Asked to describe her ordeal she said, "It was hell, I ran out of Marlboro Lights and I'd left my Prada bag on the sitting-room floor. It has been totally ruined by the floodwater. She told Ms Snoddy that she would be pressing Mr Prescott, the flood supremo, for financial assistance towards flood defences in the Severn-Trent area. "It is time our rivers were lined with concrete," she said. "It would be terribly sad to lose the bullrushes and the wildlifey things, but we are living in a new era and cannot afford to be sentimental about nature."
She pointed out that various retail outlets could be built on the concrete banks of the Severn: "Starbucks coffee shops would bring cappuccino to our neglected countryside areas," she said. Pandora has always hated the countryside: on our nature rambles with the school, she would wear dark glasses saying, "All this green makes me utterly, utterly sick." Lock Keepers Cottage was furnished in New York style. The blinds were kept permanently down. In fact, they were nailed to the sills.
I sincerely hope that Pandora does not achieve her ambition and become the first female Labour prime minister. During many private conversations with her, she has confided in me that she would be quite happy to see the fens covered in decking, Dartmoor replaced with Astroturf and the Lake District equipped with escalators to make it easier for the disabled. My mother claims that Pandora was only joking, but I'm convinced that her contempt for the English language is genuine.
Wednesday, November 1, 2000
My literary agent, Brick Eagleburger (who has failed to sell any of my novels, television series, radio plays or epic poems), got in touch with me today after a period of two years. Somebody in Wolverhampton — a certain Jim Smith — is keen to publish The Restless Tadpole, my 592-page prose poem about a tadpole's journey from the early days of frogspawnhood to the dying moments of old frogdom. It charts the events of the creature's life and draws parallels with events in my own, though I did not include my divorce, as I couldn't find out from any amphibian handbook if frogs went through a form of divorce, or if in fact they stayed faithful to the same partner.
Glenn has just informed me that "frogs are at it day an' night, Dad, with anythink that turns up". Brick Eagleburger said that Jim Smith had sent a fax saying, "The Restless Tadpole is a lyrical lament for the past glory that was the English countryside. I was moved to tears by the frog's violent death under the wheels of a German juggernaut." Brick said, "The guy's payin' zilcho spondoolicks but the exposure's godda be good for ya." I asked for the name of Jim Smith's publication and was told it was Frog Weekly. It touches me greatly that so many people care so deeply about frogs that they can be bothered to fill in the subscription form and fork out nine quid a year. Personally, I can't bear the loathsome slimy creatures.
Postcode apartheid
Sunday, November 12, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I was the only one on the BP garage forecourt today to respect the two-minute silence.
Monday, November 13
My agent, Brick Eagleburger, is beside himself with excitement. He is convinced that his Floridian postal vote will secure the presidency for Gore. He may well be right. If Gore wins by one vote, Brick plans to take the credit. He has booked a full-page advertisement in The Stage. It says, "Brick Eagleburger, theatrical agent, specialises in weather girls, celebrity chefs and animal acts, including the world famous Billy the Seal. Mr Eagleburger's postal vote determined the outcome of the American presidential election. New Artistes always welcome. 25 % commission. Tax and investment advice included."
I phoned Brick, and asked when he and I could meet to discuss my writing career. At 33, I am already too old to be eligible for the Young British Writers' Award. Why does nobody arrange competitions for the young middle-aged? It is sheer prejudice. Just because we are beginning to lose our hair and suffer from occasional sexual dysfunction, it does not mean that our literary faculties are clapped out. Brick told me in his hideous ungrammatical style, "I don't got no windows, Adrian." He said he was having trouble with Billy the Seal, who had developed a serious cocaine habit after working in a circus in Dublin, where he came under the malevolent influence of Declan Tourette and his amazing foul-talking dog.
Within seven days, poor Billy was snorting a serious quantity of the evil white powder. After a fortnight, he was seriously dependent on Tourette for his supply. Within three weeks, Billy's career was almost over, his nostrils were seriously damaged and he could no longer catch or throw a ball with his nose. Fortunately, Brick caught him in time and packed Billy off to a secret animal rehabilitation clinic in Milton Keynes. There, together with other damaged animals, Billy broke his expensive habit and cleaned himself up.
Tuesday, November 14
My life is incredibly boring, but today took the biscuit: absolutely nothing happened. I got out of bed. I made scrambled eggs. They were neither good nor bad, but sort of in between. I walked to the newsagent's, where I was just in time to see a man with a beard (a stranger) buy the last Guardian. I could tell from his accent that he wasn't from these parts. I think it is disgusting that people are allowed to buy goods willy-nilly, regardless of where they live, thus depriving the locals of vital supplies. I said as much to my mother. She said, "Are you seriously suggesting that people should be prohibited from travelling from one area to another? Are you, in fact, advocating a type of postcode apartheid?" I didn't know what to say to her. The truth was that, once again, I had reacted to a minor setback in a manner that was entirely inappropriate. Several people have commented that I should see a therapist. However, the waiting list to see a NHS therapist is two years and it would break my heart to fork out £25 a session to find out that there is nothing at all wrong with my personality or emotional make-up.
Wednesday, November 15
I have just emerged from the front room of a Jungian therapist called Dave Mutter. I sat on his pink velour sofa and cried about my Grandma's Yorkshire puddings for 55 minutes.
Thursday, November 16
I rang Dave and begged him for an urgent appointment. I am seeing him this afternoon. 5.30pm: I told Dave about my recurring dream — that Gordon Brown visits me at night and begs me to help him with the economy. Dave is my only friend. God, diary, I think I may be a little in love with him!
Transference of transference
Saturday, November 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouche
Dear Diary, I must confide in you a most terrible secret. I am desperately in love with my therapist, Dave Mutter. Not sexually. Absolutely not sexually. Not in any way sexually. Dave is not an especially attractive man: try to imagine Yul Brynner with an overactive thyroid, a grey ponytail and a high-pitched voice. I think you'll agree that he doesn't excite homo-erotic fantasies. My love for Dave is pure and strictly platonic. He fills my daytime thoughts. I live only for my next appointment with him. I long to tell somebody. I need to speak his name aloud, but who can I trust to keep my secret?