When the clock struck 12, I kissed my boys, then we linked arms with strangers and attempted to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Some rowdy elements in the crowd sang the tune but improvised the words, bellowing scurrilous and defamatory things about Sir Cliff Richard. Later, at home, we watched as a family as the guests inside the Dome criss-crossed arms. Glen said, "How come the Queen don't know how to do “Auld Lang Syne” proper, Dad?" For once, I didn't correct his appalling grammar, though I have resolved to do so in the year 2000.
As I went up the stairs to bed, Ivan drunkenly whispered, "Your mother told me about your feather fixation. Do you want to talk about it?" I resolved, at that moment, to move into 7 Scrag Close, the council house I'd previously, arrogantly, stupidly, turned down.
Flu provokes a family crisis
Friday, January 28, 2000
Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
The Sydney Flu has swept through the Mole family like a viral hurricane and has left us traumatised and weakened. The bathroom cabinet cannot hold all the prescription drugs, so a pine shelf has been cleared of its bath oils and pressed into service.
Each of us Moles developed complications. Dr Grey was at our house so often I'm surprised he didn't bring his toiletry bag and slippers. One day, after being summoned urgently to my bedside, he rang the Lancet on his mobile and asked if they'd be interested in a 1,000 words on "GP rage".
Saturday, January 29
I received the following letter this morning.
Dear Adrian,
Remember me? I am your mother, Pauline Mole. Currently residing in bed five, ward 20, Glengorse District Hospital. I am recovering from pneumonia and pleurisy and have been here for three long weeks (on oxygen). I am very hurt that you haven't been to see me, sent me flowers or written a card. Your neglect is impeding my recovery. I can't sleep for wondering where I went wrong.
Love from your mother.
PS. I have stopped smoking. It is too difficult to manage in an oxygen mask.
Dear Mum,
Is it really three weeks? It has gone by in a flash. I'm pleased to hear that you have stopped smoking. I have collected up the ashtrays (all 31 of them) and thrown them into the wheelie-bin so as to lessen the temptation when you get home. The reason I haven't visited you is because I am still weak from the Sydney Flu. Dr Grey was called to my bedside four times, twice in the middle of the night. You should count yourself lucky that you were given a hospital bed, even though it was 60 miles away.
I intended to send you a bouquet of flowers but, quite honestly, I was horrified at the prices they were asking. The minimum charge for a bouquet is £15! Then there is a delivery charge of £2.50. It is sheer exploitation. I concede that I could have sent you a get-well card, but a trip to the shops is out of the question until I regain the strength in my legs. Your husband, Ivan, has kept me informed about your progress. You have been in my thoughts and I am hurt and annoyed to be charged with neglecting you.
Your son, Adrian.
I gave this note to Ivan to give to my mother. He is a fool for love, he drives 60 miles a day to visit her. At 10pm, Ivan got back from the hospital. He was ecstatic. "Your mother woke up this morning and asked for her make-up bag," he said. He confided in me that when she'd first been admitted he passed her hospital bed twice without recognising her. He'd never seen her without lipstick or mascara before. He gave me a reply from my mother.
Dear Adrian,
So, I'm not worth £17.50? When I think of the money and attention that I've lavished on you over 32 years, it makes me sick. I will probably be discharged in a couple of days. I want you gone from Wisteria Walk by then. You must take your boys and go and live with your father and Tania. There are four empty bedrooms at The Lawns.
Mother.
Sunday, January 30
Just returned from The Lawns after explaining my housing dilemma to my father and his new wife, Tania. They were not exactly keen to take me and my boys in. "We use those bedrooms," said my father. "I keep my golf clubs in one, and Tania over-winters the geraniums in another.
"That still leaves two empty rooms," I pointed out.
"Sadly, no," said Tania. "I'm in the process of turning one of those rooms into a meditation space."
"And the last remaining room?" I enquired with a cynical sneer. My father turned away, but Tania stared me out.
"The fourth room is to be used to store my collection of Millennium Dome memorabilia," she said. As I stumbled away from The Lawns, I dashed tears from my eyes. All hope is gone. The council estate beckons.
Home sweet home…
Saturday, February 5, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way, Gaitskell Estate
I cannot understand why nobody wanted to take on the tenancy of this house.
It is dry, centrally-heated, has three bedrooms, a new bathroom, a well-equipped kitchen and a large through lounge. The windows are double-glazed and there is a front garden with a hard standing area for a car and a back garden with a medium-sized tree. The council has completely redecorated.
When I asked Pamela Pigg from the council's homeless unit why the house had been vacant for over a year, she said, "I have to tell you, Mr Mole, that this house is notorious".
She wouldn't elaborate. Perhaps a famous Leicester person lived here once. Gary Lineker, perhaps, or Willie Thorne? Both came from humble beginnings before climbing their respective ladders to the land of fame.
Glenn and William have mixed feelings about the move. They are happy to have a bedroom each, but Glenn said, "I aint 'ard enough for the Gaitskell, Dad, and neither are you." William asked, "Why have all the shops got barbed wire over the windows?"
I told him a ridiculous lie about the Territorial Army using the shopping parade for a weekend exercise, but it was obvious that even he, the most gullible of boys, didn't believe me. It has to be faced: we are living among what sociologists call "the underclass", and what my father, reluctantly driving the box van containing my few sticks of furniture, called "Satan's spawn".
However, our immediate neighbours, the Ludlows, with whom we share a party wall, seem to be very quiet types. I haven't heard so much as a peep from them. I know their name because somebody has painted "the Ludlows live here" in black gloss paint on the front of their house.
Sunday, February 6
I left the boys watching TV and walked to the newsagents. There was a notice on the grilled door: "Glue or cigarettes will not be served to miners, and balaclavas must be removed." I removed my balaclava and went inside.
An Asian man stood behind the counter. A woman I took to be his wife was stocking the magazine racks with what appeared to be pornography.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully. "The Observer, please."