by Sue Townsend
In anguish and speak
Of my heartache and longing
And alienation
From family and friends
And the rest of the nation.
Tuesday, November 21
Brick Eagleburger has sent my epic poem, The Restless Tadpole, to a certain Geoffrey Perkins at BBC TV Centre. I asked Brick which department Mr Perkins worked in. Brick said, ‘The guy’s head of suckin’ comedy’ I angrily pointed out that The Restless Tadpole is an entirely serious dramatic work written in the tradition of the Icelandic sagas. Brick said, ‘Listen up, Adrian, I flicked through the suckin’ manuscript Tadpole and I godda tell ya I almost peed my suckin’ pants, it’s so funny’ Brick carried on, ‘My favourite scene is when the tadpole is lying in Marilyn Monroe’s garden pond and it overhears Arthur Miller talking crap about Tolstoy.’
I have always known that Brick Eagleburger is a Philistine; however, he is now totally misrepresenting me and my work.
Wednesday, November 22
In my session tonight I asked my beloved Dave if it was normal to recite the Lord’s Prayer before crossing the road. He raised his eyebrows slightly and fiddled with his ponytail before replying enigmatically, ‘Normal is as normal does’.
What does this mean? Dave is obviously my intellectual superior. I am not worthy to be his client.
Thursday, November 23
I have engaged the services of an additional therapist. This will enable me to talk about Dave for 55 minutes non-stop twice a week. My new confidante is called Angelica House. She is middle-aged, that’s all I can remember about her. I am seeing her tomorrow after work.
Friday, November 24
Angelica has explained to me that my love for Dave Mutter is nothing more than what is called in the mental health trade ‘transference’. She is a wonderfully empathetic woman and I think I may be a little in love with her.
Geoffrey Perkins is wild about The Restless Tadpole. He wants to cast Dawn French in the title role.
Monday, November 27
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Today is only the first day of Ramadan, yet Mohammed at the BP garage is already in a bad mood due to the fasting laws imposed on him by his religion. In a normal day at work, he would eat three packets of cheese-and-onion crisps and a Kit Kat or two. I remarked to him that he could do with losing at least four stone in weight. To my astonishment, he burst into an angry denunciation of my character and appearance, ending up with, ‘You should take a good look at yourself in the mirror, Moley.
You’ve got enough hair sprouting out yer nostrils to weave a mouse’s shoppin’ basket. And you look five months pregnant’. I apologised at once for my rudeness. I tried to explain that my therapists, Dave Mutter and Anjelica House, were encouraging me to be honest during social intercourse. This seemed to exacerbate his anger, but thankfully he was diverted from giving me another tongue-lashing by a strident female motorist complaining about the lack of toilet paper in the ladies.
As I walked across the forecourt, I pondered on our conversation. From where did Mohammed get his image of my nasal hairs being woven into a mouse’s shopping basket? And what was his reference to my looking five months pregnant about?
Tuesday, November 28
I took off my clothes and examined myself carefully in the wardrobe mirror this morning. My front view is quite nice. My shoulders are slightly stooped, my pectorals are perhaps lacking definition, but I am still above average in the looks department. However, my profile leaves a lot to be desired and, yes, Mohammed, my old schoolfriend, you spoke the simple truth: in profile, I do look five months pregnant. My belly, once a discreet concave, is now distinctly convex. How did this happen without my noticing?
I am shocked to discover that my son, Glenn, is keeping what he calls a top secret dairy. He has also written on the cover in barbed-wire writing ‘Open This Dairy At Your’e Perul’. I was very tempted to find out what the boy had written about me, and had I been able to prise the lock off without it being detected I may well have found out.
Wednesday, November 29
Can anybody tell me why we British export our beef to France and why the French export their beef to Britain? I have asked many people, but nobody has been able to provide me with a satisfactory answer. I had a session with Dave Mutter tonight after work. I told him about Mohammed’s remark about the mouse’s shopping basket. Dave said he found Mohammed’s imagery to be ‘extremely disturbing’. He suggested that Mohammed seek professional psychiatric help.
