Mrs Singh handed round some little cornish pasties. I ate one of them and had to drink a gallon of water. I thought my mouth had caught fire! They were not cornish pasties.
We watched television until the happy couple left Victoria station on a very strange-looking train. Bert said it was only strange-looking because it was clean.
Mrs O’Leary came in and asked if she could borrow our old chairs for the street party. In my father’s absence I agreed and helped to carry them out on to the pavement. Our street looked dead weird without cars and with flags and bunting flapping about.
Mrs O’Leafy and Mrs Singh swept the street clean. Then we all helped to put the tables and chairs out into the middle of the road. The women did all the work, the men stood around on the pavement drinking too much and making jokes about Royal Nuptials.
Mr Singh put his stereo speakers out of his lounge windows and we listened to a Des O’Connor LP whilst we set the tables with sandwiches, jam tarts, sausage rolls and sausages on sticks. Then everyone in our street was given a funny hat by Mrs O’Leary and we sat down to eat. At the end of the tea Mr Singh made a speech about how great it was to be British. Everyone cheered and sang ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. But only Mr Singh knew all the words. Then my father came back with four party packs of light ale and two dozen paper cups, and soon everyone was acting in an undignified manner.
Mr O’Leary tried to teach Mrs Singh an Irish jig but he kept getting tangled up in her sari. I put my Abba LP on and turned the volume up high and soon even the old people of forty and over were dancing! When the street lamps came on Scan O’Leary climbed up and put red, white and blue crepe paper over the bulbs to help the atmosphere and I fetched our remaining candles and put them on the tables. Our street looked quite Bohemian.
Bert told some lies about the war, my father told jokes. The party went on until one o’clock in the morning!
Normally they get a petition up if you clear your throat after eleven o’clock at night!
I didn’t dance, I was an amused, cynical observer. Besides my feet were aching.
I have seen the Royal Wedding repeats seven times on television.
New Moon
Sick to death of Royal Wedding.
Pandora, the beggar’s friend, is coming home tomorrow.
Postcard from my mother, she wants me to go on holiday with her and creep Lucas. They are going to Scotland. I hope they enjoy themselves.
Pandora’s flight has been delayed because of a baggage-handlers’ strike in Tunis.
Seventh after Trinity
The baggage-handlers are still on strike and Pandora’s father has had his American Express card stolen by a beggar!
Pandora said that her mother has been bitten by a camel but is recovering in the Ladies’ toilet at Tunis airport. It was wonderful to hear Pandora’s voice on the telephone, we talked to each other for over half an hour. How clever it was of her to arrange a reverse-charge call from Tunisia!
Bank Holiday in Scotland and Rep. of Ireland
The Tunisian baggage-handlers have agreed to go to arbitration. Pandora says that with luck she’ll be home by Thursday.
The Tunisian baggage-handlers can see light at the end of the tunnel.
Pandora is surviving on packets of dates and Polo mints.
The Tunisian baggage-handlers are now handling baggage. Pandora home FRIDAY EVENING!
My father refused a reverse-charges call from Tunisia. Our lines of communication have been cut.
Moon’s First Quarter
I rang Tunisia whilst my father was in the bath. He shouted down to ask whom I was phoning. I told a lie. I said I was phoning the speaking clock.
Pandora’s flight left safely. She should be home around midnight.
At 7 AM Pandora rang from St Pancras station. She said that due to electrification of the track at Flitwick she would be delayed.
I got dressed and went down to the station, got a platform ticket, waited on platform two for six cold, lonely hours. Went home to find a note from Pandora. This is what it said:
Adrian,
I confess to feeling heartbroken at your apparent coldness concerning my arrival. I felt sure that we would have an emotional reunion on platform three. But it was not to be.
Adieu,
Went to Pandora’s house. Explained. Had an emotional reunion behind her father’s tool shed.
Eighth after Trinity
Touched Pandora’s bust again. This time I think I felt something soft. My thing keeps growing and shrinking, it seems to have a life of its own. I can’t control it.
Pandora and I went to the swimming baths this morning. Pandora looked superb in her white string bikini. She has gone the same colour as Mrs Singh. I didn’t trust my thing to behave so I sat in the spectators’ gallery and watched Pandora diving off the highestdiving board. Got back to my house. Showed her my black room. Lit a joss stick. Put Abba LP on, sneaked a bottle of Sanatogen upstairs. We indulged in a bit of light petting but then Pandora developed a headache and went home to rest.
I was racked with sexuality but it wore off when I helped my father put manure on our rose bed.
Got another postcard from my mother.
Dear Aidy,
You’ve no idea how much I long to see you. The mothering bond is as strong as ever. I know you feel threatened by my involvement with Bimbo, but really Aidy there is no need. Bimbo fulfils my sexual needs. No more, no less. So, Aidy, grow up and come to Scotland.
Lots of love,
Pauline (mother)
P.S. We leave on the fifteenth. Catch 8.22 train to Sheffield.
The postman said that if my mother was his wife he would give her a good thrashing. He doesn’t know my mother. If anybody laid a finger on her she would beat them to pulp.
Pandora thinks a trial separation will do us good. She says our light to medium petting will turn quite heavy soon. I must admit that the strain is having a detrimental effect on my health. I have got no energy and my sleep is constantly interrupted with dreams about Pandora’s white bikini and Mrs O’Leary’s knickers. I might go to Scotland after all.
My father has decided to go to Skegness on the fifteenth. He has booked a four-berth caravan. He is taking Doreen and Maxwell with him! He expects me to go!
If I go people will automatically assume that Doreen is my mother and Maxwell is my brother!
I am going to Scotland.
Had tragic last night with Pandora. We have both sworn to be true. I have done all my packing. The dog has been taken round to grandma’s with fourteen tins of Pedigree Chum and a giant sack of Winalot.
I am taking Escape from Childhood, by John Holt, to read on the train.