Sue Townsend - The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 3⁄4

I rang Tunisia whilst my father was in the bath. He shouted down to ask whom I was phoning. I told a lie. I said I was phoning the speaking clock.

Pandora’s flight left safely. She should be home around midnight.

At 7 AM Pandora rang from St Pancras station. She said that due to electrification of the track at Flitwick she would be delayed.

I got dressed and went down to the station, got a platform ticket, waited on platform two for six cold, lonely hours. Went home to find a note from Pandora. This is what it said:

Adrian,

I confess to feeling heartbroken at your apparent coldness concerning my arrival. I felt sure that we would have an emotional reunion on platform three. But it was not to be.

Adieu,

Went to Pandora’s house. Explained. Had an emotional reunion behind her father’s tool shed.

Eighth after Trinity

Touched Pandora’s bust again. This time I think I felt something soft. My thing keeps growing and shrinking, it seems to have a life of its own. I can’t control it.

Pandora and I went to the swimming baths this morning. Pandora looked superb in her white string bikini. She has gone the same colour as Mrs Singh. I didn’t trust my thing to behave so I sat in the spectators’ gallery and watched Pandora diving off the highestdiving board. Got back to my house. Showed her my black room. Lit a joss stick. Put Abba LP on, sneaked a bottle of Sanatogen upstairs. We indulged in a bit of light petting but then Pandora developed a headache and went home to rest.

I was racked with sexuality but it wore off when I helped my father put manure on our rose bed.

Got another postcard from my mother.

Dear Aidy,

You’ve no idea how much I long to see you. The mothering bond is as strong as ever. I know you feel threatened by my involvement with Bimbo, but really Aidy there is no need. Bimbo fulfils my sexual needs. No more, no less. So, Aidy, grow up and come to Scotland.

Lots of love,

Pauline (mother)

P.S. We leave on the fifteenth. Catch 8.22 train to Sheffield.

The postman said that if my mother was his wife he would give her a good thrashing. He doesn’t know my mother. If anybody laid a finger on her she would beat them to pulp.

Pandora thinks a trial separation will do us good. She says our light to medium petting will turn quite heavy soon. I must admit that the strain is having a detrimental effect on my health. I have got no energy and my sleep is constantly interrupted with dreams about Pandora’s white bikini and Mrs O’Leary’s knickers. I might go to Scotland after all.

My father has decided to go to Skegness on the fifteenth. He has booked a four-berth caravan. He is taking Doreen and Maxwell with him! He expects me to go!

If I go people will automatically assume that Doreen is my mother and Maxwell is my brother!

I am going to Scotland.

Had tragic last night with Pandora. We have both sworn to be true. I have done all my packing. The dog has been taken round to grandma’s with fourteen tins of Pedigree Chum and a giant sack of Winalot.

I am taking Escape from Childhood , by John Holt, to read on the train.

Full Moon

My father, Stick Insect and Maxwell House saw me off at the station. My father didn’t mind a bit that I chose to go to Scotland instead of Skegness. In fact he looked dead cheerful. The train journey was terrible. I had to stand all the way to Sheffield. I spoke to a lady in a wheelchair who was in the guard’s van. She was very nice, she said that the only good thing about being handicapped was that you always got a seat in trains. Even if it was in the guard’s van.

My mother and creep Lucas met me at Sheffield. My mother looked dead thin and has started dressing in clothes that are too young for her. Lucas creep was wearing jeans! His belly was hanging over his belt. I pretended to be asleep until we got to Scotland.

Lucas mauled my mother about even whilst he was driving.

We are at a place called Loch Lubnaig. I am in bed in a log cabin. My mother and Lucas have gone to the village to try to buy cigarettes. At least that is their story.

Ninth after Trinity

There is a loch in front of the cabin and a pine forest and a mountain behind the cabin. There is nothing to do. It is dead boring.

Did some washing in a log cabin launderette. Spoke to an American tourist called Hamish Mancini; he is the same age as me. His mother is on her honeymoon for the fourth time.

Rained all day.

Sent postcards. Phoned Pandora, reversed charges. Her father refused to accept them.

Played cards with Hamish Mancini. His mother and stepfather and my mother and her lover have gone to see a waterfall in the car. Big deal!

Walked two and a half miles into Callander to buy Mars bar. Played on Space Invaders. Came back, hadtea. Phoned Pandora from log cabin phone box. Reversed charges. She still loves me. I still love her. Went to bed.

Moon’s Last Quarter

Went to see Rob Roy’s grave. Saw it, came back.

Tenth after Trinity

My mother has made friends with a couple called Mr and Mrs Ball. They have gone off to Stirling Castle. Mrs Ball has got a daughter who is a writer. I asked her how her daughter qualified to be one. Mrs Ball said that her daughter was dropped on her head as a child and has been ‘a bit queer’ ever since.

It is Mrs Ball’s birthday so they all came back to our log cabin to celebrate. I complained about the noise at 1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM, and 4 AM. At 5 AM they decided to climb the mountain! I pointed out to them that they were blind drunk, too old, unqualified, unfit and lacking in any survival techniques, had no first-aid kit, weren’t wearing stout boots, and had no compass, map or sustaining hot drinks.

My protest fell on deaf ears. They all climbed the mountain, came down and were cooking eggs and bacon by 11.30 AM.

As I write Mr and Mrs Ball are canoeing on the loch. They must be on drugs.

Went to Edinburgh. Saw the castle, the toy museum, the art gallery. Bought a haggis. Came back to log cabin, read Glencoe , by John Prebble. We are going there tomorrow.

The massacre of Glencoe took place on February 13th 1692. On February 14, John Hill wrote to the Earl of Tweeddale, ‘I have ruined Glencoe’.

He was dead right, there is nothing there. Glasgow tomorrow.

We drove through Glasgow at 11 AM in the morning yet I counted twenty-seven drunks in one mile! All the shops except the DIY shops had grilles at the windows. Off-licences had rolls of barbed wire and broken glass on their roofs. We had a walk round for a bit, then my mother nagged Lucas creep into taking her to the Glasgow art gallery. I intended to sit in the car and read Glencoe , but because of all the drunksstaggering around I reluctantly followed them inside.

How glad I am that I did! I might have gone through life without having an important cultural experience!