I am pleased to report that my fixation with Dave Mutter is over. He is simply a dull baby boomer with a Minnie Mouse voice and an out-dated pony tail. However, Anjelica House, my second opinion therapist, is a truly magnificent woman. Why did I not appreciate the attractions of late middle-aged women before? How come I have never noticed the beauty of their crows’ feet or the delicious way their upper arms sag when they plump a cushion?
Midnight: Pandora has just rung to find out if my father has recovered from his hospital-borne infection yet. I told her that he was still being barrier nursed. She was delighted: she wants to use him to illustrate a point about privatised hospital cleaning services. Before she rang off, she hinted that the row between John Prescott and Dominique Voynet was in fact more of a lovers tiff! So, were they slaking their lust while the world festered on its axis? If so, we, the world’s population, should be told.
Tuesday, November 28
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
My mother has signed up to be an Earth Watch volunteer. She is hoping to count birds migrating over a lake in Kenya. Frankly, I am disgusted. My mother is abusing a worthy conservation project. To my sure knowledge, she has never shown the slightest interest in birds, Kenya or counting. She is obviously hoping to get a free holiday. Earth Watch should be informed: she can’t even count. The figures for migrating Kenyan birds could be hopelessly confused for years to come. This could lead to stress and trauma amongst ornithologists and their possible premature deaths.
I confided in Glenn my worries about the orphans of the Kenyan ornithologists. He furrowed his brow: ‘Why are you worrying about somethin’ that ‘asn’t ‘appened yet, Dad’ I had no satisfactory answer. Later, my therapist, Angela House, asked me precisely the same question. Perhaps I should give her £25 fee to Glenn. At least it would keep the money in the family, and save me the trouble of driving to Mrs House’s house, thus avoiding the attendant parking problems and the embarrassment of overhearing Mr House urinating in the downstairs cloakroom.
Wednesday, November 29
I rang my mother’s house this morning, and was astonished and outraged to learn that she was in Paris! Ivan Braithwaite told me she had gone to the hotel where Oscar Wilde died 100 years ago this week. How dare she swan about on the Eurostar when people are starving? It is disgusting. Especially when it is me who is the Wildean expert.
Few who saw it will ever forget my depiction of Lady Bracknell in the sex-swap performance of The Importance Of Being Earnest at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive School in 1982.
Friday, December 1
Brick Eagleburger has asked his solicitor, Peter Elf, to take a civil action against the American government. Brick is now convinced that his postal vote has been violated. Apparently, Mr Elf was reluctant at first to take on the US, being more used to doing a little light conveyancing in the Hampton Wick area.
Saturday, December 2
I have resigned from my position at Eddie’s Layby Cafi. The work was very unfulfilling and I never properly came to terms with the constant smell of rancid fat on my clothes. Eddie took my resignation with equanimity. He said, ‘I knew you weren’t cut out for the caterin’ industry the first time I clapped eyes on yer. You ain’t got the wrists for it’ I asked him in what way my wrists were deficient. He answered, ‘They gotta be flexible for the butterin’ and the fryin’, an’ your wrists are about as flexible as a lump of bleedin’ coal.’
I related this conversation to Glenn as we prepared lobster nugg
ets for our dinner. He asked, ‘What’s a lump of coal?’ I said, ‘It was a piece of black, shiny rock that we used to set fire to and burn in fireplaces’ He laughed long and hard. The lad thinks that central heating has always been around. He probably thinks that Jesus had a double radiator in the manger.
Sunday, December 3
The rabble on the estate have formed themselves into a choir and are going from door to door demanding money for singing a few discordant notes of Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody. Those of us refusing to hand over a few silver coins are threatened that our wheelie bins will be pushed down the road and possibly overturned. I phoned Greg Dyke, our community policeman, but could only get his voicemail.
Monday, December 4
William has been chosen to play third shepherd in the school Nativity play. I went to Habitat tonight and bought him a new tea towel for his headdress. Only the best is good enough for my son.
