Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (22 page)

I asked him what he missed most, thinking that he would say Marmite or Cadbury’s Creme Eggs, but he said, to my surprise, ‘The family.’

I have sent Glenn a parcel of ‘improving books’, Marmite and Cadbury’s Creme Eggs.

I travelled to St Pancras with Midland Mainline. I think it was a mistake to ban smoking in carriage A as the riff-raff that used to congregate there are now dispersed throughout the train.

I could not afford to take a black cab to Hoxton but I did anyway. I was glad that I had decided to wear all-black, because everybody at the exhibition was similarly attired, apart from one woman, obviously an eccentric, who was wearing a red dress.

I was handed a miniature bottle of Moët & Chandon, complete with a silver drinking straw and a catalogue. On the front cover was a picture of what I took at first glance to be a disposable nappy filled with poo. I thought it must have been an optical illusion, but when I pushed through the throng of black-clad art aficionados into the
main gallery I saw that the walls were hung with tastefully framed, stained, disposable nappies.

I stood in front of one entitled
Overnight Nappy
.

A woman next to me said, ‘I love its
soddenness
, its
mundanity
. It’s a visceral reminder of our animalism.’

The man next to her murmured, ‘It’s certainly different.’

She said, ‘We need something over the fireplace in the sitting room. What do you think?’

He said, ‘The brown bits would tone with the sofas.’

Daisy slid her arms around my waist from behind and said, ‘What do you think of
Overnight Nappy
, Kipling?’

I said, without turning round, ‘I know a lot about art, but I don’t know what I like.’

She said, ‘I hope you don’t want to buy anything, because everything in the exhibition has been bought by Saatchi.’

I turned round to look at her. She was wearing a black dress that showed her beautiful arms, shoulders and breasts,
à la
Nigella. Her black hair was loose around her sultry face. She exuded a musky sexiness that almost made me swoon.

She asked, ‘Do you want to meet the artist, Catherine Leidensteiner?’ and indicated the woman in the red dress.

I said, ‘Why not?’

Daisy skilfully wove us through the crowd. She seemed to know everybody in the room.

I said, ‘You’ve got a lot of friends.’

She said, ‘I’m in PR, sweetheart – they’re not friends, they’re clients.’

I was thrilled to be called ‘sweetheart’ by a woman who could easily be mistaken for Nigella.

Catherine Leidensteiner was surrounded by admirers.

Daisy said, ‘Catherine, I would like to introduce you to my friend, Adrian Mole.’

The artist extended an elegant hand and said, ‘How do you do?’

My tongue seemed to swell in my mouth and I could think of absolutely nothing to say to this woman, but Catherine said, ‘I see what you mean, Daisy. That combination of soft grey eyes and long dark eyelashes is, somehow, heartbreaking.’

She said to me, ‘Daisy tells me that you keep the flames of culture burning in Leicester.’

I said modestly, ‘I just sell a few books,’ and congratulated her on selling her pieces.

She said, ‘I must admit, I’m very relieved. Have you seen the price of Pampers these days?’

How we laughed.

Daisy lived around the corner in Baldwin Street, in a one-roomed studio conversion in a building that used to make boiled sweets. Her place smelt of pineapple chunks. We were in bed together within ten minutes of stepping into her spectacularly untidy room. Our clothes made a small black mountain on the floor.

I have never seen so many shoes, bags, belts and items of jewellery in one place, outside a retail outlet.

The sex was fog khed dkybwlcu ghtr gthfdsw, as Mr Pepys might have written.

*

Daisy came with me to St Pancras, where I only just caught the last train. I hadn’t had time to wash before I left her place and her smell stayed with me until I showered it off at Rat Wharf.

I wanted to tell somebody about Daisy, but it was too late to ring Nigel. I went out on to the balcony. Gielgud was there, asleep next to his wife, with his head tucked under his wing. I’m glad he was asleep. It would have been ridiculous to talk to a swan, and anyway he hates me.

Went out on my balcony this morning. Gielgud was attacking what looked like a dead body in the reeds on the opposite bank. Fearing the worst, I rang the local police station. A recorded message told me that PC Aaron Drinkwater, our local community police officer, was away from his desk but would get back to me later if I left a message on his voicemail.

