Friday, July 14
Mrs Wormington has gone to Mablethorpe with the Ludlows. They have got an eight-berth caravan in a field near to the sea. They asked if they could take William with them but I had to say no. He is an impressionable lad and easily picks up on the Ludlows' verbal infelicities. Yesterday he came back from playing at their house, and when I told him it was time for bed, he said, in a Louisiana accent while showing me his left palm. "Tell it to the hand, cos the face ain't listening. Leave a message after the bleep." Peggy Ludlow said that the Jerry Springer Show had been on while William had been playing on the rug with Vince Ludlow's socket set.
Saturday, July 15
I watched the Inside Downing Street documentary tonight. What a fine figure of a man he is. He is masterful, charming, clever and has a good head of hair. He is altogether impressive. Mr Blair, on the other hand, seemed lacklustre by comparison. He has been transformed since Leo insisted on sharing the marital bed and Euan started hitting the bottle. In fact, Tony has undergone a feminisation: his hair has turned fluffy, his voice has softened, his expression is girly, his hands move as gracefully as a geisha's. Is he on a course of hormones that will eventually transmogrify him into Toni — the first woman Labour Prime Minister? The country should be warned. We will need time to adjust to the change.
William Hague, on the other hand, is awash with testosterone lately. He'll be starting a parliamentary chapter of the Hell's Angels next if he doesn't watch his hormone levels. Does Ffion welcome this new thrusting Mussolini-like man in her bed, or is she already sleeping in the spare room, like Prince Edward's wife?
Sunday, July 16
The Ludlows have returned home with hypothermia after walking along the promenade at Mablethorpe. Mrs Wormington has been taken to hospital in Skegness. She has been wrapped in a silver space blanket.
When Auntie Susan rang my mobile and asked angrily why I'd not turned up at the prison library as promised, I replied truthfully that I was anticipating a tragic bereavement.
Death and the maiden
Wednesday, July 19, Ashby-de-La-Zouch
The summer weather in Mablethorpe has killed Mrs Wormington. She was a perfectly fit, 90-year-old when she left my house in Ashby-de-La-Zouch on Friday, July 14, at 1.15pm. I am being specific about details because Eunice, Mrs Wormington's daughter- in-law, has just left this house after calling to collect the dead one's belongings. She accused me of sending "an ailing woman to the east coast, to die".
It was only after she had driven off in her Reliant Robin that I realised that she was virtually accusing me of murder. I immediately called my mother, who is an acknowledged expert on litigation (she haunts the small-claims court). She advised me to seek the advice of her solicitor, Charlie Dovecote. It cost me £50, plus VAT, to be told by Dovecote that allowing a nonagenarian to ride a donkey in a stiff east wind may have been foolhardy, but did not constitute murder.
I found a bundle of old letters under Mrs Wormington's mattress when I stripped her bed. I was glad that the horrible Eunice had missed them.
October 21, 1917
Dear Sergeant Palmer,
I hope you are now settled into your new quarters in Ypres and that the weather is pleasant. We hear most marvellous reports of General Haig's leadership from the newspapers. I am glad that you are in such safe hands. Thank you for asking me to call you Cedric. However, I feel it is far too early in our friendship for such intimacy. We have only known each other for a year.
Yours with best wishes, Miss Broadway
This, I presume, was Mrs Wormington's maiden name. Social intercourse was conducted with such delicacy in those days. It's no wonder that Mrs Wormington was shocked at Denise Van Outen's grubby little TV show. Even I, an admirer of the female breast, begin to tire of prime-time mammaries.
Thursday, July 20
William wanted to know where Mrs Wormington had gone. I said she had gone on a long journey to a place where she would be in peace. I went on a bit, about Mrs Wormington running up hills and picking wild flowers under the warming rays of the sun, etc. Perhaps I went too far down the pastoral path, because when William was watching Glenn clean his roller-blade boots I heard him say, "Mrs Wormington's not dead, Glenn. She's gone to live in Teletubby Land."
Friday, July 21
A car in which Jack Straw was being conveyed was stopped by police for speeding at 103mph. I hope the full might of the law is brought to bear on the miscreant. I am still smarting from the tirade of abuse I received from a traffic policeman because I drove at 32mph in Foxglove Avenue, a 30mph zone. When I remarked, humorously, "I'm not exactly Jeremy Clarkson", the policeman sneered, "No, he's taller, got more hair, and is almost certainly richer and more famous than you are, sir." I thought of reporting him to the Police Complaints Board, but wasn't sure if sarcasm counted as assault — though I still feel hurt by it.
Saturday, July 22
I went to see Pandora at the MP's surgery today. I wanted to talk to her about my theory that Mr Blair has secretly embarked on a course of hormones that will transform him from Tony to Toni. I reminded her that he'd recently stated that he disliked wearing a suit.
"Don't be so bloody ridiculous," she snapped. "Get out and give your seat to a constituent with a genuine problem." I pointed out that there was nobody else waiting to see her. "Apathetic bastards," she raged of the electorate. "I could have stayed in London and picked up my bowling bag from Prada."
I had no idea she'd taken up such a middle-aged, boring sport.
Mrs Wormington's funeral
Monday, July 24, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
There was a surprisingly large turn-out for Mrs Wormington's funeral this morning. I hadn't known she was a member of so many societies and clubs. There were mourners representing Amnesty International, the Fox And Ferret ladies' darts team and the Cacti Club of Great Britain. I hadn't realised she had such Catholic tastes.
In the time she lodged with me, most of our conversations had been about biscuits, though towards the end of her life she spoke obsessively about the state of the Queen Mother's teeth. William begged to be allowed to go to the funeral; I gave my permission, but warned him against talking in the church. The boy has a voice like a town crier. He let me down only once, when he asked, in the lull between a hymn and a prayer, "Dad, why do old people smell?" The church was packed with the elderly, who failed to see the charm or humour in the boy's innocent question.
One old bloke along the pew shouted to his deaf neighbour, "He wants a bloody good hiding." I had warned William what to expect: that there would be a box called a coffin and that Mrs Wormington would be inside it, dead. He seemed to take in this fact, but when the coffin started to be lowered into the grave, William shouted, "You'd better get out now, Mrs Wormington." He said later, at home, that he'd thought dead people came back to life, like Kenny in South Park. At the service, I read a poem I'd written. It seemed to go down quite well — though my mother said afterwards at the funeral lunch that she thought it was gross self-indulgence on my part and should never have been torn from my pad of A4.
Requiem for Mrs Wormington