by Sue Townsend
WEDNESDAY APRIL 21ST
It has just been on the news that Spain wants Gibraltar back.
THURSDAY APRIL 22ND
I couldn’t face taking my gap to school this morning so I stayed in bed until 12.45 p.m. I asked my mother for an excuse note. I gave it to Ms Fossington-Gore during afternoon registration. She read it angrily then said, ‘At least your mother is honest. It makes a change from the usual lies one has come to expect from most parents.’ She showed me the letter. It said:
Dear Ms Fossington-Gore,
Adrian did not come to school this morning because he didn’t get out of bed until 12.45.
Yours faithfully,
Ms Pauline Mole
I will get my father to write my excuse notes in future; he is a born liar.
FRIDAY APRIL 23RD
St George‘s Day (England).New Moon
Barry Kent came to school in a Union Jack tee-shirt today. Ms Fossington-Gore sent him home to change. Barry Kent shouted, ‘I’m celebratin’ our patron saint’s birthday, ain’t I?’
Ms Fossington-Gore shouted back, ‘You’re wearing a symbol of fascism, you nasty NF lout.’
Today is also Shakespeare’s birthday. One day I will be a great writer like him. I am well on the way: I have already had two rejection letters from the BBC.
SATURDAY APRIL 24TH
Barry Kent’s father is on the front of the local paper tonight. He is pictured holding Barry Kent’s Union Jack T-shirt. The caption underneath his picture says: ‘A Patriot mourns loss of National Pride.’ The article said:
Burly World War Two veteran Frederick Kent (45) spoke to our reporter in his homely Council house lounge about his profound feelings of regret that his son Barry (15) was ridiculed and humiliated because he wore a Union Jack T-shirt to school. Barry is a pupil at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive School. Mrs Kent (35) said, ‘My son Barry is a sensitive boy who worships his country and is very fond of St George, so he wore a T-shirt what had a picture of our great English flag.’ Mr Frederick Kent interjected, ‘On account of how it was St George’s birthday yesterday.’
Mr Kent is refusing to let his son attend school until the teacher concerned, Ms Fossington-Gore (31), makes a public apology.
Mr Reginald Scruton (57), headmaster of the school, said on the telephone today: ‘I know the wretched Kent family only too well and I’m sure that we can work something out so that it doesn’t make the local rag.’ When it was pointed out to Mr Scruton that he was in fact talking to Roger Greenhill, our Education correspondent, Mr Scruton apologized and made the following statement: ‘No comment.’
SUNDAY APRIL 25TH
Second after Easter
Daylight Saving Time begins (USA and Canada)
British troops have recaptured South Georgia. I have adjusted my campaign map accordingly.
Found a strange device in the bathroom this morning. It looked like an egg timer. It said ‘Predictor’ on the side of the box. I hope my mother is not dabbling with the occult.
MONDAY APRIL 26TH
A mysterious conversation! My mother said, ‘George, it’s positive.’ My father said, ‘Christ, I can’t go through all that three o’clock in the morning stuff again, not at my age.’
It sounds as if my mother is making unreasonable sexual demands on my father.
TUESDAY APRIL 27TH
Got a letter from Aunt Clara! I read it on the way to school.
Dear Poet of the Midlands,
Well, well, well, you are in a lather aren’t you, lovey! Look, you’re fifteen, your body’s in a whirl, your hormones are in a maelstrom. Your emotions are up and down like a yo-yo.
And of course you want sex. Every lad of your age does. But, my dear, there are people who crave penthouse apartments and exotic holidays. We can’t have what we want all the time.
You sound as if you’ve got a nice sensible lassie; enjoy each other’s company. Take up a hobby, keep physically and mentally alert and learn to control your breathing.
Sex is only a small part of life, my dear lad. Enjoy your precious teenage years.
Sincerely,
Aunt Clara
Enjoy my precious teenage years! They are nothing but trouble and misery. I can’t wait until I am fully mature and can make urban conversation with intellectuals.
