Inhale and exhale
Sunday, October 15, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Pandora rang me today and sought my advice on whether or not she should confess to have smoked cannabis at Oxford. "Why are you asking me?" I said. "You're the voice of middle England," she snapped. "You're a perfect barometer of public opinion." I resented her impication that I was a dull provincial, but at the same time was pleased and flattered that my opinion was being sought. I advised her to keep quiet in the matter of her drug-taking, and warned that a confession would almost certainly jeopardise her ultimate ambition of becoming the next-but-one prime minister. She rang off after saying, "You are right, Aidy, I must keep the Daily Mail on my side."
Monday, October 16
The shadow of headlice infestation continues to fall across our house. What more can I do to exterminate the vile creatures? My mother went to the hairdresser's on Saturday, and her stylist, Sebastian, fled in horror to the colour mixing room after spotting a colony of them nesting at the nape of her neck. She is furious with me, and claims she hasn't been so humiliated since the wire from her Gossard bra poked out of her wedding dress at the register office when she married Ivan Braithwaite. Even my father, who is still in an isolation cubicle at the general hospital, has nits. What is going on? I told Glenn that I suspect foul play: "It's obvious that a foreign power, possibly Iran, has introduced a virulent form of nits into this country in an attempt to demoralise the population and destabilise the pound." Glenn shook his head in a pitying way and said, "Go an' lie down, Dad, an' put a wet towel on yer 'ead."
Tuesday, October 17
I read the following article in The Independent today: "Dr Pandora Braithwaite, the junior minister for fish, admitted in a Newsnight interview with Jeremy Paxman last night to having smoked cannabis during her time at Oxford. To a direct question posed by Paxman, 'Have you or have you not smoked dope? Braithwaite smiled and answered, 'Have you, Jeremy? "Paxman snapped, 'I'm not here to answer the questions, minister, you are. Braithwaite said, 'Okay, yes, I did, we all did. What's more, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's what got me through the work. " I now predict terrible things for my love. Her position as a minister of the crown is surely untenable.
Wednesday, October 18
The whole country is talking about Pandora. According to a report in the Guardian, the demand for cannabis in Oxford has skyrocketed.
Thursday, October 19
I returned to work at Eddie's Tea Bar today, and couldn't help but notice that many of our trucker customers were scratching their heads. Are the nits being transported throughout Europe? How long will it be before they have taken over the world? At 7pm, Glenn phoned my mother, and told her to come round quickly. I explained my nit theory to her, and after listening for an hour and a half, she sent for Dr Wong.
Friday, October 20
I am calmer now. Dr Wong prescribed Prozac and a course of aromatherapy. He said that I was suffering from stress. I told him about my unhappy childhood, and he was very understanding. Though I heard my mother vehemently denying it: "He was a very happy little boy," she told the doctor. "Until he got older and started reading Dostoevsky and that bleddy Kafka!" Pandora has sent me a get-well message, and suggested that I recuperate by reading Lord Archer of Weston-Super-Mare's latest volume. She later phoned and told me the astonishing news that, far from being vilified for her drugs confession, she is being strongly tipped for promotion.
An extremely naff idea
Saturday, October 21, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Last week Pandora was climbing the rungs of the snakes and ladders of life. This week she is sliding down a python's back (so to speak). The papers today are full of pictures of her cat, Maurice, who had to be rescued by the RSPCA on Thursday night after neighbours heard piteous miaowing coming from Pandora's flat in Pimlico. Unfortunately, she was on a fact-finding mission with Keith Allen in Ayia Napa at the time of the cat's rescue. An RSPCA spokesperson said: "Dr Pandora Braithwaite may be charged with the neglect and cruelty of an animal. Maurice had not been fed for five days and was in an emaciated condition."
I phoned Pandora's mother, Tania, for the inside story and she told me that Maurice's computerised feed-a-pet feeding bowl had developed a fault and had refused to open up and feed the ravenous beast. Some of the headlines were harsh: "Pan's pet starved alone", "Drug MP's cat horror", and "Pan's pussy shock".
In my role (unpaid) as Pandora's advisor on Middle England, I rang the House of Commons to offer my help. Unfortunately, she was not able to take my call as she was in emergency talks with Alastair Campbell. I left a message with her private secretary, Nigel Hetherington, "Tell her to make a large donation to the Cat Rescue Mission." Nigel said: "How very, very original. Thank you for your extremely naff idea, Moley."
It still rankles with me that Pandora chose Nigel to be her right-hand man rather than me. Okay, so he may have three degrees — in management, business and fashion — but I feel that he lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. I am extremely experienced when it comes to dealing with the media. In 1993, for five months I was the Ashby Bugle's poetry correspondent (unpaid) until the editor was sacked for gross subordination (throwing an empty vodka bottle at the proprietor). Unfortunately, the new editor was obsessed with sport and turned my weekly column into a Spot The Ball competition, to the detriment, in my opinion, of Ashby-de-la-Zouch's cultural landscape. William is not eating. I suspect he is seeking attention.
Sunday, October 22
Millbank released a photograph of Pandora and Maurice today together with a condemnation of computerised feeding bowls. Pandora is calling for an enquiry into their reliability. She has vowed to use a cat-sitter in future. When asked about her relationship with Keith Allen, she said: "Mr Allen and I were in Ayia Napa on a fact-finding mission. We were investigating the swamping of the British Consulate by penniless British youngsters demanding their airfare home.
Monday, October 23
The police in Nottingham are now strolling about in the city centre with guns. How long will it be before Ashby-de-la-Zouch rings to the sound of the Kalashnikov? Surely we are on a slippery slope.
Tuesday, October 24
Eddie rang today to complain that I haven't turned up for work. I explained about my childcare problems during half-term. He said: "I'm tryin' to run a bleedin' caff 'ere. I don't give a toss about yer private life, Mole." This is typical of Britain's and Eddie's attitude towards children. It's no wonder that three of Eddie's offspring are currently enjoying custodial sentences and that one, Shane, is dancing with the Royal Ballet. Glenn has begged to be in charge of cooking in future. I was happy to pass on the Mole apron. I hadn't realised that he was interested in the culinary arts.
Wednesday, October 25
William's appetite has picked up. Glenn has bought Jamie Oliver's Naked Chef book with the money he has made guarding the cars of the social workers visiting the estate.
In good spirit
Friday, October 27, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Ivan Braithwaite is home from the mental hospital and is now confined in the box room at Wisteria Walk. My mother is acting as his nurse. I say «acting» because she is most ungracious about her new role. I overheard her talking on the phone to her brother, Pete, who lives in Norwich. It was a self-pitying monologue which I reproduce here, though it gives me no pleasure. .