A couple of minutes later Professor Green banged on my door and told me there was a postbag full of letters in the canal.

We walked down to Packhorse Bridge and crossed to the opposite towpath. Gielgud and his gang were at a safe distance now, paddling towards the town.

We heaved the postbag out of the water. Almost the first letter I saw was addressed to me. It was from M&S, offering me a store card.

Professor Green and I tried to remember what the organization that delivers the letters is called these days.
Was it still Royal Mail, Consignia, Post Offices Ltd, Parcelforce or just the post office? Neither of us knew who to contact. Eventually I made an executive decision, dialled 999 and asked for the police. After a short delay a woman requested my name and address, and then asked what the problem was. I explained about the postbag in the canal.

The policewoman said, ‘It’s hardly an emergency, sir. You are asking me to divert police personnel from possible life-and-death duties.’

I said, ‘I’m not asking for a team of frog persons and a police helicopter, am I?’

She said, ‘Our patrol cars are engaged in fighting crime, sir.’

I told her that I had passed a patrol car in a lay-by on the A6 last week and both of the policemen inside had been eating Kentucky Fried Chicken.

She said, ‘I am terminating this call now, but you might be hearing from us some time in the near future. Wasting police time is a criminal offence.’

Professor Green and I dragged the sodden postbag to the basement of the Old Battery Factory to await collection by the authorities. Although I am increasingly of the mind that there are no authorities who want to take responsibility for anything whatsoever these days.

I was late for work. Mr Carlton-Hayes was very understanding about my mailbag problem. He has been writing weekly to a double murderer in Dartmoor Prison for years, but the murderer phoned recently to complain
that he hasn’t received any letters for the past month. Apparently the murderer is being released on licence soon. If I was in charge of the Dartmoor and District sorting office, I would be sleeping uneasily in my bed.

At lunchtime I went to the Flower Corner and asked if they would send £50 worth of English garden flowers, via Interflora, to Daisy’s office.

The florist said, ‘There are no English garden flowers in February, sir. Not unless you want £50 worth of snowdrops sending.’

I asked her to suggest something appropriate.

She said, ‘Are the flowers to mark a special occasion, sir?’

I found myself blushing – something I hadn’t done for years. I wanted to tell this friendly stranger all about Daisy. How beautiful she was, how exciting life seemed when I was with her.

The florist took charge of me and said, ‘I think £50 worth of cut hyacinths would look and smell wonderful.’

I wrote on the card:

French Fancy, Can’t stop thinking about your muffin. Mr Kipling.

At 5 o’clock Daisy texted:

Kipling, Wow! Love and thanks. Am away now until 14th. Come to London on 15th. Please. French Fancy.

I was harassed by Gielgud on the towpath this morning. He had murder in his eyes. I took my red scarf off and flapped it in front of him, but he stood his ground. A bloke on a bike came to my rescue. I cannot stand this constant intimidation. Something will have to be done.

I was staggered when Brain-box Henderson dropped an invoice into the shop today. The ridiculous boffin is charging me £150 for ‘Professional Services’ while he was at my drinks party the other night!

He said, ‘I’ve given you a 50 per cent discount because we’re friends. And I’ve only charged you for one hour.’

I pointed out the unfairness of him charging me at all, adding that I was unable to use the home entertainment centre due to Mia Fox’s extraordinary audio and neuro-hypersensitivity.

I have decided to be proactive and put my faith in English law.

Dear Mr Barwell

I am currently being harassed by swans. Is it possible to take an injunction out against them?

I would value your advice. I have tried to ring you many times, but your secretary tells me that you are hardly ever in your office.

I hope you will not charge me for this short letter. It is only an enquiry.

As you cannot fail to see, I have enclosed a stamped-addressed envelope.

Yours,

A. A. Mole

My ex-wife, Jo Jo, phoned today. She was barely polite to me and said, ‘I’m only ringing you to prove to William you are not dead.’ She put the boy on the phone.