WEDNESDAY APRIL 28TH
Stick Insect (alias Doreen Slater) called round to our house today. I haven’t seen her since my father and her broke it off.
She was breathing dead quickly and she had a funny look in her eyes. When my father came to the door she didn’t say anything, she just opened her coat (she’s put a bit of weight on) and said, ‘I thought you ought to know, George,’ and turned and went down the garden path.
My father didn’t say anything. He just leaned against the bannisters sort of weakly.
I said, ‘She’s looking well, isn’t she?’
My father muttered, ‘Blooming,’ then he put his coat on and went to catch her up.
Five minutes later my mother came back from her Jane Fonda’s robot class at the neighbourhood centre, she was dead pleased because she had broken the pain barrier.
She shouted, ‘George,’ looked in all the rooms, then asked, ‘When did you last see your father?’
I kept quiet, like the kid in the painting. My mother goes berserk if anyone mentions Stick Insect’s name.
THURSDAY APRIL 29TH
School is dead brilliant now that Barry Kent’s shaved head and ferocious boots are but a bad memory.
Went to the dentist’s for an impression. He called me ‘Matilda’. I was unable to object because my mouth was full of putty.
FRIDAY APRIL 30TH
Moon’s First Quarter
My mother and father are getting through a bottle of vodka a week. Not a minute goes by without one or the other of them bashing the ice tray or slicing a lemon or running to the off-licence for Schweppes.
This is a bad sign. It means something is going to happen.
SATURDAY MAY 1ST
Grandma rang with her annual gibberish about ‘Cast ne’er a clout’. I know it’s got something to do with keeping your vest on. But so what? I keep my vest on all the year round anyway.
Britain has bombed Port Stanley airport and put it out of action.
SUNDAY MAY 2ND
Third after Easter
Went round to Nigel’s and was astounded to hear that his parents are trying to emigrate to Australia! How could any English person want to live abroad? Foreigners can’t help living abroad because they were born there, but for an English person to go is ridiculous, especially now that sun-tan lamps are so readily available.
Nigel agrees with me. He asked me if he could stay behind and live at our house. I warned him about the poor standard of living but he said he would bring all his consumer durables with him.
MONDAY MAY 3RD
May Day Holiday (UK except Scotland)
Bank Holiday (Scotland)
This morning I spent half an hour in the bathroom studying my nose, after my so-called best friend Nigel asked me last night if I realized I was a Dustin Hoffman look-alike.
I hadn’t realized that my nose had grown to such an abnormal size. But the more I looked at it the more I could see that it is huge.
My mother bashed on the door and shouted, ‘What-ever you’re doing in there, stop it at once and come down and eat your breakfast. Your cornflakes are getting soggy!’
When I got downstairs I asked my mother if I reminded her of Dustin Hoffman. She said, ‘You should be so lucky, dearie.’
TUESDAY MAY 4TH
My mother has stopped wearing a bra. Her bust looks like two poached eggs that have been cooked for too long. I wish she wouldn’t wear such tight T-shirts. It’s not dignified in somebody her age (37).
WEDNESDAY MAY 5TH
A strange phone call. The phone rang and I picked it up but before I could say our number a posh woman said: ‘Clinic here. You have an appointment with us on Friday at 2 p.m. W
ill you be able to keep the appointment, Mrs Mole?’
I said, ‘Yes,’ in a falsetto voice.
‘You will be with us for two hours, during that time you will see two doctors and a counsellor who is very experienced in your particular problem,’ she said mechanically.
I said, ‘Thank you,’ in a high-pitched squeak.
She went on, ‘Please bring a sample of urine with you, a small sample, no full-to-the-brim pickle jars, please.’
‘All right,’ I croaked.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Mrs Mole,’ the woman said slushily. ‘We are here to help, you know.’ Then she said, ‘Please don’t forget our fee. It will be forty-two pounds for your initial consultation.’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘So Friday at 2 o’clock. Please be punctual.’ Then she put the phone down.
What does it all mean? My mother has not said anything about being ill. What is her particular problem? Which ‘clinic’?
