It is uncertain whether or not he will turn up for work tomorrow. On the whole I think not.
He went to work.
After school I walked home along the canal bank. I found him bossing a gang of skinheads and punks about. They were looking surly and unco-operative. None of them wanted to get their clothes dirty. My father seemed to be the only one doing any work. He was covered in mud. I attempted to exchange a few civilities with the lads, but they spurned my overtures. I pointed out that the lads are alienated by a cruel, uncaring society, but my father said,’ Bugger off home, Adrian. You’re talking a load of lefty crap’. He will have a mutiny on his hands soon if he’s not careful.
My schoolwork is plummeting down to new depths. I only got five out of twenty for spelling. I think I might be anorexic.
My father has asked me not to bring Pandora to the canal after school. He says he can’t do anything with the lads after she has gone. It’s true that she is stunningly beautiful, but the lads will just have to learn self-control. I have had to learn it. She has refused to consummate our relationship. Sometimes I wonder what she sees in me. I live in daily terror of our relationship ending.
Pandora and Pandora’s mother have joined my mother’s women’s group. No men or boys are allowed in our front room. My father had to be in charge of the creche in our dining room.
Rick Lemon’s baby daughter Herod was crawling under the table shouting: ‘Tit! Tit!’ My father kept telling Herod to shut up until I explained that Tit was Herod’s mother’s name. Herod is a very radical baby who never eats sweets and stays up until 2 AM.
My father says that women ought to be at home cooking. He said it in a whisper so that he wouldn’t be karate-chopped to death.
My father had a good day on the canal bank. He is almost through to the grass now. To celebrate he brought the skinheads and punks round to our house for a glass of home-made beer. Mrs Singh and my mother looked shocked when the lads trooped into our kitchen, but my father introduced Baz, Daz, Maz, Kev, Melv and Boz and my mother and Mrs Singh relaxed a bit.
Boz is going to help me fix the brakes on my bike, he is an expert bike-fixer. He has been stealing them since he was six.
Boz offered me a sniff of his glue today, but I declined it with thanks.
All the women I know have gone to a rally to protest about a woman’s right to work. Mrs Singh has gone wearing a disguise.
Saw Rick Lemon in the park, he was pushing Herod too high on a swing. Herod was shouting: ‘Tit! Tit!’
I am loved by two women! Elizabeth Sally Broadway gave Victoria Louise Thomson a note in Science. It said: ‘Ask Adrian Mole if he wants to go out with me.’
Victoria Louise Thomson (hereafter known as V.L.T.) passed on the message. I replied to V.L.T. in the negative.
Elizabeth Sally Broadway (hereafter known as E.S.B.) looked dead sad and started to cry into her bunsen burner.
It is really wonderful to know that Pandora and Elizabeth are both in love with me.
Perhaps I am not so ugly after all.
Pandora and E.S.B. have had a fight in the playground. I am disgusted with Pandora. At the last meeting of the Pink Brigade she swore to be a pacifist all her life. Pandora won! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Mr O’Leary was brought home by a police car at 10.30 PM. Mrs O’Leary came over to ask my father if he would help her to get Mr O’Leary upstairs to bed. My father is still over there. I can hear the music and singing through the double-glazing.
It is no joke when you need your sleep for school.
I am reading
My creative English essay:
The trees explode into bud, indeed some of them are in leaf. Their branches thrust to the sky like drunken scarecrows. Their trunks writhe and twist into the earth and form a plethora of roots. The brilliant sky hovers uncertainly like a shy bride at the door of her nuptial chamber. Birds wing and scrape their erratic way into the cotton-wool clouds like drunken scarecrows. The translucent brook gurgles majestically towards its journey’s end. ‘To the sea!’ it cries, ‘to the sea!’ it endlessly repeats.
A lonely boy, his loins afire, sits and watches his calm reflection in the torrential brook. His heart is indeed heavy. His eyes fall on to the ground and rest on a wondrous majestic many-hued butterfly. The winged insect takes flightand the boy’s eyes are carried far away until they are but a speck on the red-hued sunset. He senses on the zephyr a hope for mankind.
Pandora thinks this is the best thing I have ever written, but I know I have got a long way to go until I have learned my craft.
My mother has had all her hair cut off. She looks like one of Auntie Susan’s inmates. She doesn’t look a bit maternal any more. I don’t know whether to get her anything for Mother’s Day or not. She was going on about it last night, saying it was a commercial racket fed by gullible fools.
Pandora’s mother was taken out and spoilt in a restaurant. I will do the same for my mother when I am famous.
I have catalogued my bedroom library. I have got a hundred and fifty-one books, not counting the Enid Blytons.
I will be fifteen in eleven days. So I have only got to wait one year and eleven days to get married, should I want to.
