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.
Carol stingers
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 nuggets 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.
Misanthrope and whine
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.