THURSDAY MAY 6TH
I heard some very yukky woman talking on Radio Four tonight about how she became a millionairess from writing romantic fiction books. She said that women readers like books about doctors and electronics wizards and people like that. I am going to have a go myself. I could do with a million pounds. The woman said it is important for an author of romantic fiction to have an evocative name, so, after much thought, I have decided to call myself Adrienne Storme. I have already written half the first page:
Longing for Wolverhampton by Adrienne Storme Jason Westmoreland’s copper-flecked eyes glanced cynically around the terrace. He was sick of Capri and longed for Wolverhampton.
He flexed his remaining fingers and examined them critically. The accident with the chain saw had ended his brilliant career in electronics. His days were now devoid of microchips. There was a yawning chasm in his life. He had tried to fill it with travel and self-gratification but nothing could blot out the memories he had of Gardenia Fetherington, the virginal plastic surgeon at St Bupa’s in Wolverhampton.
Jason brooded, blindly blinking back big blurry tears…
FRIDAY MAY 7TH
My mother and father were having a discussion about feminism in the car on the way to Sainsbury’s this evening. My father said that since my mother’s consciousness had been raised he had noticed that she had lost two inches round her bust.
My mother said angrily, ‘What have my breasts got to do with anything?’ There was a silence then she said, ‘But don’t you think I have grown as a person, George?’
My father said, ‘On the contrary, Pauline, you are much smaller since you stopped wearing high heels.’
Me and my father laughed quite a lot but not for long because my mother gave us one of her powerful glances, then she looked out of the car window. She had a few tears in her eyes.
She looked at me and said, ‘If only I had a daughter to talk to.’
My father said, ‘We can’t take the risk of having another baby like Adrian, Pauline.’ Then they began to talk about my babyhood. They made me sound like Damian in the film of The Omen.
My mother said, ‘It’s that bloody Dr Spock’s fault that Adrian has turned out like he has.’
I said, ‘What have I turned out like?’
My mother said, ‘You’re an anal retentive, aren’t you?’ and my father said, ‘You’re tight-fisted, and you’ve always got your perfectly groomed head in a book.’
I was so shocked I couldn’t speak for a bit but, trying to keep my voice light and melodious (not easy when your heart is pierced with the arrows of criticism), I said, ‘What sort of son did you want then?’
Their answer took us all around Sainsbury’s, through the queue at the checkout, and back to the multi-storey car park.
My father’s ideal son was a natural athlete, he was cheerful and outgoing, he was a fluent linguist, he was tall with ruddy unblemished cheeks, he took his hat off to ladies. He went fishing with his father and swapped jokes. He was good with his hands and had a hobby making grandfather clocks. He was good officer material. He would vote Conservative and would marry into a good family. He would set up his own computer business in Guildford.
However, my mother’s ideal son would be intense and saturnine. He would go to a school for the Intellectually Precocious. He would fascinate girls and women at an early age, he would enthral visitors with his witty conversation. He would wear his clothes with panache, he would be completely non-sexist, non-ageist, non-racist. (His best friend would be an old African woman.) He would win a scholarship to Oxford, he would take the place by storm and be written about in future biographies. He would turn down offers of safe parliamentary seats in Britain. Instead, he would go to South Africa and lead the blacks into a successful revolution. He would return to England where he would be the first man deemed fit to edit Spare Rib. He would move in sparkling social circles. He would take his mother everywhere he went.
When they’d both finished spouting on I said, ‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you.’
My mother said, ‘It’s not your fault, Adrian, it’s ours, we should have called you brett!!!’
SATURDAY MAY 8TH
Full Moon
I needed to talk to somebody about my sense of inferiority (which grew even bigger in the night as lay awake and thought about Brett Mole, the phantom son). So I went to Grandma’s. She showed me my baby photos. I must admit that I was a bit grotesque: I was completely bald until I was two and I always had a dead fierce expression on my face. Now I know why my mother hasn’t got a Technicolor gilt-framed photograph of me on top of our television like other mothers.
