After a visit to my father, who has been urged by Tania to sue the hospital for neglect and loss of dentures, I went to Pankhurst Ward to see Mrs Wormington. She is still nil by mouth, though there is now some doubt as to her swallowing ability.
I was there when a young doctor, in jeans and T-shirt (slogan: "Trust me, I'm a journalist") bellowed, "We've asked Mrs Ng, the ear, nose and throat consultant to have a look at you, Mrs Wormington." I asked if this meant that Mrs Wormington could drink a cup of tea. "Not yet. We don't want to risk her choking to death," she said. "I shall die if I don't have a cup of tea soon," rasped Mrs Wormington. The doctor hurried off down the ward. I followed her. "When will the consultant next be on the ward?" I said. "Mrs Ng's next ward round is on Friday afternoon," she said.
When the tea trolley came round, I placed myself between it and Mrs Wormington, but she heard the wheels. "I've drank eight cups of tea a day for 92 years," she choked. The poor woman ought by right be admitted to the Priory. She is doing the equivalent of coming off crack.
When I went into the sluice room to find a vase for the carnations I'd bought, I heard a registrar at the nurses station whining about the «bed-blockers». When I said goodbye to Mrs Wormington, she said, "Ta-ra lad, God bless, see you tomorrow." I'm trapped! Trapped!
Another pensioner has broken into my life and is holding me to ransom.
Friday, May 19
Glenn asked why the washing line was full of wincey-ette nighties and big knickers. I explained, and he said, "I'm relieved, Dad, I thought you was on the turn."
Saturday, May 20
I woke with a jolt at 3am just as Leo Blair was being born (am I psychically connected to Cherie?). I went downstairs to discover that Pamela Pigg had shoved a note through the letterbox at some time during the night. On pink Filofax paper, she had written:
Dear Adrian,
I went out on a hen night with the girls from the homeless unit tonight. Phillipa, the one with the teeth, is getting 'married' to Mary, the one with the nose, on Wednesday morning. We went to Humperdink's, the new nightclub in Melton Mowbray. I felt terribly out of place. It was full of teenage girls wearing very small garments. I felt horribly frumpy in my Principles polka-dot outfit. It's the last time I follow the advice of the Leicester Mercury's fashion correspondent.
However, the point is, Adrian, the DJ played our song, “My Heart Will Go On.” I had to leave the dancefloor. Do you remember your emotional state when we came out of the multiplex, after seeing Titanic? It was the first time I had seen a grown man cry. I felt very privileged. I miss you, Adrian. Can we try again? It was stupid of me to have flown into a temper over a silly book.
Love, forever, Pammy.
PS: Mary and Phillipa say you are welcome to come to the wedding. I am to be their best person. No presents, but donations to the Fawcett Society appreciated.
PPS: I've had disturbing thoughts of yielding myself to you.
Talk about blackmail! If I attend the lesbian wedding with her, she will «yield» to me, will she? Does she imagine that I am so sexually frustrated that I would spend another minute in the company of a woman who became hysterical when she discovered a copy of Philip Larkin's Diaries on my bookshelf?
Wednesday, May 24
The wedding went off all right. I was the only man there. Even the registrar was a woman. Is this the beginning of the end for men? Pamela came back to Arthur Askey Way, but refused to «yield» to me when she saw Kingsley Amis's Letters on my bedside table and Mrs Wormington's knickers on the line.
Thicker than water
Sunday, May 28, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
The resemblance between Leo Blair and William Hague is uncanny. Each is the other's doppelganger. Put Mr Hague in a romper suit, bootees and a woolly hat, and he is the living embodiment of Master Blair. Can Cherie and William account for their movements on the day of Leo's conception? I wouldn't be surprised if, even as I write, Mr Blair is angrily confronting a tearful Mrs Blair at Chequers. And Ffion must have seen Leo's photograph and questioned her husband's fidelity.
My mother shares my suspicions — we have several children in our family whose paternity remains a mystery. If I were Mr Blair, I would demand a DNA test immediately. How can he concentrate on affairs of state or face Mr Hague across the dispatch box until he knows the Truth?
Incidentally, if my long-held theory is true (that William Hague is Margaret Thatcher's love child) this would mean that young Leo has Thatcher's blood in his veins. I do not usually prescribe to conspiracy theories, but in this case I feel compelled to warn somebody — but who?
Tuesday, May 30
Pandora is in the constituency tomorrow. She is the guest of honour at the closing-down ceremony at St Barnabas' Library. The barbecue in the library car park starts at 6.30pm. I may take the boys. I will also voice my fears to Pandora about the right-wing blood alliance of Blair, Hague and Thatcher.
Wednesday, May 31
It was a painful sight to see hardbacks being used to fuel the cooking of WhoppaBurgers and Buy A Big Boy Hot Dog. The newly retired librarian, Mrs Froggatt, threw a few Barbara Cartlands on to the barbecue when the heat died down. They flared up with an eerie, pink glow. I managed to save some PG Wodehouses and William Browns from the flames, but there was nothing I could do for the others. Glenn couldn't watch. "It ain't right, Dad," he said. Underneath his rough exterior, he is quite a sensitive lad.
Pandora turned up at 7pm and made a speech saying that libraries are now redundant due to the growth of the internet.
One old man in the crowd shouted: "I can't afford to go on-line on 75p a week!"
I tried to talk to Pandora about my suspicions regarding Leo Blair, but she was in a hurry to get away, having realised that being photographed in front of a pyre of books was a potential public-relations disaster.
Thursday, June 1
Mrs Wormington is well enough to come out of hospital. Her son, Ted, turned up out of the blue and tried to persuade her to go into a nursing home. I was visiting her at the time with Glenn and William. She hadn't seen Ted for 21 years, because of a row about a clock. She was adamant that she wanted to return to her own home.
Ted said: "You're being daft, Mam. You can't live on your own at the age of 95. If you won't go into a nursing home, you'll have to come and live with me and Eunice."
A look of horror passed over her multi-wrinkled face. While Ted went to telephone Eunice, Mrs Wormington clutched at my sleeve. She said, "Don't let him take me to live with him and Eunice. I'll be dead in a week. That Eunice is a miserable bugger — she's never been known to crack her face." When Ted came back, he said that Eunice was still resentful about the clock. Glenn announced, "It's alright, she's comin' 'ome with us." I could easily have killed him.
Friday, June 2
Mrs Wormington has been slagging off the Queen Mother. "She's never done a hand's turn in her life," she said. "No wonder she's always smilin'." She moves in with us tomorrow. The adult Pampers delivery service has been alerted.