Sue Townsend - Adrian Mole - Diary of a Provincial Man

Tuesday, October 3, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

DH Lawrence, my literary hero, enjoyed working with his hands and reputedly took a pride in his jam-making. I, too, have discovered the small joys of manual labour. I like to think that DH would have been proud of me as I serve up a bacon 'n' egg sandwich to our first customer, Les, who was driving an Eddie Stobbart lorry full of mineral water from Liskeard to Dundee. Though I say it myself, Les's sandwich was a work of art. The bacon was succulent, the egg was cooked sensitively, so as to prevent yolk leakage, and the bread was as white and soft as a newly-hatched maggot. I was quietly pleased when Les pronounced it to be «champion».

Thursday, October 5, Eddie's Tea Bar, the Cement Works, Leicestershire

Working in Eddie's has given me a unique glimpse of how capitalism works. Eddie goes to the cash-and-carry and buys catering packs of bacon, beefburgers, white sliced bread, ketchup, etc, and then uses me at £3.60 an hour to convert the ingredients into food items that sell for 200 % profit. Eddie does not have a computerised till. His is strictly a cash business. There is a notice on the trailer wall next to the peeling Samantha Fox poster: "Please do not ask for a receipt, as refusal often offends."

He keeps the coins in an old Cadbury's Luxury Biscuits tin. It offends my sense of order to see the coinage jumbled up together, but it works well enough. Banknotes are kept in Eddie's apron pocket. I suspect that Eddie pays little tax or VAT, though he is vociferous enough on the subject of social security cheats. "They should be took to a island somewhere in the North Sea an' left to fend for themselves," he said this morning. "Though," he added compassionately, "I'd give 'em a packet of seeds an' a spade."

Eddie's biscuit tin is the proletarian equivalent of a Cayman Islands tax shelter. All it lacks is financial advisers and accountants. Eddie's wife does his «books» while watching the omnibus edition of EastEnders . It's a weekly ritual, apparently.

The lorry drivers provide another facet of globalisation. Some truckers have travelled three days to haul Romanian fridges to Bolton, England. Others have taken gerbil food from Bury St Edmunds to Hamburg and returned with a cargo of Hamburgian carrots, which they've dropped off at a warehouse in Stowmarket, Suffolk. This is madness.

As I serve each trucker, I make a point now of enquiring as to his ultimate destination and the nature of his load. I have thus come to the conclusion that capitalism is no way to run the world's economy — it is inefficient and it exploits workers such as myself.

I put this argument to Eddie as I was scraping the griddle clean with a spatula. He profoundly disagreed with my analysis and said, "If you carry on shoutin' for revolution, Moley, you'll find yerself outta a job so far yer stupid Birkenstock shoes won't touch the bleedin' ground."

Friday, October 6

Couldn't sleep for wondering about the necessity of hauling mineral water from Liskeard to Dundee. Scotland is awash with the stuff.

William and Glenn are both away from school because their hair is infested with head lice. I rang Eddie on his mobile and told him that I wouldn't be in today, as I would be preoccupied with banishing the nits from my boys' heads. Eddie said, "Me an' the missus was up all night scratching our soddin' bonces as if they was scratchcards. You should examine yer own 'ead, Mole."

Glenn and William sat me at my desk and aimed my anglepoise lamp on to my head. There were so many nits in my hair that Glenn said, "You could fill Wembley stadium with 'em, Dad." He is going to watch the England-Germany match tomorrow with a group from the school. They are doing a project on English historical monuments and he is hoping to bring a few blades of grass back to paste into his project folder. Though, as the headmaster said in his email to me, "Glenn's head will be examined by myself in the morning, and if evidence is found of head lice or their progeny, in the form of unhatched eggs, he will NOT be allowed to board the coach to Wembley."

I was up most of the night going through Glenn's hair with a fine-tooth comb. Eventually, at 3.30am, I cracked and shaved his head. I used five disposable razors. He looks decidedly thuggish, but at least he was allowed on to the coach.

Saturday, October 7

Glenn returned victorious with a plastic seat, a square foot of turf and one of Kevin Keegan's chewed-up finger-nails. The boy will go far.

Living Without A Partner has been cancelled. I was the only one to turn up.

Sunday, October 15, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Pandora rang me today and sought my advice on whether or not she should confess to have smoked cannabis at Oxford. "Why are you asking me?" I said. "You're the voice of middle England," she snapped. "You're a perfect barometer of public opinion." I resented her impication that I was a dull provincial, but at the same time was pleased and flattered that my opinion was being sought. I advised her to keep quiet in the matter of her drug-taking, and warned that a confession would almost certainly jeopardise her ultimate ambition of becoming the next-but-one prime minister. She rang off after saying, "You are right, Aidy, I must keep the Daily Mail on my side."

Monday, October 16

The shadow of headlice infestation continues to fall across our house. What more can I do to exterminate the vile creatures? My mother went to the hairdresser's on Saturday, and her stylist, Sebastian, fled in horror to the colour mixing room after spotting a colony of them nesting at the nape of her neck. She is furious with me, and claims she hasn't been so humiliated since the wire from her Gossard bra poked out of her wedding dress at the register office when she married Ivan Braithwaite. Even my father, who is still in an isolation cubicle at the general hospital, has nits. What is going on? I told Glenn that I suspect foul play: "It's obvious that a foreign power, possibly Iran, has introduced a virulent form of nits into this country in an attempt to demoralise the population and destabilise the pound." Glenn shook his head in a pitying way and said, "Go an' lie down, Dad, an' put a wet towel on yer 'ead."

Tuesday, October 17

I read the following article in The Independent today: "Dr Pandora Braithwaite, the junior minister for fish, admitted in a Newsnight interview with Jeremy Paxman last night to having smoked cannabis during her time at Oxford. To a direct question posed by Paxman, 'Have you or have you not smoked dope? Braithwaite smiled and answered, 'Have you, Jeremy? "Paxman snapped, 'I'm not here to answer the questions, minister, you are. Braithwaite said, 'Okay, yes, I did, we all did. What's more, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's what got me through the work. " I now predict terrible things for my love. Her position as a minister of the crown is surely untenable.

Wednesday, October 18

The whole country is talking about Pandora. According to a report in the Guardian , the demand for cannabis in Oxford has skyrocketed.

Thursday, October 19

I returned to work at Eddie's Tea Bar today, and couldn't help but notice that many of our trucker customers were scratching their heads. Are the nits being transported throughout Europe? How long will it be before they have taken over the world? At 7pm, Glenn phoned my mother, and told her to come round quickly. I explained my nit theory to her, and after listening for an hour and a half, she sent for Dr Wong.

Friday, October 20

I am calmer now. Dr Wong prescribed Prozac and a course of aromatherapy. He said that I was suffering from stress. I told him about my unhappy childhood, and he was very understanding. Though I heard my mother vehemently denying it: "He was a very happy little boy," she told the doctor. "Until he got older and started reading Dostoevsky and that bleddy Kafka!" Pandora has sent me a get-well message, and suggested that I recuperate by reading Lord Archer of Weston-Super-Mare's latest volume. She later phoned and told me the astonishing news that, far from being vilified for her drugs confession, she is being strongly tipped for promotion.