Sunday, June 3
Pandora knocked on my door as I was washing up this morning. She placed a hand on my cheek and purred, "Can I count on your vote, as usual, sweetie?" I coldly informed her that I had become disillusioned due to her habit of breaking promises and that I intended to vote for the Socialist Alliance candidate, Abbo Palmer. She left her canvassers on the rain-lashed street and pushed her way into my kitchen, snarling, "What broken promises?"
I counted out the disappointments on my fingers. I was still wearing my yellow Marigolds at the time, so the effect may not have been as dramatic as I had intended. When I got to the last rubber digit I said, "Finally, Pandora, you promised to marry me as soon as we were 16 years of age and could afford the train fare to Gretna Green." I took out my wallet and produced the written evidence: a note she had scribbled in a double geography lesson more than 20 years ago. The sight of her childish, loopy, handwriting almost brought tears to my eyes.
Pandora scanned the note then turned it over. On the back was a graph showing the decline of Britain's manufacturing base under Thatcher. She murmured, "Interesting," then asked if she could have the note, as it meant so much to her. I replied, "Certainly not, I have kept this love note in my wallet, close to my heart for two decades. It reminds me of the time when we were 15 and rapturously in love." We were interrupted when a woman canvasser, in need of Immac for the upper lip and chin, knocked on the door and said, "The Newsnight camper van has just crashed into your car, Pandora. Jeremy Vine wants your insurance details."
Midnight
Pandora has just been interviewed on Newsnight, by an unusually deferential Jeremy Vine. The set consisted of the blown-up note. (On the graph side).
Apathy rules
Friday, June 8, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I woke at 9.30 to find myself on the sofa. The television was showing Ffion's sad but brave face. Glenn was sitting on the floor slopping cornflakes on to the new Ikea rug. With his mouth full, he said, "Tory boy's doin' a runner, Dad." There was the smell of burnt toast, William came in with a plateful of buttered cinders, half of which fell on to the rug. I was too exhausted to shout and sank back on to the new Ikea tapestry cushions. I do not function well on two hours' sleep.
When I next woke, Tony and Cherie were in a small British car being driven to the palace. Glenn and William were still in their pyjamas eating fruit cocktail and the Häagen-Dazs ice cream that I keep for Sunday teatime use only. I croaked to Glenn, "Did Pandora get in?" A tiny cube of pineapple and a dribble of juice fell from the teaspoon he was wielding like a garden spade.
The rug now resembled a small municipal tip, the ethnic pattern could hardly be seen. Glenn swallowed, and, sounding alarmingly like Peter Snow, gabbled, "Yes, Dad, she got in with 23,431 votes, a majority of 8,157, tha's 52.06 % of the vote, but she's down a bit cos there were a swing to the Tories of 3.64 %. An there was a 65.79 % turnout, tha's a lot 'igher than the national average."
I was impressed with the boy's grasp of statistics. I may steer him towards a degree in mathematics. William brought me a cup of tepid tea and placed it on the rug. Thirty seconds later, the cup lay on its side, having been toppled by Glenn demonstrating a kick-boxing move.
Midday
I ordered the boys to get dressed for school. When I next woke it was four o'clock and the school day had ended. Glenn said, "My 'ead of year rang, Dad, he wanted to know why I ain't been to school. So I told 'im I 'ad to stay at 'ome to look after you, cos you wunt get off the settee."
I snapped back. "Couldn't you have invented a stomach upset or something?" Glenn said, "I jus' told the truth, Dad. Were I wrong?"
Since I'd been ranting about the dishonesty of politicians throughout the election campaign I didn't know how to answer the boy, so I feigned sleep.
Washed out
Thursday, June 14
Glenn asked what I do for a living today. I told him I was a writer. "I never see you do no writin'," he said accusingly. I told him that I am an unpublished writer, and explained that there was a conspiracy in the publishing industry to keep me out. He took the manuscript of my latest novel, Krog From Gork, to read in bed. I am enormously pleased that he is taking such an interest in my literary life.
Pamela Pigg has taken my advice and is going out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer. She rang to tell me that their first date went «splendidly». He took her to The Friends tandoori restaurant. She said that Pandora was dining at an adjacent table with some metropolitans who were opining that Ann Widdecombe is the result of an experiment at Porton Down. Apparently, she escaped before the trials could be concluded. This explains a lot.
Friday, June 15
I asked Glenn what he thought of Krog From Gork. He looked shifty and mumbled, "I ain't got past the third page yet." I asked him what he thought of the three he had read. Glenn stroked his new mohican haircut and said, "Nothin' 'appens, dad."
I snapped, "Of course nothing happens. I'm writing about a prehistoric man who suffers from ennui. What do you expect him to do all day? Send text messages to his fellow primitives?"
At 11.30am, Glenn returned from school with a note:
"Dear Parent/ Guardian/Principle Carer, Glenn arrived at school this morning with a most alarming haircut. Within minutes of entering the playground he was surrounded by a large circle of 'admirers'. Several of the first-year boys were literally sick with excitement. The school rules state unequivocally that 'students' hair must not be subject to the vagaries of fashion'. Glenn is hereby excluded until his hair can be described in these terms."
From now, I'll teach the boy at home.
Saturday, June 16
Watched the Trooping of the Colour with the boys. I was filled with pride. Is there another country on earth whose soldiers would march through torrents of water without complaint?
I was annoyed to overhear Glenn say to William, "The monarchy's finished, Willy. They ain't got the sense to come in out the rain."
Vinegar, oil and a tub of lard
Sunday, June 24, 2001
I had a minor breakdown in the vinegar aisle of the supermarket this morning. I was completely unable to choose between the 64 vinegars on offer. I walked up and down in an agony of indecision. Glenn said, "Dad, we've bin 'ere 20 minutes. What's up?"
I didn't trust myself to speak, for fear that the tears gathering in my eyes would be released. Eventually, Glenn grabbed a bottle at random and threw it into the trolley. I saw that it was lemongrass flavour and tried to replace it on the shelf, but Glenn prevented me and we moved on to the oil aisle, where once again I was confronted with a horrific choice.
They stretched into the distance: grapeseed, extra-virgin olive, sesame seed, sunflower, Crisp 'n' Dry, basil, stir-fry… As I was hovering between them, an announcement came over the in-store Tannoy — a woman who sounded as though she had a small grapefruit stuck in her mouth intoned: "Would Mr Mole return to the crèche immediately. Mr Mole, return to the crèche."
I left Glenn with the trolley and rushed off, lurid images of crèche-type accidents filling my mind: had William been suffocated by the myriad coloured balls that filled the toddlers' jumping pit? Had he stabbed a paintbrush in his eye? Was he lying unconscious at the foot of the toddlers' jungle gym? If so, I would pursue the supermarket through the courts and force them into paying record amounts of compensation. Nothing less than £30m could possibly compensate me for an injury done to my precious child.