Got parcel from Auntie Susan. It is an embroidered toothbrush holder and it was made by one of the prisoners! She is called Grace Pool. Auntie Susan said that I should write and thank her! It is bad enough that my father’s sister works in Holloway Prison. But now I am expected to start writing to the prisoners! Grace Pool could be a murderess or anything!
Still waiting for the eleven pounds eighty pence. It doesn’t seem as if my mother is desperate to see me.
Easter Sunday
Today is the day that Jesus escaped from the cave. I expect that Houdini got the idea from him.
My father forgot to go to the bank on Friday so we are penniless. I had to take the pop bottles back to the shop to buy myself an Easter egg. Watched film, then had a fantastic tea at grandma’s. She made a cake covered in little fluffy chicks. Some of the fluff got into my father’s mouth, he had to have his back thumped hard. He always manages to spoil things. He has got no Social Decorum at all. Went to see Bert Baxter after tea. He was pleased to see me and I felt a bit rotten because I have neglected him lately. He gave me a pile of comics. They are called the Eagle and they have gotgreat pictures. I read them until 3 AM this morning. Us intellectuals keep anti-social hours. It does us good.
Bank Holiday in UK (except Scotland)
My father is in a rage because the bank is still shut. He has run out of cigarettes. It will do him good. No sign of the eleven pounds eighty pence. Wrote to Grace Pool. She is in ‘D’ Wing. I put:
Dear Miss Pool,
Thank you for making the toothbrush holder. It is charming.
Yours, with kind regards, Adrian
My father was first in the queue at the bank this morning. When he got inside the cashier said he couldn’t have any money because he hadn’t got any left. My father demanded to see the manager. I was dead ashamed so I sat behind a plastic plant and waited until the shouting had stopped. Mr Niggard, the head bloke, came out and calmed my father down. He said he would arrange a temporary overdraft. My father looked dead pathetic, he kept saying, ‘It was that bloody vet’s bill’. Mr Niggard looked as if heunderstood. Perhaps he has got a mad dog as well. We can’t be the only ones, can we?
The eleven pounds, etc., came by second post so I am going to Sheffield tomorrow morning. I’ve never been on a train on my own before. I am certainly stretching my wings lately.
My father gave me a lift to the station. He also gave me a bit of advice about the journey; he said I was not to buy a pork pie from the buffet car.
I stood in the train with my head out of the window and my father stood on the platform. He kept looking at his watch. I couldn’t think of anything to say and neither could he. In the end I said, ‘Don’t forget to feed the dog, will you?’ My father gave a nasty laugh, then the train started to move so I waved and went to look for a non-smoking seat. All the filthy smokers were crammed together choking and coughing. They were a rough-looking, noisy lot so I hurried through their small carriage holding my breath. The non-smoking carriages seemed to have a quieter type of person in them. I found a window seat opposite an old lady. I had wanted to look at the landscape or read my book but the old bat started on about her daughter’s hysterectomy and telling me things I didn’t want to hear. She just about sent me barmy! It was nag, nag, nag. But thank God she got off at Chesterfield. She left her Woman’s Own behind so I had a goodlaugh at the Problem Page, read the story, and then the train slowed down for Sheffield. My mother started crying when she saw me. It was a bit embarrassing but quite nice at the same time. We got a taxi from the station, Sheffield looks OK, just like home really. I didn’t see any knife and fork factories. I expect Margaret Thatcher has closed them all down.
Lucas was out flogging insurance so I had my mother all to myself until eight o’clock. The flat is dead grotty, it is modern but small. You can hear the neighbours coughing. My mother is used to better things. I am dead tired, so will stop.
I hope my father is being kind to the dog. I wish my mother would come home, I had forgotten how nice she is.
St George’s Day
Me and mum went shopping today. We bought a Habitat lampshade for her bedroom and a new pair of trousers for me. They are dead good, really tight.
We had a Chinese Businessman’s Lunch and then went to see a Monty Python film all about the life of Jesus. It was dead daring, I felt guilty laughing.
Lucas was at the flat when we got back. He had got the dinner ready but I said I wasn’t hungry and I went to my room. It would choke me to eat anything that creep had touched! Later on I phoned my father froma call-box; I just had time to shout, ‘Don’t forget to feed the dog’, before the pips went.
Retired to bed early because of all the slopping Lucas was doing. He calls my mother ‘Paulie’ when he knows very well that her name is Pauline.
Helped my mother to paint her kitchen. She is doing it brown and cream, it looks awful, just like the toilets at school. Lucas bought me a penknife. He is trying to bribe me into liking him again. Hard luck, Lucas! Us Moles never forget. We are just like the Mafia, once you cross us we bear a grudge all our lives. He has stolen a wife and mother so he will have to pay the price! It is a shame because the penknife is full of gadgets that would be useful to me in my everyday life.
Lucas doesn’t work on Saturdays so I had to put up with his lechery all day. He is constantly touching my mother’s hand or kissing her or putting his arm round her shoulders, I don’t know how she stands it, it would drive me mad.
Lucas drove us out into the countryside this afternoon, it was hilly and high up. I got cold so I sat in the car and watched my mother and Lucas making anexhibition of themselves. Thank God, no members of the public were around. It is not a pretty sight to see old people running up hills laughing.
Came back, had a bath, thought about the dog, went to sleep.
Home tomorrow.
3 AM Just had a dream about stabbing Lucas with the toothpick on my penknife. Best dream I’ve had for ages.
2.10 PM. So my little sojourn in Sheffield is drawing to a dose. I am catching the 7.10 PM train which only leaves five hours to do my packing. My father was right. I didn’t need two suitcases of clothes. Still it is better to be safe than sorry, I always say. I shan’t be sorry to leave this sordid flat with the coughing neighbours, though naturally I have some regrets about my mother’s stubbornness in refusing to come home with me.
I told her that the dog was pining to death for her but she rang my father up and like a fool he told her that the dog had just eaten a whole tin of Pedigree Chum and a bowl of Winalot.
I told her about my father and Doreen Slater, hoping to send her mad with jealousy, but she just laughed and said, ‘Oh is Doreen still making the rounds?’ I have done my best to get her back, but must admit defeat.
11 PM. Journey back a nightmare, non-smoking compartments all full, forced to share carriage with pipes, cigars and cigarettes. Queued for twenty minutes for a cup of coffee in the buffet. Just got to the counter when the grille came down and the man put up a sign saying: ‘Closed due to signal failure’! Got back to seat, found a soldier in my place. Found another seat, but had to endure maniac sitting opposite telling me he had a radio inside his head controlled by Fidel Castro.