Wednesday, October 10
A Harrods van delivered Brett's new bed this morning. It took two men all day to install it in the spare bedroom. It has an in-built telescopic television, a CD player, and will adjust to 19 positions. I gasped when I saw the invoice: £7,999. Brett said it was a treat to himself; he has been commissioned by Channel 4 to make a documentary on poverty, and is filming it on my council estate. The old mattress is in the front garden, waiting for the council to remove the eyesore.
Thursday, October 11
Brett has scattered the contents of my wheelie-bin in the front garden, and slashed the mattress with a Stanley knife. He said it would make a great establishing shot for his documentary, now entitled Weep, England! Weep!
Throw in the towel
Sunday, October 14
That monster, Brett, is still living in my house. He is now sharing his electronic Super-Bed with an assortment of slags from the estate. I have provided Glenn and William with earplugs so that their sleep is not disturbed.
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, is now in production. Many of the interviews are conducted in this house. Cables cover the floors and most of the doors have been removed to facilitate camera movements. The house is no longer mine. Why don't I tell him to leave? The sad truth is that I am afraid of him. He makes me feel that I am of low class, unattractive and provincial.
Monday, October 15
I came down this morning to find Sandra Alcock sitting at my kitchen table, half-dressed and spitting on to a block of mascara. When I asked her to cover herself up, she grabbed a tea-towel and tucked it between her bra straps. However, I must admit that the sight of Sandra's long legs in white stilettos stimulated my endocrine system, and I had to turn hurriedly towards the sink to hide my sexual excitement. I wonder if Pamela Pigg would be interested in a bout of sexual intercourse? I heard that she and Alan Clarke split, due to a row over globalisation. I'll ring her later today.
Tuesday, October 16
I will be meeting up with Pamela after her dog training class tonight. She sounded delighted to hear from me again, so with a bit of luck it shouldn't take long to get her into bed. And I won't be forced to waste time messing around with meals, and day trips to historical monuments, etc.
Pamela looked charming in the candlelight at the Costa Brava restaurant, and my tortilla and chips were excellent. But I was in bed by 11pm — alone. I am taking her to Belvoir Castle on Friday.
Wednesday, October 17
I was woken by Sandra Alcock at 3.15am. She was standing in my front garden, screaming that Brett Mole was a bastard. And that Justine Badaoui was a scut-bag. Brett filmed the whole scene, up until the police arrived and took Sandra and Justine away.
Friday, October 19
We explored every corridor of Belvoir Castle. Had scones in the tea room. I even bought Pamela a tea-towel. Yet I slept alone. Why?
Bio-heroism
Monday, October 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Glenn has been excluded from school, for calling Tony Blair a twat. He brought home a note from Roger Patience, the headmaster, which said:
Dear Mr Mole,
In this time of national crises, it is incumbent on us all to support our government. During a senior pupils debate, chaired by myself, your son Glenn succeeded in undermining the morale of teachers and pupils alike by his passionate denunciation of the bombing of Afghanistan. He also called our great leader, Mr Blair, 'a leading Twat'. I have therefore excluded him from the school premises for the duration of the war.
I hope to God (or Allah) that the war will be over by Christmas. I can't have Glenn hanging around the house all day. It is imperative that I finish my post-twin towers novel quickly. The book (as yet no publisher) must be ready for publication in the spring.
Glenn protested his innocence, saying, "I didn't say Tony Blair was a leading twat. I said he was leading TWAT (The War Against Terrorism)."
Tuesday, October 23
I went into the chemist this morning to buy a tin of Johnson's baby powder. The shelves where this innocent product is usually kept were bare. The girl behind the counter said, "It's coz of anthrax." She informed me, somewhat pompously, that if I wished to purchase talcum powder, I would have to give my name and address, and prove it by showing my last three gas bills. I left the shop in disgust, empty-handed.
Wednesday, October 24
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, which was meant to expose the wasted lives of sink council estate tenants, has been cancelled by the commissioning editor, who emailed, "Your doco is not conducive to the national interest at this time." I am overjoyed to tell you, dear diary, that within the space of two hours, Brett, the crew and the equipment were gone.
Thursday, October 25, 2am
I have just had a distraught phone call from Pamela Pigg. She told me that her body was covered in red spots: "It's smallpox!" I drove to her house and examined her naked body. By a process of elimination, I finally deduced that she was allergic to the hyacinth bulbs she'd been potting earlier in the day.
Achey-quakey heart
Friday, October 26, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
In the words of Marvin Gaye, "What's going on?" Chaos surrounds me. Alan Clarke appeared on my doorstep in the early hours of the morning, sobbing that I had stolen "the love of his life, Pamela Pigg".
I led him into the kitchen and listened as he ranted that he'd watched through Pamela's IKEA bamboo blinds, as she stood naked in her bedroom with me. I tried to explain that I was dabbing camomile lotion on to her skin, which was inflamed by hyacinth bulb allergy, but he obviously didn't believe me. IKEA should warn their customers that their bamboo blinds do not guarantee privacy. Clarke rolled a joint and offered me a puff. With Mr Blunkett's permission, I accepted. My head began to spin and I found myself blurting out the plot of my new novel. "An allegory about twins called Jack and John Towers who are struck down by a fatal illness." It was dawn before Clarke left.
Saturday, October 27
Mohamed is convinced that oil is at the centre of the Afghan war. He should know, he is the manager of a BP garage and as such has insider knowledge.
Sunday, October 28
The day started well. My mother and father took the boys to Leicester's Golden Mile to watch the Diwali celebrations. With the house empty for once, I phoned Pamela and asked her round for tea. By 4pm we were in bed. There was no sign of the hyacinth allergy. Her skin was pale and smooth. Sexual intercourse was taking place when, at 4.25pm, the bed shook. In fact, the whole house shook and several slates fell off the roof. Pamela muttered into my neck, "My God, Adrian, you made the earth move for me."