The supervisor, whose badge told me she was Mary-Lou Hattersley, was waiting for me with a tearful William. Ms Hattersley (six out of 10: large breasts, clear skin, blonde hair, but needs a good cut, legs hidden by trousers) said, "He wants his mummy." I was astonished to hear this. William never mentions his mother. I explained that my ex-wife lived in Nigeria. She flicked her hair back and murmured, "Have you re-married, Mr Mole?"
I assured her that I was single, then, by way of conversation, asked her if she was related to Lord Hattersley, the hothead revolutionary. "Incontrovertibly," she said. I am in love. Glenn's shopping came to £185.99.
Love at the crèche
Saturday, June 30
I am still in love with the supervisor of Safeway's in-store crèche, Mary-Lou Hattersley. She has the widest vocabulary of any woman I have ever known — and that includes Pandora, who lectured in semantics at Oxford for a while.
Mary-Lou, or ML as she likes to be called, claims that both she and Roy Hattersley, her very distant relation, have inherited the same genes from Isiah Hattersley, "an autodidact night soil man". He was a follower of "disestablishmentarianism", she told me as she pinned William's name-badge on his new Shrek T-shirt.
Instead of doing a weekly shop, I now find myself visiting the store daily. William is complaining that he is fed up with the crèche, but I have bribed him with the promise of a trip to McDonald's. Yes, I have sunk that low! But I am a prisoner of love. I have to see her dirty blonde hair. Those fiery, intelligent eyes. She wore a skirt yesterday, so I was able to assess her legs. They are not bad, though when we are better acquainted I will advise her to avoid shorts and miniskirts.
Monday, July 2
Glenn asked if he can have the day off school to watch Henman get beaten. For some reason he hates him; he can't explain why.
On no account must I tell ML how I feel about her. I have made that mistake before. In my experience, women don't like protestations of love from strangers. They fail to return calls, ignore messages, and sometimes get their brothers to throw you off the doorstep.
My mother rang from Majorca to tell me that my father spent the night in the police station in Palma. He had a fight in the taxi queue at the airport. Apparently, he was maddened by thirst and the heat, and when a French family pushed in front of him he cracked and screamed, "Oi, Frogface! Hop off!" The Frenchman said something about foot and mouth, and my father went berserk and kicked the man's luggage into the gutter.
It was news to me that my mother and my father have gone on holiday with each other. Have their spouses given their permissions?
It's a royal knockout
Tuesday, July 3
Glenn has been very subdued lately, he has stopped talking and is off his food. I tried to talk to him, but he brushed me off as though I were a loathsome insect.
I consulted the handbook Parents Are From Hove, Teenagers Are From Brighton. On page 31 it said, "Keep the channels of communication open, but do not let your teen control the domestic agenda. If your questions are ignored, smile and say, 'I hear your silence. Should you wish to share your thoughts with me, I will always be here for you, 24-seven. "
William has put his small foot down and has refused to be deposited into Safeway's crèche twice a day at 8am and 4pm. This means that I no longer have a valid excuse to see Mary-Lou Hattersley, the divine supervisor of that kiddies' establishment. I will have to borrow a toddler. I have to see her.
Prince Philip and Prince Charles were on the news, stamping about in knee-high boots and wearing cocked hats, medals and epaulettes; they looked like extras from Zulu. Don't they know the game is up? It is ridiculous in the age of interactive television. In fact, I may write to the privy council and suggest that in future the royals withdraw from public life and satisfy the lust of their monarchist followers by appearing in a Big Brother-like TV show. They could then dress up and swagger around in as many costumes as they liked. It would certainly cut down on their transport costs, which I understand are considerable.
Wednesday, July 4 (American Independence Day)
Glenn is being bullied at school. He is the only boy in his class who does not have his own mobile phone. He is a pariah.
Bumped into Pamela Pigg in Safeway. She is still going out with Alan Clarke. He was wearing an Arran sweater. It is chilly by the frozen food cabinets, but I was comfortable enough in my shirtsleeves, so perhaps he was going on to a «gig» after shopping. I suppose there must be a few folk clubs left in the land.
Mr Blair was said to have been «savaged» by his own backbenchers at prime minister's questions. This was a gross distortion. He was asked a few facetious questions by a trio of toothless curs.
One for the kids
Monday, July 16, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
This morning I borrowed a toddler from the Ludlows next door and took it to Safeway's crèche, which is supervised by the most erotically intelligent woman alive on the planet earth, Mary-Lou Hattersley. It is my only means of seeing her, and William refuses to cooperate, the ungrateful little swine.
The toddler was very quiet in the back of the car. I wasn't surprised, the Ludlows don't believe in talking to their children. As Mrs Ludlow told me once: "It only encourages 'em to prattle on an' ask stupid bleedin' questions." Secretly, I have some sympathy with this child-rearing theory. I have often been tormented by William's constant demands to know «how», "when" and «why». Only yesterday, as we watched the riots on Sky News, he asked me why it was "always men and boys fighting and never the ladies and girls?" I told him that females have a subtler method of conducting warfare, but this led to a further raft of questions, which stopped only when I pretended to fall asleep on top of the washing machine.
As we drove to Safeway, I realised I had no idea what the toddler was called or even what its sex was. It was wearing earrings and had an unpleasant scowling expression on its face. I took a guess and registered the child as Emily Ludlow, aged two-and-a-half years. After «Emily» had been divested of its shoes and was being led into the play area by a crèche minion, I engaged Mary-Lou in conversation. Knowing her interest in politics, I asked her opinion on the Tory leadership race. She scoffed, "I'm more intellectually challenged by wondering who will be up for eviction in the Big Brother house." We are both agreed that Paul and Helen's burgeoning romance is horrible but compulsive viewing. It is like watching two very stupid white rhinos attempting to mate — one is repelled by the sight, but touched that two such rare creatures have found each other.
I tore myself away from her to grab a tin of Heinz Organic Baked Beans 'n' Sausages. When I returned, Mary-Lou was stern-faced and «Emily» was wearing a pair of the crèche's emergency mini Y-fronts. I am banned from using the crèche for life.
Last among unequals
Thursday, July 19, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I attended William's school sports day today. The school field was sold off to Nolite Warehouse Ltd in February, so the races took place in a roped-off section of its new car park. I was just about to climb into my dustbin liner bag for the single parents' sack race, when the headmaster announced over the Tannoy that the jury had returned and that Jeffrey Archer had been sent to jail for four years. Spontaneous cheering broke out from the assembled company, the workmen on the scaffolding of the windowless warehouse broke into song with "You'll never walk alone", passing cars sounded their hooters and a light aircraft flying overhead did a figure of eight in the summer sky. The headmaster announced that there would be a five-minute delay for competitors to compose themselves. Archer has succeeded in bringing the country together in joy. After Henman, the Lions and England's dropped catches, we needed a glorious victory.