I phoned Brick, and asked when he and I could meet to discuss my writing career. At 33, I am already too old to be eligible for the Young British Writers' Award. Why does nobody arrange competitions for the young middle-aged? It is sheer prejudice. Just because we are beginning to lose our hair and suffer from occasional sexual dysfunction, it does not mean that our literary faculties are clapped out. Brick told me in his hideous ungrammatical style, "I don't got no windows, Adrian." He said he was having trouble with Billy the Seal, who had developed a serious cocaine habit after working in a circus in Dublin, where he came under the malevolent influence of Declan Tourette and his amazing foul-talking dog.
Within seven days, poor Billy was snorting a serious quantity of the evil white powder. After a fortnight, he was seriously dependent on Tourette for his supply. Within three weeks, Billy's career was almost over, his nostrils were seriously damaged and he could no longer catch or throw a ball with his nose. Fortunately, Brick caught him in time and packed Billy off to a secret animal rehabilitation clinic in Milton Keynes. There, together with other damaged animals, Billy broke his expensive habit and cleaned himself up.
Tuesday, November 14
My life is incredibly boring, but today took the biscuit: absolutely nothing happened. I got out of bed. I made scrambled eggs. They were neither good nor bad, but sort of in between. I walked to the newsagent's, where I was just in time to see a man with a beard (a stranger) buy the last Guardian. I could tell from his accent that he wasn't from these parts. I think it is disgusting that people are allowed to buy goods willy-nilly, regardless of where they live, thus depriving the locals of vital supplies. I said as much to my mother. She said, "Are you seriously suggesting that people should be prohibited from travelling from one area to another? Are you, in fact, advocating a type of postcode apartheid?" I didn't know what to say to her. The truth was that, once again, I had reacted to a minor setback in a manner that was entirely inappropriate. Several people have commented that I should see a therapist. However, the waiting list to see a NHS therapist is two years and it would break my heart to fork out £25 a session to find out that there is nothing at all wrong with my personality or emotional make-up.
Wednesday, November 15
I have just emerged from the front room of a Jungian therapist called Dave Mutter. I sat on his pink velour sofa and cried about my Grandma's Yorkshire puddings for 55 minutes.
Thursday, November 16
I rang Dave and begged him for an urgent appointment. I am seeing him this afternoon. 5.30pm: I told Dave about my recurring dream — that Gordon Brown visits me at night and begs me to help him with the economy. Dave is my only friend. God, diary, I think I may be a little in love with him!
Transference of transference
Saturday, November 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouche
Dear Diary, I must confide in you a most terrible secret. I am desperately in love with my therapist, Dave Mutter. Not sexually. Absolutely not sexually. Not in any way sexually. Dave is not an especially attractive man: try to imagine Yul Brynner with an overactive thyroid, a grey ponytail and a high-pitched voice. I think you'll agree that he doesn't excite homo-erotic fantasies. My love for Dave is pure and strictly platonic. He fills my daytime thoughts. I live only for my next appointment with him. I long to tell somebody. I need to speak his name aloud, but who can I trust to keep my secret?
Perhaps I should see another therapist and confess to him/her.
Monday, November 20, Eddie's cafe, the layby
I thought up the following poem whilst cleaning the deep-fat fryer at the close of business today. It is a foul, foul job but Eddie bribed me with £25, which will help to pay for an extra session with Dave.
Poem to Dave
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.
Low profile
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?