Tuesday, February 6
Leicester-born painter Adrian Hemming has fled the country after hearing that Townsend is an admirer of his work. "I heard that she was planning to buy one of my 'wave' pictures and hang it in her bathroom," he said from his hiding place. "I must protect my name."
Swede liberty
Sunday, February 11, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Does the psychological medical establishment formally recognise Ikea rage? I think I suffered three separate episodes of it today. The first came in the car park, when a small child, who appeared to be in charge of parking, turned me away from a disabled space. I showed him a photocopy of a letter from my doctor, which clearly stated that I was suffering from a medical condition, but he indicated that I must back out of the space and allow an invalid carriage driven by an old git in a neck brace to drive in. Dr Ng's letter:
Dear Mr Mole
Further to your many visits to the surgery this week. Your blood test results have returned from the lab and show beyond doubt that you are not suffering from HIV, BSG or MRSC. Your heart, kidney, liver, lungs and brain are functioning normally for a man of your age. You are, however, suffering from severe hypochondria. I have discussed your case with my colleagues, Drs Singh and O'Neil, and they are satisfied that my diagnosis is correct. May I suggest that you examine other areas of your life for the cause of your unhappiness.
Dr Ng
PS: In future, please do not visit the surgery or request a home visit unless you are certain that you are suffering from a life-threatening illness.
The second Ikea rage attack occurred in the Storage System section, when Glenn disputed my measurements for the run of Billy bookcases I'd planned to install in the living room. "I'm tellin' yer, Dad, you ain't gonna get three of 'em against that back wall," he said. We faced up to each other as weary shoppers tramped by. I was aware of Glenn's testosterone pumping through his teenage body. "I will not have you questioning my calculations," I roared, and Glenn stormed off with his tail between his legs. I eventually caught up with him in Bathrooms, where he was standing in a shower stall, sullenly examining the fixtures. In the warehouse, he silently helped me to lug three flatpack Billy bookcases on to a trolley. If he'd been in the army, I could have charged him with dumb insolence.
My third attack came in the 10-deep queue, when the woman customer at the till insisted on opening the five boxes containing a fitted wardrobe and proceeded to count the screws. My temples pulsed with irritation so much that I feared that I would suffer an aneurysm and be carried out in a flatpack coffin.
Monday, February 12
I rang Pandora at the Commons and asked her to translate the Swedish instructions for assembling the Billy bookcases. As I waited for her to fax them to me, I marvelled at her courteous and helpful tone. Then I remembered: she will be fighting a marginal seat in May, and every vote will count, including mine.
Tuesday, February 13
I have tried and failed to assemble the Billy bookcases. There is obviously something in my genetic make-up that prevents me from holding a screwdriver in one hand while sinking screws into a hole in a plank of wood with the other. I now divide the world into those who can and those who can't assemble Ikea furniture. Can list: Paul Daniels, Frank Bruno, William Hague, Madonna, Princess Anne, Glenn Bott. Can't list: Peter Mandelson, Caroline Aherne, Prince Charles, Sir Edward Heath.
Wednesday, February 14, Valentine's Day
Not a single card. Not one. Nothing. Glenn received 11. They are standing proudly on top of the two Billy bookcases he assembled last night. The third didn't fit.
Thursday, February 15
A Valentine's card arrived this morning from Pamela Pigg. The cheapskate had affixed a second-class stamp. Inside, she had written, "Let's try again."
Pottering about
Sunday, February 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I organised my library tonight using my own idiosyncratic alphabetical system. So, the first book on my Billy bookcases was AA Gill's Collected Works. The last was zzz's, The Insomniac's Handbook.
In between, of course, were the tomes penned by the masters and mistresses of literature. How I longed to join them!
I went to bed after loading the washing machine with a pile of mixed coloureds but woke only an hour later worrying about the escalating tension in Iraq. Glenn keeps asking me awkward questions about Britain's role in the protection of the no-fly zone. Such as: "'Ow can it be cold protection, Dad, when old people an' little 'uns got killed?" He is an unsophisticated boy and can't quite grasp the subtleties of the situation. I tossed on my pillow, haunted by past humiliations: the time my mother came to a parents' evening at Neil Armstrong comprehensive wearing yellow tights; the day my father and I sat on a bus together and he began to sing “If I Ruled The World”; my wedding night, when I couldn't unfasten the cord of my pyjama trousers and my bride, Jo Jo, was forced to cut it with the scissors on her Swiss army knife, my screams brought the night porter to our room having been summoned by an irritable executive next door.
At 4.10am I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. I sat at my desk in the living room alcove and found myself beginning the first sentence of a new novel. I don't have a title yet but I am rather pleased with the first page.
Chapter 1
Larry Topper blinked through his owl-like glasses as the public school, The Academy, hove into view. He turned to his guardian, Uncle Edward (his parents were both dead, killed by a bomb whilst on holiday in Iraq). 'I say, Uncle Ted, piped Larry, 'I rather think I'm going to be jolly happy here. Larry's glance took in the topiary which littered the large, vibrant green, well manicured, soft underfoot, lawns. Uncle Ted's kindly eyes twinkled like fairy lights before the fuse blows.
'I should hope so, young sir, Ted rumbled in his voice which sounded like the distant roar of a bomber taking off.
Uncle Edward crunched his antique car along the gravel drive until it came to rest at the main entrance where a bored looking boy stood smoking a St Moritz menthol cigarette. This was Brett Longshank, head boy and aristocrat who was a star of the rugger field and a genius in the classroom.
Larry gawped in awe at Brett's exquisite air of nonchalance. 'I say, Uncle, he said, 'what a spiffing role model that fellow is.
Uncle Ted's brow furrowed and looked like a ploughed field after several horses had dragged a plough over it.
'That's Lady Nancy Longshank's son, he said disapprovingly. 'And I happen to know that he is addicted to crack cocaine, keep away from him, Larry, d'you hear me? Keep away from him.
Monday, February 19
I may give Larry magical powers. I could have an entirely original bestseller on my hands!
Tuesday, February 20
Pamela Pigg is hounding me with romantic, indeed sexually explicit, text messages. I texed her back and asked her to stop, but her ardour seemed only to intensify. Her last message came at 2.15am. She wrote: U R 4 Me I No u Luv Me 2.
I have decided to call my new novel Larry Topper, Boy Wizard. I have emailed the first page to Brick Eagleburger, my agent.
Wednesday, February 21
Dreamt that Gordon Brown was prime minister. Received a text message from Brick. It read: JK Rowling, you aint. But stupid U R.