Wednesday, December 6
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
William still believes in Santa Claus, and he nagged me to take him to see ‘Santa’ abseil down the side of Debenhams last night before ceremonially entering his grotto on the third floor. We stood at the front of the crowd and when Santa landed with his beard askew and his red suit in disarray from the harness, William shouted, ‘Santa, will you bring me a PlayStation 2 for Christmas’ Santa replied, ‘Of course I will, lad’ I could have killed the old git: How am I going to get the money together to buy a PlayStation; they are £200. And, anyway, there are none to be had in the land. Shall I tell the truth to William and inform him that the abseiling Santa was in fact a grizzled member of The Rockettes, the Leicestershire Rock Climbing Club (a person who has no authority to make promises about Christmas presents), or do I wait until December 25 to see the disappointment on the kid’s face?
My extended family is in turmoil about Christmas arrangements. Nobody knows where to go on Christmas Day, Boxing Day, or New Year’s Eve. Only one thing is certain; I will not be entertaining anybody in this house. I can’t even afford the Barbie Advent calendar that William has set his heart on. I asked Mohammed in the garage if I could buy one for half price, being, as we are, half way through the month. But he refused! How mean can you get? He said he would put the Barbie Advent away until next year and get the full price. So much for good will to all men.
Thursday, December 7
Tania Braithwaite gave out a grudging invitation to us to join her at The Lawn on Christmas Day as we stood in adjoining queues in Safeway. She said, ‘Come round if you’ve nowhere else to go’ A quick glance into her trolley reminded me of her turkeyless and chocolateless attitude to the festivities. Soya products predominated, and there were a dozen bottles of elderflower cordial. No wonder my father refuses to get better and shake off his hospital-borne infection. He planned to spend Christmas Day with Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse. The balloons, crackers and party-poppers are in the hospital steriliser even as I write.
Friday, December 8
Pamela Pigg rang today? She said, ‘I can’t get you out of my mind, Aidey’ Glenn overheard (her voice is rather shrill). He said darkly, ‘You’d ‘ave to be outta your mind to go out with her again, Dad’ Pamela has got a new job working with tramps, although she calls them the single homeless. She told me that there are several vacancies in the night shelter. She added that she thought I had all the qualities needed to work with such unfortunates. ‘Yeah, you ain’t got no sense of smell,’ said Glenn. He was alluding to my recent failure to detect a packet of five-week-old prawns which I’d inadvertently left in the car next to the heater. Others were gagging as I drove, to my considerable bewilderment. Perhaps I should go to the Leicester Royal Infirmary and ask for a nasal efficiency test.
Saturday, December 9
My mother has covered the front of her house in a life-sized flashing bulb depiction of Santa on his sleigh. It is vulgar beyond belief. Her front garden is dominated by cardboard cut-outs of Posh, Becks and Baby Brooklyn. Each has a wire coat hanger and tinsel halo about their heads. ‘They are the holy family of the year 2000,’ she said. However, I predict that she will soon tire of the crowds who collect after dark every night. Somebody has already stolen Brooklyn’s manger.
Monday, December 11
Brick Eagleburger is suing Peter Elf, his solicitor, for failing to protect his rights as an American Postal Voter, after Elf refused to act for Brick, saying he was ‘a bit rusty’ on the intricacies of US constitutional law.
Tuesday, December 12
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Crowds continue to flock to gawp at the Posh, Becks ‘n’ Brooklyn tableau in the front garden of my mother’s house. Encouraged by the attention, she has added three kings bearing gifts. The first king (Tom Hanks) is dangling a Prada carrier bag from his cardboard fingers. The second king (Danny DeVito) is offering Baby Brooklyn a Gap fleece. The third king (Sylvester Stallone) is holding a bottle of Calvin Klein aftershave. I asked her where she got the life-sized cardboard cutouts. She said she had a contact in the film business. I predict disaster. The neighbours are furious because they can’t park their own cars outside their own houses. The police have been called twice and warned my mother she could be charged with breaching the peace. Citing his fragile mental health, Ivan Braithwaite, my mother’s most recent husband, has gone back to live with his ex-wife Tania, at The Lawns. My mother, Ivan and Tania all claim that this is only a temporary and platonic arrangement. But I’m not so sure.