He monologued about his young life and times. The boy hardly drew breath. I don’t know where he gets his verbosity from. Jo Jo and I were not given to talking much. After we were married, we hardly exchanged a word. Perhaps William has inherited the gift of the gab from my mother. He asked me when I was coming to Nigeria to see him and I said, ‘Soon.’

I visited my parents after work. They were crouched over a small bonfire, cooking something in a pot which was hanging from a metal tripod. They were both swathed in layers of ragged clothes. Their faces were blackened by the smoke from the fire. It was like a scene from Antony Beevor’s
Stalingrad
.

My father got up and brought a canvas fold-up stool from the tent, and I sat down and tried to warm my hands on the fire. The new puppy was cavorting in the
mud with what looked like the thigh bone of a large animal in its mouth. They had made no discernible progress in knocking down the pigsties. I asked why.

‘Your father can’t lift the sledgehammer,’ said my mother with barely concealed contempt.

My father got up and stirred the brown stuff in the cooking pot. I noticed how frail and gaunt he looks these days. I felt a pang of pity for him. At this stage of his baby-boomer life he should have been sitting in his slippers by a mock gas fire in a room with four walls, watching the
Antiques Roadshow
, instead of giving in to my mother’s unreasonable desire to live in a converted pigsty.

I told them that I would ask Darren, a plasterer of my acquaintance, if he knew of a sledgehammer operative who would be willing to knock down two pigsties for a pittance.

My mother offered me a bowl of the brown stuff from the pot. I lied and said I wasn’t hungry.

I stopped for a bag of chips at the Millennium Fish Bar on the way home. I asked for extra salt and vinegar and the woman behind the counter said, ‘You should go easy on the salt and vinegar at your age.’

I left the shop without responding, but when I got into the car I looked at my face in the rear-view mirror. Did I look so old/ill that a chip shop assistant felt obligated to give me healthcare advice?

Letter from Glenn today.

Dear Dad

Thanks for the parcel. You could not have sent nothing better. Me and Robbie had all the Marmite on the first day. We bought a big sliced loaf from the NAAFI and made toast. We had the Creme Eggs for our pudding. They was a bit squashed but we picked the bits of silver paper out and they was OK.

Robbie is reading
All Quiet on the Western Front
. He says it’s good. He’s looking forward to reading the other books you sent as well. He says he’s going to read
Catch-22
next and after that
Poetry of the First World War
.

Getting by in Greek
is not much help here, Dad. I tried speaking a bit of Greek, but everybody here talks better English than what I do.

There is a rumour that we are moving to Kuwait soon. I am learning to be a communications technician. It is quite interesting. I have wrote to William and told him that I will save up and check him out in Nigeria next year.

Mum has wrote to tell me that she cries about me every night as she is worried I will be sent to Iraq. Will you go and see her for me, Dad? Also she has got a parcel to send, but her post office on the estate has been closed down because the old people have had their pension books took off them. She says she can’t queue up in the big post office in Leicester because of her veins.

Robbie and me are playing a darts doubles match against the SAS tomorrow night. Wish us luck, Dad. They are hard
bastards. If we win they will beat us up, and if we lose they will still beat us up.

Love from your son, Glenn

I sat for a few moments despairing that such a bad grammarian could have sprung from my loins. I fought against the impulse to correct his letter in red ink and return it to him.

When I got to the shop I took down
The Times Atlas of the World
and found Kuwait. The sight of tiny Kuwait squashed between the huge expanses of Saudi Arabia and Iraq filled me with a horrible foreboding.

I rang Sharon and arranged to see her at a time when Ryan is out.

Sharon met me at her front door with the moon-faced, hairless baby on her substantial hip. She told me that the child is ‘called after Donna Karan’. I forced a sickly smile on my face and said, ‘So it’s a girl. Hello, Donna.’

‘No, ’e’s a boy. ’E’s called Karan. Ka-ran,’ she repeated, as though she was teaching English as a second language.

She invited me into her living room. Had the room been a person, it would have slashed its wrists. A thick layer of depression covered it. Sharon had ignored William Morris’s dictum that everything in a house should be either beautiful or functional. Everything Sharon had seemed to be ugly, unnecessary or broken.