’s the point, don’t you see? We don’t need you and your sort any more. Get the message now? Take my advice, shovel the coal out of the bath, then fill it up and jump in and drown yourself.
H. M. Thatcher.
NB. Note to Private Secretary
Tidy this up a bit will you Rupert?
Dear Mr Eggnogge,
The Prime Minister was most concerned to hear of your difficulties. She is looking into the various matters you raised in your letter.
Yours sincerely,
Rupert Brown Bear.
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