Summer
Wednesday July 3rd
Brown reminded me today that I have two weeks’ holiday entitlement which I will lose unless I take it within the next two months.
Rang my travel agent. Told her I want two weeks in Europe in a four star hotel with half board, but for no more than £300. She promised to ring back if anything turned up in Albania. I said, ‘Not Albania, I hear the food is inaudible.’ After I’d put the phone down, I remembered that the word for bad food is, of course, ‘inedible’. I hope I’m not suffering from an early onset of senile dementia. Word-loss is an early signal.
Friday July 5th
The travel agent rang today. Unfortunately, the call was put through to Brown’s office, where I was being reprimanded because of a mix-up over the newt and badger reports. The Department of Transport had received the erroneous intelligence that a family of badgers had appeared on the route of the projected Newport Pagnell bypass. Naturally, I was constrained by Brown’s presence, so I was unable to concentrate on what the travel agent was saying.
I said that I would ring her back, but she said, ‘You must book it now if you want it.’
I said, ‘Book what?’
She said, ‘Your holiday. A week on the Russian lakes and rivers, and a week in Moscow. A fortnight for £299.99, full board.’
‘Go ahead,’ I said.
Saturday July 6th
Rang ‘Easy-pass’ Driving School and booked a free lesson as advertised in the Oxford Mail. I take to the road on Thursday, July 18th.
I have taken driving lessons before, but have been badly let down by my previous instructors. They were all incompetent.
Sunday July 7th
Babysat while Christian went to bingo. He won £7.50 and was near to winning the area prize of £14,000. He only needed two fat ladies.
Monday July 8th
Worked on Lo! Shall I give him a name? If so, what shall it be? It needs to express his sensitivity, his courage, his individualism, his intellectual vigour, his success with women, his affinity with nature, his proletarian roots.
Tuesday July 9th
How about Jake Westmorland?
Wednesday July 10th
Maurice Pritchard?
Thursday July 11th
Oscar Brimmington?
Friday July 12th
Jake Pritchard?
Saturday July 13th
Maurice Brimmington?
Sunday July 14th
A decision will have to be made soon. I can’t move on with my book until it has. Christian prefers ‘Jake Westmorland’. However, the man in the greengrocer’s likes the sound of ‘Oscar Brimmington’. Whereas a bus conductor, whose opinion I sought, was very keen on ‘Maurice Westmorland’.
Monday July 15th
Spent the day babysitting. I got the kids to test me on the Highway Code. Somebody kept ringing the house tonight. A woman. All she said was, ‘Hello.’ But when I asked who was calling she put the phone down. It sounded like Bianca, but why should she behave in such a childish manner?
Tuesday July 16th
Brown had to have his surgical corset adjusted at the Radcliffe Hospital this morning, so I took the opportunity to go into his office and look at my file: ‘MOLE-ADRIAN.’
FORESIGHT – NONE
PUNCTUALITY – POOR
INITIATIVE – NONE
RELIABILITY – QUITE GOOD
HONESTY – SUSPECTED OF PILFERING POSTAGE STAMPS
ACCEPTANCE OF RESPONSIBILITY – POOR RELATIONS WITH OTHERS – QUITE GOOD
I believe his ‘A’ level Biology qualification to be bogus.
Wednesday July 17th
Dear Mr Brown,
It is with great regret that I write to inform you of my intention to resign from the Department of the Environment. I will of course serve out my statutory two months’ notice. I have been unhappy for some time now with how the department is run. I feel that my talents have been wasted. Collecting badger faeces was not in my original job description.
Also, in my opinion, the protection of animals has reached ludicrous levels. The beasts have more rights than I do. Take bats. If I were to hang upside down and defecate in a church, I would be taken away to an institution. Yet bats are encouraged by conservationists such as yourself, Mr Brown. It’s no wonder that our churches are empty of parishioners.
I remain, sir,
Adrian Mole
At 10.00 a.m. I wrote the above letter, put it into an envelope and wrote ‘FOR THE ATTENTION OF MR BROWN’.
At 11.00 a.m., after staring down at the envelope for a full hour, I put it under my blotting pad. Thinking perhaps that I could brazen it out regarding the bogus ‘A’ level.
At midday, while I was at the Autovent, the envelope disappeared. I searched my cubicle but found nothing, apart from my little blue comb.
At 1.00 p.m., I was summoned to Brown’s office and told to clear my desk and leave the premises immediately. He gave me an envelope which contained a cheque for £676.31 = two months’ pay plus holiday money less tax and National Insurance.
Who delivered my resignation letter? I suspect the Sexually Harassed One.
So, like three and a half million of my fellow citizens, I am without work.
1 a.m. Christian got me drunk tonight. I had two and a half glasses of Vouvray and a pint of draught Guinness in a can.