When I drove Ivan away from Wisteria Walk with his overnight bag and his laptop, I saw him visibly relax. And when he stepped into the spacious, white-carpeted, quiet hall he was almost in tears. Tania greeted him with a glass of elderflower cordial and a homemade mince pie. Playing quietly in the background was a Charlotte Church CD. It was hard to decide which was the most sickly: the cordial, the mince pie or the trilling of Miss Church. I was glad to get out. As I closed the front door, I overheard Ivan say to Tania, ‘It’s been absolute hell, Tania’ I was alarmed to hear her reply, ‘You’re home now, Ivan.’
Wednesday, December 13
My poor father, he knows nothing about the new arrangements at The Lawns. Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse, said through her mask, ‘He mustn’t be exposed to any emotional trauma, it could kill him’ Adding. ‘He’s in line for the Longest-Stay Patient award’ I promised not to tell him that his new wife was once again living with her ex-husband. And that his ex-wife was riding roughshod over several laws of the land.
Thursday, December 14
I had to forge the following note from Santa tonight. I laid it on William’s pillow before I put him to bed:
Dear William Mole,
I have been watching you all year, and have been pleased with your behaviour. However, I am sorry to have to tell you that my elves have failed to manufacture enough Playstation 2s, therefore you will not find this item on the sofa on December 25.
Yours,
Santa Claus,
Greenland
PS. Two thousand elves have received redundancy notices.
He cried for half an hour because Santa had written ‘yours’, instead of ‘love’. He is a very sensitive boy.
Friday, December 15
The Nativity play started 15 minutes late because one of the parents, a certain Mrs Lucy Morgan, tried to smuggle a video camera into the assembly hall. She refused at first to give it up, citing the Freedom of Information Act. The headmaster, Mr Tree, cited the European Privacy Law. Several Guardian readers got involved in the ensuing debate. Some were on the side of Mrs Morgan, others sided with Mr Tree. William was, quite frankly, a most disappointing shepherd. He dropped his sheep and in a bored manner began to kick it around the stage. At one point, the kicked sheep came dangerously close to toppling the baby Jesus (a swaddled Action Man) from his cradle. Glenn commented as we waited for William, ‘Mr Blair says it’s all right for parents to smack their kids now, Dad’ I said, ‘I can hardly beat William for being a bored shepherd, Glenn’ He replied, ‘If h
e’d had Jesus outta his cradle, I’d ‘ave jumped on the stage an’ give him one myself.’
Friday, December 22
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Another night out! This time at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, my alma mater, to see Glenn in The Holiday Play. In my day, it was simply called the Nativity play. In the 1982 performance, Pandora was a mesmeric Mary. Several men in the audience fainted during Jesus’s protracted forceps delivery. I sat next to Mohammed, whose daughter Raki was in the cast playing a glue-sniffer running away from an arranged marriage. To my considerable consternation, Glenn had been cast as a homeless abuser of alcohol. The production was confused, because the children had not been given lines or told where to stand or, in fact, when to take their entrances and exits. This led to severe overcrowding on the stage at times, and necessitated Mr Billington, the young drama teacher, to issue loud instructions that could clearly be heard above the horrible din of the school orchestra.
Roger Patience, the headmaster, sat next to the stage with his head in his hands. The action apparently took place in a night shelter. A pregnant female called Marie turned up with her ‘partner’ Joe and asked the social worker in charge for sanctuary. What Marie actually said was, ‘I gotta lie down coz I’m ‘aving a kid an’ the filth is after me for nickin’ a swaddlin’ cloth outta the everythin’s a pound shop’ To which the social worker⁄innkeeper in turn replied, ‘Ya gotta be jokin’, ain’t ya? There ain’t no bleedin’ room, it’s holiday time, you shoulda booked’ Here, Joe intervened: ‘Don’t dis my chick, man’. Then Glenn made his entrance and proceeded to give an alarmingly realistic depiction of a man who had consumed several bottles of methylated spirits.
A female derelict⁄angel came on and shrieked, ‘I just seen a bright star appear in the east. It weren’t there before. It done my ‘ead in’ Mohammed’s daughter then entered sniffing on a tube of Bostick (empty, I hope). I felt Mohammed shift uncomfortably in his seat. I lost track of the dramatic events after that and turned my attention to the programme. I noticed that Pamela Pigg had been credited with ‘facilitating research on the homeless’.