Friday, June 15
I asked Glenn what he thought of Krog From Gork. He looked shifty and mumbled, "I ain't got past the third page yet." I asked him what he thought of the three he had read. Glenn stroked his new mohican haircut and said, "Nothin' 'appens, dad."
I snapped, "Of course nothing happens. I'm writing about a prehistoric man who suffers from ennui. What do you expect him to do all day? Send text messages to his fellow primitives?"
At 11.30am, Glenn returned from school with a note:
"Dear Parent/ Guardian/Principle Carer, Glenn arrived at school this morning with a most alarming haircut. Within minutes of entering the playground he was surrounded by a large circle of 'admirers'. Several of the first-year boys were literally sick with excitement. The school rules state unequivocally that 'students' hair must not be subject to the vagaries of fashion'. Glenn is hereby excluded until his hair can be described in these terms."
From now, I'll teach the boy at home.
Saturday, June 16
Watched the Trooping of the Colour with the boys. I was filled with pride. Is there another country on earth whose soldiers would march through torrents of water without complaint?
I was annoyed to overhear Glenn say to William, "The monarchy's finished, Willy. They ain't got the sense to come in out the rain."
Vinegar, oil and a tub of lard
Sunday, June 24, 2001
I had a minor breakdown in the vinegar aisle of the supermarket this morning. I was completely unable to choose between the 64 vinegars on offer. I walked up and down in an agony of indecision. Glenn said, "Dad, we've bin 'ere 20 minutes. What's up?"
I didn't trust myself to speak, for fear that the tears gathering in my eyes would be released. Eventually, Glenn grabbed a bottle at random and threw it into the trolley. I saw that it was lemongrass flavour and tried to replace it on the shelf, but Glenn prevented me and we moved on to the oil aisle, where once again I was confronted with a horrific choice.
They stretched into the distance: grapeseed, extra-virgin olive, sesame seed, sunflower, Crisp 'n' Dry, basil, stir-fry… As I was hovering between them, an announcement came over the in-store Tannoy — a woman who sounded as though she had a small grapefruit stuck in her mouth intoned: "Would Mr Mole return to the crèche immediately. Mr Mole, return to the crèche."
I left Glenn with the trolley and rushed off, lurid images of crèche-type accidents filling my mind: had William been suffocated by the myriad coloured balls that filled the toddlers' jumping pit? Had he stabbed a paintbrush in his eye? Was he lying unconscious at the foot of the toddlers' jungle gym? If so, I would pursue the supermarket through the courts and force them into paying record amounts of compensation. Nothing less than £30m could possibly compensate me for an injury done to my precious child.
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.