Another group of people provided the small talk that Peter thirsted for. From a woman in white jeans, he heard: 'We do support the comprehensive system, but our children are terribly sensitive, so. And a man wearing wire Raybans opined: 'House prices have got to come down soon. We bought ours for… Peter was in heaven. Later that night, the barbecue long extinguished, Peter looked up at the stars and ruminated on the nature of small talk. To help him sleep, he practised the art. He selected one of his favourite topics: 'Call this a summer? I can't remember the last time the sun shone.
Within minutes, William was asleep.
Sunday, July 2
I loathe Noddy, but I had promised William, so I made up the following story.
It was Big Ears' birthday, so, to celebrate, Noddy drove his car to Toytown. The pals went from pub to pub, drinking pints of beer. Big Ears' face got very red and the bell on Noddy's hat rang like mad. When they came out of the last pub, a gang of Skittles accused Big Ears of being a pervert, and started a fight. Mr Plod was called and saw Noddy head-butting the largest Skittle.
'Hi ham takin' you to the nearest cash point, said Mr Plod. 'Tell me your PIN number Noddy. But, sadly, Noddy was too drunk to remember, so Mr Plod hit him hard on the head with his truncheon instead.
Good night.
Rhyme and reason
Wednesday, July 5, Arthur Askey Walk
My father originally went into hospital with fractures of the leg and various other injuries, caused when he fell off a ladder while constructing a Japanese-style pagoda for his new wife, Tania, who is obsessed with all things Oriental.
He's been in hospital for months, suffering from a hospital-borne infection, and is now completely institutionalised. When he hears the food trolley arrive at the end of the ward at 7am, 12 noon and 5pm, his mouth fills with saliva. He claims to be happy there, says he has no worries: other people pay the bills, walk the dangerous streets, get immobilised in traffic jams, and do the Sainsbury's run.
Sharon Bott, the mother of my son, Glenn, works as a cleaner at the hospital. She says that, as part of an infection-control programme, her mop was taken away for laboratory tests. She said that when the mop was returned to her, "It looked as if it had been through the mill."
Thursday, July 6
I have just found a sheaf of poems hidden inside the panel surrounding the washbasin. They are in Glenn's handwriting. Why he feels the need to hide the evidence of a fine sensibility is a mystery to me. This house is devoted to the creative spirit. William, for instance, has a passion for making miniature gardens in old shoe-boxes. Perhaps he will grow up to be a landscape gardener like Capability Brown or Charlie Dimmock.
My favourite poem is entitled Why?
Why?
I will have to correct Glenn on an inaccuracy in this poem. Flies are not nice. They have vile personal habits. My second-favourite poem is called Patsy:
Patsy
When Glenn came home from school, I tackled him about the poem. He hung his head and blushed scarlet. "Don't tell no one, Dad," he said.
Saturday July 8
My mother has called a family conference. I am the subject. My father was on the end of his hospital telephone. Others present were: Ivan Braithwaite, Tania, Mrs Wormington, and my auntie Susan, a prison warder. They are concerned that I am wasting my life. I pointed out that I am a full-time carer of two boys and a 90-year-old woman. My mother said, "What was the point of reading all those books if all you're going to do with that knowledge is to wash and iron and cook. You might as well have been born a woman."
Auntie Susan stubbed out her cigar and raked her fingers through her number two before saying, "Adrian, I could get you a job in the prison library."
To shut them all up, I promised to think about it but the thought of being in contact with even literate prisoners fills me with horror. Tania said that, in her opinion, I had an unhealthy fixation with old people. "Why can't you be content to do voluntary work in a retirement home? Why do you feel the need to have one living with you in your home?" I was unable to give her an answer. When they had gone, Mrs Wormington asked, "Who was that stuck-up bitch in the kimono?"
Monday, July 10
Next week, I go to Wind-on-the-Wolds prison to be shown around the library. There is a part-time job available, worse luck!
Mad cow
Thursday, July 13, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
My Mother has just phoned in a panic, gabbling about CJD. She was once driven through the village of Queniborough on the way to a garden centre in Quorn and is now convinced that she is to be the next victim in the cluster of unfortunates to have contracted the deadly disease. She has become a hypochondriac since Ivan Braithwaite moved into our house with his mania for sterilising the chopping boards and sprinkling Dettol on the new dog's bedding.
I tried to calm her fears but she was near to hysteria and begged me to forgive her. "For what," I enquired, wondering which of her parental crimes I should forgive her for. "The cheap beefburgers I used to serve up, three times a week," she said. "I didn't know they were made of bits of old spinal chord and sawdust, Aidy."
I reassured her that the beefburgers of my childhood were so utterly disgusting that I used to surreptitiously feed the dog with them. It would take its place under the table whenever it saw my mother drag a box of the vile things out of the freezer. Personally, I'm waiting for the boil-in-the-bag cod-in-butter-sauce food scare. I must have consumed a shoal of the fish. Then there's the frozen beef TV dinners for one, which we used to consume on Sundays. That tinfoil couldn't have done us much good, either. "It's 100 % organic food for me from now on," said my mother.
"But you don't know what to do with real food," I reminded her. She replied, "I've got Delia and Nigel and Jamie to help me," as though her ill-equipped kitchen was full of celebrity chefs jostling for space.
Friday, July 14
Mrs Wormington has gone to Mablethorpe with the Ludlows. They have got an eight-berth caravan in a field near to the sea. They asked if they could take William with them but I had to say no. He is an impressionable lad and easily picks up on the Ludlows' verbal infelicities. Yesterday he came back from playing at their house, and when I told him it was time for bed, he said, in a Louisiana accent while showing me his left palm. "Tell it to the hand, cos the face ain't listening. Leave a message after the bleep." Peggy Ludlow said that the Jerry Springer Show had been on while William had been playing on the rug with Vince Ludlow's socket set.