But I’m glad I went to Grandma’s; she thinks everything about me is brilliant. I told her about Brett Mole, the boy that never was. She said, ‘He sounds a right nasty piece of work to me. I’m glad you didn’t turn out like him.’
Grandma had a bit of arthritis in her shoulder so she took her dress off and I sprayed Ralgex on the pain. Grandma’s corset looks like a parachute harness. I asked her how she gets in and out of it. She told me it was all down to self-discipline. She has got a theory that since corsets went out of fashion England has lost its backbone.
SUNDAY MAY 9TH
4th after Easter. Mother’s Day(USA and Canada)
I have just realized that I have never seen a dead body or a real female nipple. This is what comes of living in a cul-de-sac.
MONDAY MAY 1OTH
I asked Pandora to show me one of her nipples but she refused. I tried to explain that it was in the interests of widening my life experience, but she buttoned her cardigan up to the neck and went home.
TUESDAY MAY 11TH
We did diabetes in human biology today. Mr Dooher taught us to measure our blood sugar level by testing our wee. This reminded me that I forgot to tell my mother about her appointment at the clinic. Still, I don’t suppose it was important.
WEDNESDAY MAY I2TH
I received the following letter from Pandora this morning:
Adrian,
I am writing to terminate our relationship. Our love was once a spiritual thing. We were united in our appreciation of art and literature, but Adrian you have changed. You have become morbidly fixated with my body. Your request to look at my left nipple last night finally convinced me that we must part.
Do not contact me,
Pandora Braithwaite
P.S. If I were you I would seek professional psychiatric help for your hypochondria and your sex mania. Anthony Perkins, who played the maniac in Psycho, was in analysis for ten years, so there is no need to be ashamed.
THURSDAY MAY 13TH
Yesterday before I opened that letter I was a normal type of intellectual teenager. Today I know what it is to suffer. I am now an adult. I am no longer young. In fact I have noticed wrinkles forming on my forehead. I wouldn’t be surprised if my hair doesn’t turn white overnight.
I am in total anguish!
I love her!
I love her!
I love her!
<
br /> Oh God!
Oh Pandora!
3 a.m. I have used a whole Andrex toilet roll to mop up my tears. I haven’t cried so much since the wind blew my candy floss away at Cleethorpes.
4 a.m. I slept fitfully, then got out of bed to watch the dawn break. The world is no longer exciting and colourful. It is grey and full of heartbreak. I thought of doing myself in, but it’s not really fair on the people you leave behind. It would upset my mother to come into my room and find my corpse. I shan’t bother doing my O levels. I’ll be an intellectual road sweeper. I will surprise litter louts by quoting Kafka as they pass me by.
FRIDAY MAY 14TH
Why oh why did I ask Pandora to show me her nipple? Anybody’s nipple would have done. Nigel says that Sharon Botts will show everythingfor 50p and a pound of grapes. I have written Pandora a short note.
Pandora Darling,
What can I say? I was crude and clumsy and should have known you would run from me like a startled faun.
Please, at least grant me an audience and let me apologize in person.
Yours with unvanquished love,
Adrian
I think it hits the right note. I got the ‘startled faun’ bit from one of Grandma’s yukky romantic novels. I have sprayed a bit of my mother’s Tramp’ perfume on to the envelope and I will deliver it by hand after dark tonight.
Tramp! Fancy calling a perfume Tramp Ha! Ha! Ha!
SATURDAY MAY 15TH
Scottish Quarter Day
There were a lot of visitors at Pandora’s house. I could hardly get up the drive for Jaguars and Rovers and Volvos. At first I thought there had been a death in the family because I could see two nuns and a priest eating sausage rolls in the kitchen. Then a gorilla walked in and took a bottle of wine out of the fridge so I realized it must be a fancy dress party. I hid behind the summer house so that I could get a better view: there was a cowboy and a devil talking in one bedroom and a frogman and three gipsies laughing in another. A knight in armour was clanking about in the garden. He was being followed by a cavewoman who was shouting, ‘Stand still, Damian. I’ve found a tin opener!’