I came last. William would not look me in the eye when I finally passed the finish line. The winner was Trixie Woodhead, who I know for a fact is drawing disability living allowance.
Saturday, July 21
My parents have been to see me to give me an «update» on what my mother called "the ongoing situation regarding our marriage". They held hands across the kitchen table and my father said sheepishly, "We can't live with each other, but we can't live without each other, son."
William, who had been listening, said with the brutal candour of the child, "You'll both have to die then."
I advised them to try self-discipline. (They are both still married to other people, namely Pandora's parents.) My father whined, "We were both teenagers in the 60s, so haven't got any self-discipline." As they were leaving, I told my mother that blue jeans should never be worn with creases, or wrinkles.
Monday, July 23, 1pm
Pandora has invited me to a "shepherd's pie and Krug party" this evening. It is not clear what we will be celebrating.
Midnight
Nobody told me that Pandora's guests were meant to wear Mary and Jeffrey fancy dress. Personally, I found the sight of so many Mary Archer lookalikes slightly disturbing. I like a bit of animation in my women.
Thick as pig… swill
Friday, July 27
I allowed William to stay up late to watch the climax of Big Brother. I think it is important that small children be allowed to participate in events of national importance. My mother and father came round to join us, bringing two large bags of curry-flavoured Twiglets and a bottle of Raspberry Stolichnaya. My mother grew increasingly hysterical after Dean was evicted from the house, leaving Helen and Brian. She passionately wanted Helen to win, saying, "Why should the intelligent people win all the glittering prizes? It's time a stupid person won something for a change."
My father said, "I don't mind her being thick, it's her great big gob I object to." I feigned indifference, but secretly I had my fingers crossed for Brian. I slipped into the kitchen and was dialling my vote in when Glenn caught me at it. I had to pretend to be phoning Dial-A-Pizza, so Brian's vote cost me £32.59.
As we watched Helen squealing like a tortured piglet over Paul Clarke's present of a Gucci handbag and shoes, William asked, "Will Helen and Paul Clarke be having sexual intercourse tonight, Dad?"
My father shouted, "Go and wash your mouth out, you dirty-minded sod."
But, as Glenn said, "He's only sayin' what everbody's thinkin', Grandad."
I lay awake pondering yet again on the true nature of my sexuality. Did I vote for Brian out of gay solidarity or because he is a semi-erudite Irish eccentric? I garnered the evidence: a) I like Kylie Minogue; b) I sleep with a lavender pillow; c) I am no good at sex with women; d) I am very fussy about my sheets, pillowcases and towels.
Saturday, July 28
Heatwave. I went to Pandora's surgery this morning. It was the only way to see her, since she does not reply to my emails, or return my frequent phone calls or text messages. She was most unsuitably dressed for an MP. I know it is hot, but her outfit of cropped top and micro-shorts lacked gravitas. I had wanted to ask her about the euro, but I could not concentrate because of the sweat trickling between her tanned, pointy breasts. So we ended up talking about Big Brother. She is intimate with Michael Jackson at Channel 4, and suggested I put myself forward as a BB candidate in 2002.
Royal flush
Saturday, August 4, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
William, the ardent monarchist, made a birthday card for the Queen Mother this morning using scraps of card and paper taken from the recycling bag. He had fashioned her hat from milk bottle tops, she looked as if she was wearing a Darth Vader helmet.
I, for one, do not believe the old woman was given a blood transfusion on Thursday. I think she is kept going by a secret serum that is not yet available to us common people (or Princess Margaret). I read somewhere that axolotls can constantly regenerate themselves, thus living for ever. Is it my imagination or does the Queen Mother look a teensy bit lizard-like lately? Will she be the first 200-year-old woman?
Sunday, August 5
I am no financial expert, but I feel in my bones that we will be living under the jackboot of recession by Christmas. I decided to forgo the interest on my Alliance & Leicester 30-Day Notice Deposit Account, and withdrew the entire amount, £619.07. I took Glenn and William to Safeway and bought a frozen turkey, a Christmas pudding, three packets of Mr Kipling's mince pies, a bag of frozen sprouts and a box of sage and onion stuffing. I also took advantage of the various in-store two for the price of one offers, but was disgusted that Safeway is not yet selling Christmas crackers.
Once the Christmas food shopping was complete, I treated the boys to lunch in the Safeway cafeteria. Pamela Pigg and Alan Clarke were in there canoodling over their All-Day Breakfasts. Pamela told me that she had bumped into Nigel and his new partner, Peter Elf, in the Sea Shanty Folk Club last night. Alan stroked his beard and drawled, "Yeah, we all got on like a house on fire, they're coming to our fondue party tomorrow night, why don't you join us?" Pamela gushed, "Alan is going to sing for us after dinner, he has recently unearthed some haymaking songs written by Isaiah Blackhead, from Stowmarket."
"I'm doing an OU course on 'the music of the idiot savant'," he said. Then, to my horror, he began to sing: "Lay in the hay, my comely gal, And take my sickle in youse hand." Glen blushed fiercely and fled. I followed with William.
Alan, Adler, Dylan and donkeys
Tuesday, August 7, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
The fondue party was held at Alan Clarke's thatched cottage in Frisby-On-The-Wreake. According to local gossip, Frisby is a hotbed of paganism. In 1974, several donkeys mysteriously disappeared overnight and were believed to have been ritually sacrificed. Alan Clarke fancies himself as a local historian. As we twirled our fondue forks over the pan of bubbling cheese, he regaled his guests with anecdotes about his life in the village. The guests were Pamela Pigg, me, Glenn, Nigel and Peter Elf.
I took Glenn with me because it is time the boy was taught how to conduct himself in sophisticated company. Before we got out of the car, I warned him not to say serviette, or to inform the other guests that his ambition is to be a heterosexual when he grows up.
To a background of Bob Dylan's harmonica, we chomped through seven varieties of hot cheese. I incautiously mentioned how saddened I had been to hear of the death of Larry Adler and added that, in my opinion, Adler had been the greatest harmonica player the world had ever known. Peter Elf said camply, "I wouldn't slash my wrists if I never heard the harmonica again." Alan jabbed his fondue fork angrily into the rough-hewn table, stormed over to the stereo and removed the long-player from the turntable. There was an awkward silence, which Glenn broke eventually by saying, "When I grow up, I want to be a heterosexual."