Thursday July 18th
Driving Lesson
Stayed in bed until 2 p.m. My driving instructor is a woman called Fiona. She is old (47) and has got lots of loose skin around her neck, which she pulls at in times of crisis. I did tell her that it is over a year since I was behind the wheel. I did ask if I could practise first on Tesco’s Megastore out-of-town car park, but Fiona refused and forced me to drive on real roads with real traffic. So what happened at the roundabout was not my fault. Fiona should have been quicker with the dual controls.
Friday July 19th
A letter from Faber and Faber:
Dear Mr Mole,
I am afraid that I am returning your manuscript, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland.
It is a most amusing parody of the English naïf school of fiction.
However, we do not have a place for such a book on our list at the moment.
Yours sincerely,
Matthew Evans
After reading the letter six times, I tore it in pieces. Mr Evans will be sorry one day. When my work is being auctioned in hotel rooms, I will instruct my agent to disqualify Mr Evans from the bidding.
There was no reason to get up, so I stayed in bed all day, wondering if there was any point in going on. Pandora despises me, I am out of work and I am incapable of driving a car in a straight line. At 7 p.m. I got out of my bed and rang Leonora. A man answered the phone: ‘De Witt.’
‘It’s Adrian Mole,’ I said. ‘Could I speak to Leonora?’
‘My wife’s dressing,’ he said; which threw me for a while. Images of Leonora in various lingerie outfits flashed into my mind.
‘It’s an emergency,’ I managed to croak out. I heard him put the receiver down with a crack and shout, ‘Darling, it’s for you. Something about moles.’
There was a muttered oath, and then Leonora came on the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘Leonora, I’m in despair. Can I come round and see you?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘No, I’m giving a dinner party at eight and the first course is an asparagus soufflé.’
I wondered why she would think I was remotely interested in her menu.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost my job, my novel’s been rejected and I crashed the driving school car yesterday.’
‘They are all life experiences,’ she said. ‘You will come out of this a stronger man.’
I heard her husband shouting something in the background. Then she said, ‘I have to go. Why don’t you talk to that girl, Bianca? Goodbye.’
I did as I was told. I went and stood out
side Bianca’s house and looked up at her flat. Nobody went in or came out.
After watching for an hour I went home and got back into bed. I hope the De Witts and their guests all choked on their asparagus soufflé.
Saturday July 20th
Cassandra Palmer turned up on the doorstep this afternoon. Christian’s face turned white when he saw his wife. The children greeted her politely, but without much enthusiasm, I noticed. She looks as though she wrestles in mud for a living. I loathed her on sight. I cannot stand big women who shave their heads. I prefer them with hair.
Her first words to me were, ‘Oh, so you’re the cuckoo in the nest.’
Sunday July 21st
The dictatorship of Cassandra started this morning. Our household is not allowed to drink tap water, coffee, tea or alcohol, nor to eat eggs, cheese, chocolate, fruit yoghurt, Marks & Spencer’s lemon slices… etc., etc. The list goes on forever. There are also things we mustn’t say. I happened to mention that Bianca’s boss, the newsagent, is a fat man. Cassandra snapped, ‘He’s not fat, he’s dimensionally challenged.’
I laughed, thinking this was a good joke, but Cassandra’s mouth turned into a grim slit and with horror I realized she was serious.
Christian remarked to his wife over lunch that he was losing his hair, ‘going bald’ were his words. Once again, Cassandra snapped into action.
‘You’re a little follicularly disadvantaged, that’s all,’ she said, as she inspected the top of her husband’s head.
I cannot share this house with that woman, or her language. It is not as though she is pleasant to look at. She is as ugly as sin, or, as she might put it, she is facially impaired.
Monday July 22nd
I asked Bianca if she would keep a lookout for suitable accommodation. She agreed, though there is nothing to keep me here in Oxford any more, apart from my unrequited love for Dr Pandora Braithwaite.
Tuesday July 23rd
Dr Braithwaite
Since you gained your Ph.D.
You have had no time for me.
You loved me once, you could again.
Pandora, give up other men!
You swore to love me for all time.
As long as Moon and June would rhyme.
Please marry me and be my wife.
For you I’ll sacrifice my life.
I’ll stay at home, I’ll cook and clean
In the background, never seen.
When you return from brainy toil,
I’ll have the kettle on the boil.
While you translate from Serbo-Croat,
I will shake our coco doormat.
I’ll gladly wash your duvet cover,
If only I can be your lover.
I put the poem through Pandora’s door at 4 a.m. This is my last-ditch attempt to sound out Pandora’s true feelings for me. Leonora has said that I must move on emotionally. What will Pandora’s reaction be?
Wednesday July 24th
I found this letter on the doormat.
Dear Adrian,
You woke me at 4 a.m. with your clumsy manipulation of my letter box. Your poem caused my lover and me much merriment. I hope, for your sake, that it was meant to be funny. If it was not, then I urge you to seek further psychiatric advice from Leonora. She told me that you have stopped seeing her regularly. Is it the cost?
