Glenn hovered over the religious question, but eventually declared himself to be a Buddhist after I had given him a breakdown of the world's other great religions. He liked the fact that Buddhists shaved their heads and were careful not to tread on ants.
Gangster's paradise
Saturday, May 5
Dear Prime Minister,
I have just watched your foreign secretary, Robin Cook, on the TV news. However, I have no idea what the man was talking about since I could not understand a word he said. Surely it is time he was given an official translator. Failing this, perhaps subtitles could be used. I am a keen follower of foreign affairs, and resent being disenfranchised by Mr Cook's incoherent babble.
Incidentally, I like the new spectacles — they give you gravitas, something you have been lacking lately due to your own casual articulation.
I remain, sir, AA Mole
An official called Colin Dodge telephoned from customs and excise at Heathrow airport this afternoon. He informed me, (rather curtly, I thought) that the Idaho potatoes sent as emergency food by Hamish Mancini had been confiscated under the anti-Colorado-beetle restrictions. I emailed Hamish and warned him against sending any more food parcels, and told him that the foot and mouth crisis was now under control and that food was now available in the shops.
Hamish emailed back: "I seen the weekly news round-up today, oh boy! There was crowds of crazy reds an' anarchists rioting in London town. When's it gonna be safe for me and mom to visit? I wanna vacation in that cute thatched cottage you live in."
Monday, May 7, Bank Holiday
Vince Ludlow, my neighbour, threw a "Welcome Home Ronnie" party today. He has never met Biggs, but obviously feels an affinity with the train robber. All day, and long into the night, our street was clogged with criminal traffic. A rumour circulated that Mad Frankie Fraser was sitting on the Ludlows' settee, eating crab paste sandwiches. The noise was intolerable. But I decided not to complain, as I did not wish my feet to be sawn off at the ankles. Instead, I took Glenn and William for a ramble in the countryside. On the outskirts of Little Snickerton, I parked in a lay-by and tried to get the boys to leave the car, but neither of them would budge. They are both under the impression that the countryside is ruled by despotic farmers who hate city dwellers. Eventually, I turned the car round and drove back.
Back to school
Tuesday, May 8
Glenn brought a note home from school today:
Dear Parent/Guardian/Principal Carer,
Dr Pandora Braithwaite MP, a former pupil of Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, will address the school assembly on Thursday, May 10, at 9.10am sharp. On the subject of apathy. Please make every effort to attend.
Yours faithfully,
Roger Patience, OBE, Head Teacher
(Please note: The smoking of cigarettes, pipes and cigars, the drinking of alcohol and the ingesting of hot food are not allowed in the assembly hall.)
NB. Mr Grimley, the caretaker, would like me to make it clear that the car park is for the use of school staff only. Visitors ignoring this instruction are liable to have their vehicles towed away by Grimly Bros Auto Services.
Thursday, May 10
I was forced to park three streets away, in Woodpecker Crescent. I ran to the school and arrived at the assembly hall at 9.11am. Grimley jangled a large bunch of keys and barred my way, saying, "Yer too late, Mole." Grimley and I have clashed several times in the past, most recently last month, when Glenn was accused of writing "All caretakers are fascists" on the boiler-room door. Fortunately for me, a large black car drove into the car park. The driver walked away. Grimley licked his lips like a vulture about to pick its victims bones.
Roger Patience was coming to the end of his introduction: "Pandora Braithwaite owes her glittering academic and political success to Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, she is undoubtedly the breast [sic] thing to come out of this school." There was uproar, the laughter lasted a full three minutes.
Pandora, who was wearing an unsuitably low-cut red dress, folded her arms. I waved to her from the back of the hall, but she ignored me. For the next 45 minutes, she harangued the children and the few parents who had bothered to turn up. She said we didn't "deserve the vote", and that if we were not careful the country would be led by fascists, like Grimley, whom she remembered had once reported her to the head teacher of the time, Mr Scruton, for wearing red knickers in contravention of the school's uniform regulations.
Friday, May 11
Pandora's official car is still in the Grimly Bros vehicle pound.
Bowled out
Saturday, May 19
Mohammad rang last night and asked if I would like to accompany him to Lord's to watch the England versus Pakistan test match. I said no, so Glenn will go in my stead. I have boycotted cricket since David Gower stole my parking place outside Grimsby's chip shop on Welford Road in Leicester, in October 1991. I was taking my driving test at the time, and Gower's selfishness resulted in me having to take a further 12 lessons with the BSM. I developed a mental block every time I tried to park the driving school car. A vivid flashback of Gower's triumphant punch in the air caused my arms to lock at the elbow, which necessitated the instructor taking the wheel. I only passed at my fifth attempt after the intervention of a hypnotist. Gower owes me big money.
Tonight I took Pamela Pigg to the Raj Mahal restaurant on Aylestone Road, to discuss ending our relationship. I'm sick of the sight of her. And the sound of her. And the text messages she sends me from early in the morning until late into the night.
Over the poppadams, we bickered about the election. Pamela will vote Liberal Democrat. She said she was influenced by watching Charles Kennedy's parents playing their musical instruments on TV the other night during a party political broadcast. "That's the sort of family life I want." She choked. Her eyes brimmed with sentimental tears. I pointed out to her that I am tone deaf and suggested that she should try a night out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer she sits next to at work.
Over our biryanis, we quarrelled about the Prescott egg incident. She thought Prescott should resign and go into exile. (The Isle of Wight was mentioned). I argued passionately that the mullet-haired egg-thrower, Craig Evans, deserved a thorough pasting. The waiter came over and politely asked us to keep our voices down.
Sunday, May 20
Glenn has just returned home. He was disconsolate, saying, "We lost, Dad." I said, "England won, you fool." Glenn said, "I wanted Pakistan to win." The boy is culturally confused. This is what comes of living in Britain's first multicultural city. Glenn is growing ringlets, like his new hero, Ryan Sidebottom.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Friday, May 25
I visited my father in his isolation cubicle today. I couldn't be bothered to go through the showering, putting on sterile gown, mask and boots rigmarole, so I was gesticulating to him through the observation panel in the door. I was just about to give him the thumbs up before leaving for home, when his consultant, Mr RT Train, approached, trailed by a gang of medical students. I moved aside and was present throughout Train's lesson in diagnostic technique. He pointed through the glass to my father, who was sitting up in bed reading a laminated, germ-free copy of The Daily Express.