Twentieth after Trinity
The nurses have been very cold towards me. They say that I am taking up a bed that could be used by an ill person! I have got to eat a bowl of cornflakes before they let me out. So far I have refused: I cannot bear the pain.
Nurse Boldry forced a spoon of cornflakes down my damaged throat, then, before I could digest it, she started stripping my bed. She offered to pay for a taxi, but I told her that I would wait for my father to come and carry me out to the car.
Election Day, USA
I am in my own bed. Pandora is a tower of strength. She and I communicate without words. My voice has been damaged by the operation.
Today I croaked my first words for a week. I said, ‘Dad, phone mum and tell her that I am over the worst’. My father was overcome with relief and emotion. His laughter was close to hysteria.
Moon’s First Quarter
Dr Gray says my malfunctioning voice is ‘only adolescent wobble’. He is always in a bad mood!
He expected me to stagger to his surgery and queue in a germ-filled waiting room! He said I ought to be outside with other lads of my age building a bonfire. I told him that I was too old for such paganistic rituals. He said he was forty-seven and he still enjoyed a good burn-up.
Forty-seven! It explains a lot, he should be pensioned off.
My father is taking me to an organized bonfire party tomorrow (providing I am up to it, of course). It is being held to raise funds for Marriage Guidance Councillors’ expenses.
Pandora’s mother is cooking the food and Pandora’s father is in charge of the fireworks. My father is going to be in charge of lighting the bonfire so I’m going to stand at least a hundred metres away. I have seen him singe his eyebrows many times.
Last night some irresponsible people down our street had bonfire parties in their own back gardens!
Yes!
In spite of being warned of all the dangers by the radio, television, Blue Peter and the media they went selfishly ahead. There were no accidents, but surely this was only luck.
The Marriage Guidance Council bonfire was massive. It was a good community effort. Mr Cherry donated hundreds of copies of a magazine called . Now! He said they had been cluttering up the back room of his shop for over a year.
Pandora burnt her collection of Jackie comics, she said that they ‘don’t bear feminist analysis’ and she ‘wouldn’t like them to get into young girls’ hands’.
Mr Singh and all the little Singhs brought along Indian firecrackers. They are much louder than English ones. I was glad our dog was locked in the coal shed with cotton wool in its ears.
Nobody was seriously burnt, but I think it was a mistake to hand out fireworks at the same time the food was being served.
I burnt the red phone bill that came this morning.
Twenty-first after Trinity. Remembrance Sunday
Our street is full of acrid smoke, I went to see the bonfire, the Now! magazines are still in the hot ashes, they are refusing to burn properly. (Our red phone bill has disappeared, thank God!)
Mr Cherry is going to have to dig a big pit and pourquicklime over the Now! magazines before they choke the whole suburb. Went to see Bert. He was out with Queenie.
Back to school. The dog is at the vet’s having the cotton wool surgically removed.
My nipples have swollen! I am turning into a girl!!!
Veterans’ Day, USA. Remembrance Day, Canada. Full Moon
Dr Gray has struck me off his list! He said nipple-swelling is common in boys. Usually they get it when they are twelve and a half. Dr Gray said I was emotionally and physically immature! How can I be immature? I have had a rejection letter from the BBC! And how could I have walked to the surgery with swollen nipples?
I don’t know why he calls it a surgery anyway; he never does any surgery in it.
Told Mr Jones I couldn’t do PE because of swollen nipples. He was extremely crude in his attitude. I don’t know what they teach them at teacher-training college.
Pandora and I had a frank talk about our relationship tonight. She doesn’t want to marry me in two years’ time!
She wants to have a career instead!
Naturally I am devastated by this blow. I told her I wouldn’t mind her having a little job in a cake shop or something after our wedding, but she said she intended to go to university and that the only time she would enter a cake shop would be to buy a large crusty.
Harsh words were exchanged between us. (Hers were harsher than mine.)
Charred Now! magazines are blowing all over our cul-de-sac. They seem to have special powers of survival. The council have sent a special cleaning squad to try and trap them all.
The dog’s ears are now clear of cotton wool. It only pretends not to hear.
Went to see B.B. but he is out with Queenie. She is pushing him around the leisure centre.
Twenty-second after Trinity
Read A Town Like Alice, by Nevil Shute, it is dead brill. I wish I had an intellectual friend whom I could discuss great literature with. My father thinks A Town Like Alice was written by Lewis Carroll.
I came home from school with a headache. All the noise and shouting and bullying is getting me down! Surely teachers should be better behaved!
My father is a serious worry to me. Even the continuing news of Princess Diana’s conception does not cheer him up.
Grandma has already knitted three pairs of bootees and sent them off care of Buckingham Palace. She is a true patriot.
Moon’s Last Quarter
The trees are stark naked. Their autumnal clothes Litter the pavements. Council sweepers apply fire Thus creating municipal pyres. I, Adrian Mole, Kick them And burn my Hush Puppies.
I have copied it out carefully and sent it to John Tydeman at the BBC. He strikes me as a man who might like poems about autumn leaves.
I have got to get something broadcast or printed soon else Pandora will lose all respect for me.
Pandora has suggested I start a literary magazine using the school duplicator. I wrote the first edition during dinner-time. It is called The Voice of Youth.
Pandora looked at The Voice of Youth. She suggested that instead of writing the whole magazine myself, I invite contributions from other talented scribblers.
She said she would do a piece about window-box gardening. Claire Neilson has submitted a punk poem, it is very avant garde, but I am not afraid to break new ground.