Progress on the noveclass="underline"
Krog squatted behind his wife, picking lice from her matted hair. Her belly was big with child. Krog did not know why. Krog wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her. He wished that somebody would hurry up and invent language and clothes and shampoo. Then Krog spoke to his wife: 'You woman, me man.
That yolk isn't funny anymore
Saturday, March 31
I'm glad to see the end of this accurs-éd month. William went into the back garden to try out his new red wellingtons. Minutes later, he had to be rescued by me and Glenn after sinking up to his waist in the squelching bog that used to be the lawn.
Michael Fish told me and my fellow British TV gogglers at lunchtime today that the previous 12 months had been the wettest since records had been kept. I said to Michael, "I'm not surprised, Mike."
I was about to tell him about William's near miss when I realised, to my horror, that Michael Fish would not have been able to hear me. I must get out more.
As I was cooking the boys' Quorn burgers tonight, I had a sudden brainwave, and phoned Pandora on her direct number at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. She answered at once. For a joke, I pretended to be the chief vet of Norfolk. I said, "Moi dear gal, Oi'm the chief vet of Norfolk. Oi'm sorry gal, but Oi've got bad news, there's been a serious outbreak of beak and claw down here. More than 11 million chickens and turkeys are affected."
She gave an audible gasp. Then said, "Christ, what next? Is it safe to eat the eggs?"
I answered in my newly acquired Norfolk accent, "No, my dear, they must be gathered from their coops, stamped, ’DO NOT INGEST. THIS EGG IS CARRYING THE BEAK AND CLAW VIRUS'."
There was silence and she stifled a sob. She then shouted across the office, "Get me Tony, at once!" She then spoke urgently to somebody nearby, and I heard a male voice shout, "Fuckin' 'ell, there's beak 'n' claw in Norfolk!" He sounded hysterical.
I was starting to regret my deception, but when Pandora asked me if she should arrange for the poultry to be slaughtered and the eggs to be buried, for some reason I answered, "Put the birds out of their misery, by all means, but the eggs could come in useful — for throwing at politicians during the run-up to the general election."
After I'd slammed down the phone, I was ashamed of myself. Pandora was so proud of her recent promotion to junior minister for poultry. I tried to ring back, but the phones in her office were permanently engaged. What I had intended to suggest to her was that, rather than destroy infected sheep, instead each household in Britain be given a skinned and disembowelled carcass to put in the freezer. After all, foot and mouth presents no danger to we homo sapiens. (To keep things fair, vegetarians could be given a token for a bag of turnips or something.) This would surely win votes for new Labour.
Sunday, April 1, April Fool's Day
A Leicester courier firm, 24-7, woke me early this morning with the most wonderful letter of my life:
Dear Adrian Mole,
My name is Louise Moore. I am an editor at Penguin Books UK Ltd. I will cut quickly to the chase. While lunching in the Ivy yesterday with Will Self and Martin Amis, I could not help but overhear a conversation at the next table between two agents. They were discussing your unfinished manuscript, Krog From Gork. I was gripped by the story of how Krog invents man's first language, thus enabling him to tell his wife that he loves her.
Penguin would like to offer you £1m for a two-book deal. Please ring me at 9.30am on Monday.
Yours sincerely
Louise Moore.
Monday, April 2
My birthday cards were illustrated by the usual symbols of masculinity: vintage cards, foaming tankards and fishing rods.
At 9.30 precisely, I rang Ms Moore's number. Pandora answered. "April Fool, you birthday boy bastard,"she shouted before slamming down the phone.
Sex is not everything
Friday, April 6, Arthur Askey Way, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
A belated birthday card from Pamela Pigg. On the front, a picture of a middle-aged git, sitting at a rustic table outside a thatched pub. A black labrador lies at the git's feet, next to a wicker basket from which protrude several fishing rods, nets, etc. The git is wearing a green waxed jacket and a deerstalker, and is raising a foaming tankard to his self-satisfied lips. In the background is a vintage car, presumably owned by the git.
For how long did Pamela shop for this card? And when she found it, did she exclaim, "At last! This is the perfect card for Adrian Mole"? She must know by now that I hate thatch, dogs, tankards, fishing, tweed — in fact, almost everything to do with the countryside. I am urbane to my very fingertips. Inside, Pamela had written: "Adrian, Mon Amour, let's try again. Sex is not everything, Love Piglet."
Query: do I want to try again with Pamela? Most of our trysts seem to end in tears, snot and recriminations. She is ludicrously oversensitive: last autumn, when we were walking in the woods, she wept because the leaves were leaving "their mothers" (the trees).
Saturday, April 7
Against my better judgment, I rang Pamela and asked her to accompany me to Nigel's official coming-out party. I could not risk being mistaken for a single gay man. I regretted my invitation as soon as I saw her outfit. No woman over 17 should wear a sequinned boob tube, in my opinion. And her comedy earrings were not at all amusing. Nigel's parents looked shell-shocked — his mother still thinks his homosexuality is a "silly phrase [sic] he is going through".
That night, after yet another failed attempt at sexual congress (her fault, not mine), Pamela turned her back on me and began to weep piteously. I longed for sleep, but felt compelled to offer her comfort. Unfortunately, she was still there in the morning, naked, apart from the comedy earrings. When William barged into my bedroom, he said, disapprovingly, "You will have to get married now, Dad." He has never seen me in bed with a woman before, not even his mother.
Sunday, April 8
Pamela suggested that we go out for lunch "en famille". She recommended Ye Olde Carvery in Frisby-On- The-Wreake. Glenn and William were excited — they rarely eat out. On the way, in the car, I explained that Frisby-On-The-Wreake was a notorious centre for paganism. Pamela contradicted me violently, saying that Frisby had won best-kept hanging basket prize for three years running. I pointed out that the two could easily co-exist, and Glenn said diplomatically, "Yeah, a witch can 'ave 'an 'anging basket."
Ye Olde Carvery was full of wax-jacketed gits talking in loud voices about the poor cow who'd put her foot in it. I assumed they were banging on about foot and mouth, but Pamela had picked up a copy of The Mail On Sunday and told me the Countess of Wessex had been entrapped by a reporter dressed as an Arab sheikh into calling John Major «wooden», William Hague "a puppet", and foxes «vermin».
The carvery did not cater for vegetarians. Indeed, a glance at the trays of ye olde foode congealing behind the bar told me that Ye Olde Carvery did not cater for any person with a normal appetite, tastebuds, etc. On the way out, one of the gits laughed at Pamela's comedy earrings. I could hardly object.