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

The dog’s ears are now clear of cotton wool. It only pretends not to hear.

Went to see B.B. but he is out with Queenie. She is pushing him around the leisure centre.

Twenty-second after Trinity

Read A Town Like Alice , by Nevil Shute, it is dead brill. I wish I had an intellectual friend whom I could discuss great literature with. My father thinks A Town Like Alice was written by Lewis Carroll.

I came home from school with a headache. All the noise and shouting and bullying is getting me down! Surely teachers should be better behaved!

My father is a serious worry to me. Even the continuing news of Princess Diana’s conception does not cheer him up.

Grandma has already knitted three pairs of bootees and sent them off care of Buckingham Palace. She is a true patriot.

Moon’s Last Quarter

The trees are stark naked. Their autumnal clothes Litter the pavements. Council sweepers apply fire Thus creating municipal pyres. I, Adrian Mole, Kick them And burn my Hush Puppies.

I have copied it out carefully and sent it to John Tydeman at the BBC. He strikes me as a man who might like poems about autumn leaves.

I have got to get something broadcast or printed soon else Pandora will lose all respect for me.

Pandora has suggested I start a literary magazine using the school duplicator. I wrote the first edition during dinner-time. It is called The Voice of Youth .

Pandora looked at The Voice of Youth . She suggested that instead of writing the whole magazine myself, I invite contributions from other talented scribblers.

She said she would do a piece about window-box gardening. Claire Neilson has submitted a punk poem, it is very avant garde, but I am not afraid to break new ground.

She wants it put in under an assumed name, her father is a Conservative councillor.

Nigel has written a short piece about racing-bike maintenance. It is very boring but I can’t tell him because he is my best friend.

We go to press on Wednesday. Pandora is typing the stencils over the weekend.

Here is my first editorial:

Hi Kids,

Well here’s your very own school magazine. Yes! Written and produced entirely using child labour. I have tried to break new ground in our first edition. Many of you will be unaware of the miracles of window-box gardening and the joys of racing-bike maintenance. If so, hang on to your hats, you’re in for a magic surprise!

We are going to charge twenty-five pence a copy.

Pandora’s father has stolen a box of stencils from his office. As I write, Pandora is typing the first pages of The Voice of Youth , I am half-way through writing an expose about Barry Kent. It is called ‘Barry Kent: The Truth!’ He hasn’t dared to lay a finger on me since grandma’s dramatic intervention, so I know I shall be safe.

Too busy to go and see Bert, I will go tomorrow.

Last after Trinity

Finished the expose on Barry Kent. It will rock the school to its foundations. I have mentioned Barry Kent’s sexual perversions—all about his disgusting practice of showing his thing for five pence a look.

Had a Christmas card from grandma, and a letter from the post office to say that they are cutting the phone off!

Forgot to call round and see Bert. Pandora and I were too busy putting the paper to bed. How I wish I was putting Pandora to bed.

2 AM . What am I going to do about the phone bill?

Nigel has just gone off in a sulk. He objected to the editing I did on his article. I tried to point out to him that one thousand five hundred words on bicycle spokes was pure self-indulgence, but he wouldn’t listen. He has withdrawn his article. Thank God! Two pages less to fold.

The Voice of Youth hits the classrooms tomorrow.

Must go and see Bert tomorrow.

We have been hit by a wildcat strike! Mrs Claricoates, the school secretary, has refused to handle The Voice of Youth . She says there is nothing in her job description to say she has to mess about with school magazines. The editorial team offered to duplicate copies ourselves, but Mrs Claricoates says that she alone knows how to ‘work the wretched thing’. I am in despair. A whole six hours’ work wasted!

Thanksgiving Day, USA. New Moon

Pandora’s father is photocopying The Voice of Youth on his office machine. He didn’t want to, but Pandora sulked in her room and refused to eat until he agreed.

Five hundred copies of The Voice of Youth were on sale in the dinner hall today.

Five hundred copies were locked in the games cupboard by the end of the afternoon. Not one copy was sold! Not one! My fellow pupils are nothing but Philistines and Morons!

We are dropping the price to twenty pence on Monday.

My mother phoned and wanted to speak to my father. I told her that he is on a fishing weekend with the Society of Redundant Electric Storage Heater Salesmen.

A postcard from the post office to say that unless my father phones the post office before five-thirty our phone will be disconnected.

A telegram! Addressed to me! The BBC? No, from my mother:

ADRIAN STOP COMING HOME STOP

What does she mean ‘Stop coming home’? How can I ‘stop coming home’? I live here.

The phone has been cut off! I am considering running away from home.

Advent Sunday

My mother has just turned up with no warning! She had all her suitcases with her. She has thrown herself on the mercy of my father. My father has just thrown himself on the body of my mother. I tactfully withdrew to my bedroom where I am now trying to work out how I feel about my mother’s return. On the whole I am over the moon, but I’m dreading her looking around our squalid house. She will go mad when she finds out that I have lent Pandora her fox-fur coat.

St Andrew’s Day

My mother and father were still in bed when I left for school.

Sold one copy of The Voice of Youth , to Barry Kent. He wanted to discover the truth about himself. He is a slow reader so it will probably take him until Friday to find out. We are going to try dropping the price to fifteen pence to try to stimulate demand. There are now four hundred and ninety-nine copies to be sold!

My mother and father are in bed again and it’s only 9 PM!

The dog is very pleased my mother is back. It has been going about smiling all day.

I called the post office and pretended to be my father. I spoke in a very deep voice and told a lot of lies. I said that I, George Mole, had been in a lunatic asylum for three months and I needed the phone to ring up the Samaritans, etc. The woman sounded dead horrible, she said she was fed up with hearing lame excuses from irresponsible non-payers. She said thatthe phone would only be reconnected when PS289.19 had been paid, plus PS40 reconnection fee, plus a deposit of PS40!