My ex-wife Jo-Jo has faxed me to ask if she can take William with her when she returns to her home in Lagos, Nigeria. For what she's called "an extended visit".
I faxed back immediately, c/o The Hempel Hotel in Craven Hill Gardens, London. (She is rolling in money — her new husband imports "cattle prods" from Turkey. One dreads to think to what purpose the prods are used. I suspect that cattle don't enter the equation).
Dear Jo-Jo,
I will cut immediately to the chase. No, you cannot take William back to Nigeria with you. He is extremely happy living in the small town of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. The culture shock could kill him. If, when he gets to the age of reason, he wants to 'discover his roots', I will help him to do so. But he has told me that he wants to continue to attend Mrs Claricoates' reception class, where he is excelling at colouring in and computer studies. Besides, he has a school trip to Flyingdales Moor in Yorkshire, planned in February.
Incidentally, I am surprised at your choice of new husband. William tells me that the man has never heard of Pokémon cards, and that he was unable to name the individual members of Steps. He sounds an unworldly man.
How could a sophisticated woman like you saddle yourself with such a dolt? I cannot but fear for the longevity of your marriage. As you will recall (perhaps fondly), when we were man and wife, we used to talk in bed for hours about world and current affairs.
Anyway, Jo-Jo, I'm afraid you must return to Nigeria without William.
I remain, yours, as ever, Adrian.
Sunday, January 14
I received the following fax this morning:
The Hempel, Craven Hill Gardens, London.
To Adrian Mole from Mrs Jo-Jo Mapfumo.
Thank you for your fax. I am, of course, disappointed that you will not give your permission for William to visit Nigeria with me and my new husband, Colonel Ephat Mapfumo. My family in Lagos are most anxious to meet him. He is, after all, my first son and is accordingly held in high esteem by them.
I found your remarks about my husband offensive in the extreme. He is far from being a dolt. He was educated at the Sorbonne and Sandhurst. He plays the piano, violin and oboe, collects contemporary African art and has written an acclaimed book: The Coup — a Post-Colonial Alternative to Democracy.
As to our own marriage, I do not recall our conversations in or out of bed 'fondly'. My recollection is that you talked at length about three subjects: 1. Your unpublished novels; 2. Dostoevsky; 3. The Norwegian leather industry. I realised that our marriage was a mistake five minutes after the wedding, when you accused me of exhibitionism, because I chose to wear my traditional tribal dress.
Yours, Mrs Jo-Jo Mapfumo.
PS: If you will not allow William to visit Nigeria, then my family must visit him in Ashby-de-la-Zouch. I will proceed with these arrangements as soon as I return to Lagos.
I admit that I was taken aback when I saw Jo-Jo enter Leicester Register Office. She had told me that she was going to wear "traditional dress". Therefore, I was expecting white lace and a veil — not a riot of pattern and primary colours. In her tribal turban, she stood 6ft 3in tall. She towered over me. We looked ridiculous as we lined up in front of the registrar.
I distinctly heard Pandora (the best man) whisper, "Talk about a folie à deux".
Monday, January 15
At the last count, there were 213 members of Jo-Jo's immediate family. There's no way I can give even minimal hospitality to 213, as Nigerian custom demands. It may be easier if William went to them. Perhaps during the summer holidays.
Piqued at the post
Tuesday, January 16, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Clive Box, the postman, banged on the door at 6.15 this morning, which startled me out of my sleep. For some reason, I keep expecting to be raided at dawn by the police, though I have done absolutely nothing wrong. Clive had no proper letters for me, only a multicoloured envelope that informed me in fat multiple exclamation marks that I had won £1,000,000.
I said irritably, "Couldn't you have just put it through the letterbox?"
"Sorry," Box mumbled, "but I wanted to ask you sommat important."
Behind Box's uniformed back, I could see that the estate was covered in frost. Box looked longingly at the radiator in the hall. I asked him in and shut the front door. He put his sack of letters on the floor and blew on his hands. He looked at the self-portrait of Van Gogh that hangs on the wall.
"Who's that? Your granddad?" he said.
"No!" I said. "That's Van Gogh, whose genius went unrecognised in his lifetime. He only ever sold one of his paintings before he died."
"I'm not surprised," said Clive Box, after looking more closely at Gogh's haunted expression. "He's an ugly bugger."
The hall is tiny. We stood in too close proximity. I led the way into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. Box sat at the table and said, "You're an educated man, ain't you, Mr Mole?"
I replied that I was a bit of an autodidact.
"I ain't interested in your sex life," he said, "but I've seen them letters from book clubs, so I've chosen you to 'elp me out. Do you speak French?"
"Mais oui," I replied.
He took out a sheet of paper from his uniform pocket and pushed it across the table. "'Ow do you pronounce this?" he asked, stabbing with a stubby finger at a word in block capitals in the middle of a paragraph. I looked at the word. I wasn't familiar with it. "CONSIGNIA." I said it out loud, slowly. "Con-sig-nia."
He then said it many times, like a toddler learning the word hippopotamus. "What does it mean?" he asked, eventually.
I told him that I had no idea. I read the paper in front of me. It said that the Post Office had given itself a "modern and meaningful title". And that the words, «Post» and «Office» no longer described the work that this organisation did.
Box looked at me with bewilderment in his eyes. "So I ain't a postman now?" he said. "Apparently not," I replied. "You're a consignée."
Wednesday, January 17
On the train to London to visit my mother in Holloway, I noticed that that ticket collector wore a badge that said "Roger Morris, Revenue Protection Officer".
My mother was in good spirits. She has made friends with her cellmate, a woman called Yvonne, who is in prison for not having a TV licence. Yvonne's defence — that she never watched BBC1 or BBC2 — was thrown out by the court. My mother pointed her out across the visiting room.
Yvonne saw us looking at her and blew my mother a kiss.
My mother blew one back!
I said to my mother, "You and Yvonne appear to be very fond of each other." She looked me in the eye and said, "Yes, we are very, very, very fond of each other." I took a closer look at Yvonne. She looks like Diana Dors, the black-and-white film star. I stumbled through the prison gates — has my mother taken up lesbianism, as she once took up badminton and feminism? And, if she has, will she tire of it, as she so quickly tired of aforementioned hobbies?