I know you can afford £30 a week. You don’t drink, or smoke, or wear decent clothes. You cut your own hair, you don’t run a car. You don’t gamble or take drugs. You live rent-free. Withdraw some money from your precious Building Society and get help.
Regards,
Pandora
PS. Incidentally, I am not a Ph.D., as you state in your poem. I am a D. Phil. A subtle but important difference here in Oxford.
So that’s it. If Pandora came to me tomorrow, begging to be Mrs A. A. Mole, I would have to turn her down. I have moved on. It’s Leonora I must see. Must.
Thursday July 25th
5.15 p.m. I have just phoned Leonora and insisted that she gives me an emergency appointment. I said I had something momentous to tell her. She agreed reluctantly.
5.30 p.m. I burst into Leonora’s room this evening and found her with another client, a middle-aged man who was sobbing into a Kleenex (woman trouble, I suppose). I was ten minutes early and Leonora was furious and ordered me to wait outside. At 6.30 p.m. precisely, I knocked on her door and she shouted, ‘Come.’ She was still in a bad mood and so I tried to make conversation and asked her what had upset the sobbing middle-aged man. This angered her even more. ‘What is said to me in this room remains confidential,’ she said. ‘How would you feel if I talked about your problems to my other clients?’
‘I don’t like to think about you having other clients,’ I confessed.
She sighed deeply and curled a hank of black hair around her finger. ‘So what’s the momentous happening?’ she said eventually.
‘I’ve moved on from Pandora Braithwaite,’ I said, and I told her about the poem and Pandora’s reaction to it and my reaction to Pandora’s reaction. At that moment, a tall, dark man wearing a suede shirt came in. He looked surprised to see me.
‘Sorry, darling. I can’t find the small grater, for the parmesan.’
‘Second drawer down, darling, next to the Aga,’ she said, looking up at him in rapt adoration.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he said.
When he’d gone out, I stood up and said, ‘How dare your husband interrupt my consultation with his petty domestic enquiries?’
Leonora said, ‘My husband didn’t know you were here. I squeezed you in, if you remember.’ Her tone was carefully measured, but I noticed that a vein was pulsating on the side of her temple and that she was wringing her hands.
‘You should learn to express your anger, Leonora. It’s no good for you to bottle it up,’ I said.
She then said, ‘Mr Mole, you are not making progress with me. I suggest you try another analyst.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s you I want to see. You’re my reason for living.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘Think what you’re saying. Are you saying that without me you would commit suicide?’
I hesitated. Noises of pans banging and glasses tinkling came up from the basement, as did a delicious smell that made my mouth water. For some reason I blurted out, ‘Could I stay to dinner?’
‘No. I never socialize with my clients,’ she said, looking at her slim, gold watch.
I sat down and asked, ‘How mad am I, on a scale of one to ten?’
‘You’re not mad at all,’ she said. ‘As Freud said, “It is impossible for a therapist to treat either the mad or those in love.”’
‘But I am in love. With you,’ I added.
Leonora sighed very deeply. Her breasts rose and fell under her embroidered sweater.
‘That is why I think that seeing another therapist would be a good idea. I have a friend, Reinhard Kowolski, who has a superb reputation…’
I didn’t wait to hear any more about Herr Kowolski. I left her room and put three ten pound notes on the hall table, next to the laughing Buddha and walked out into the street.
I felt angry, so I decided to express my anger and I kicked an empty Diet Coke can all the way home.
When I got to the attic, I laid out all my job-searching clothes ready for the morning. Then I lay on my bed with the Oxford Mail and ringed all the likely looking jobs in the situations vacant columns.
There was nothing that required one ‘A’ level in English.
Friday July 26th
Went to the Job Centre, but the queue was too long, so returned to find Cassandra in the kitchen, examining the children’s books, pen in hand. She picked one up and changed Winnie the Pooh to Winnie the Shit ‘I hate ambiguity,’ she explained, as she snapped the cap back on her Magic Marker.
Saturday July 27th
Saw Brown in W. H. Smith’s, buying the current wildlife magazines. He smiled and said, ‘Enjoying your life of leisure, Mole?’
&nbs
p; I forced a smile to my lips and said, ‘On the contrary, Brown, I am working as hard as ever. I am a middle manager at the Book Trust in Cambridge, at £25,000 a year, plus car. I got the position thanks to my having English Literature at “A” level.’ Brown stormed off, forgetting to pay for his magazines. He was stopped on the pavement by a security guard. I didn’t hang around to watch Brown’s humiliation.
Sunday July 28th
Stayed in room all day, out of Cassandra’s way. She is insisting that everyone in the house meditates for half an hour each morning. Christian has stopped doing his research into popular culture. Cassandra objected to the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes when he returned from his low-class haunts. If she is not careful, she will wreck his academic career.