Sue Townsend - Adrian Mole - Diary of a Provincial Man

4. I will look into the Buddhist religion with a view to becoming a cohort. I have always had a horror of treading on insects. Ants in particular.

5. I will attempt to fall in love with a suitable woman this year. One that doesn't cry a lot or use too much blue eye shadow.

6. I'll teach my son's the proper use of the apostrophe.

Tuesday, January 2

Pandora is back from Israel where she claimed to be on a fact-finding mission about Jerusalem. I remarked on her tan. She said, "Yeah, I managed to get a few days off in Eilat, swimming with the dolphins." How I envy Pandora's physical prowess! I would find it difficult to swim with goldfish.

I asked her if she was any nearer to achieving her medium-term goal, that of becoming foreign secretary. She tossed her treacle-coloured hair back and said, "It's acknowledged by those that count — Ian Hislop, Auberon Waugh and Andrew Rawnsley — that Robin's got to go. The man is now totally incomprehensible. How poor bloody foreigners understand his mad gabble, God only knows."

Monday, January 8, 2001, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

I woke at 7.32am with a headache. Thankfully, the boys were still asleep, so I was able to dress and attend to my toilette in peace for once. I did not wash my hair in the shower. The friction caused by the massaging of the shampoo into the scalp is putting a strain on my follicles and causing hair loss. I was pleased to use one of those shower caps, which I have collected from hotel bathrooms over the years.

The reason for my tension headache must be linked to the fact that Pamela Pigg stayed last night. Or, at least, most of the night — she left my bed at 4.30 after sobbing for an hour and a half, incidentally smearing one of my finest pillow slips in blue eye-shadow.

Our date went well considering that Pamela had a heavy cold and kept asking the waiter for more paper serviettes in which to blow her nose. We talked about our on/off relationship, and Pamela blamed our sexual incompatibility for the fact that it was mostly off. She said she was willing to try again, and told me she had forced herself to read The Joy of Sex , and then been astonished at the range of things on offer. She made it sound like the Argos catalogue.

After a protracted argument with the waiter about the bill (I refused to pay £3.50 for the extra services), we left the restaurant arm in arm. In the car on the way home, she placed her right hand over my left. It was difficult changing gear, but I didn't complain.

When we got home, Glenn was still up, doing his humanities homework. He was stuck on one question: "Name three members of the shadow cabinet, apart from William Hague."

Unfortunately, neither me nor Pamela could help him out. When Pamela went to the lavatory, Glenn glanced at her and whispered, "You must be desperate, Dad." In the lull before Pamela's return, I remembered Ann Widdecombe. When Pamela returned, smelling of Poison, and with newly applied pink lipstick, Glenn tactfully withdrew and went to bed.

I put on a Beethoven CD, the 1812, and tried to dim the lights, but the dimmer switch refused to work, so we sat under the glare of 500-watt spotlights. After a little conversation about my mother in prison, we went upstairs. Pamela apologised for her sports bra and utility-type knickers, saying that her best underwear was in the wash. I said it didn't matter, but, in truth, I was very hurt. She had known about our date for over a week. Surely that was enough time in which to hand-wash a few delicate scraps of lace and satin, and dry them on the radiator?

She commented on the fact that the spots on my back had almost cleared up, then turned the bedside light out and lovemaking commenced. The problems began when she requested that, for safety's sake, I wear two condoms, one on top of the other. God knows, I tried, Diary, but by the time I'd got the first fitted, the second had got lost in the bed.

The second problem was that Glenn shouted through the party wall, "For God's sake Dad, 'urry up an' get it over wiv." Which made Pamela roll over to her side of the bed, where she lay with rigid limbs and a set jaw. I tried to relax her by talking about my father's treatment for his hospital-borne infection, but she started to cry. And nothing I said would stop her.

An hour later

Glenn has just come into the kitchen angrily flourishing the used shower cap and shouting, "Tell that Pamela Pigg, to take 'er female condom 'ome wiv 'er in future." The lad obviously knows nothing about the female anatomy.

Saturday, January 13, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

My ex-wife Jo-Jo has faxed me to ask if she can take William with her when she returns to her home in Lagos, Nigeria. For what she's called "an extended visit".

I faxed back immediately, c/o The Hempel Hotel in Craven Hill Gardens, London. (She is rolling in money — her new husband imports "cattle prods" from Turkey. One dreads to think to what purpose the prods are used. I suspect that cattle don't enter the equation).

Dear Jo-Jo,

I will cut immediately to the chase. No, you cannot take William back to Nigeria with you. He is extremely happy living in the small town of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. The culture shock could kill him. If, when he gets to the age of reason, he wants to 'discover his roots', I will help him to do so. But he has told me that he wants to continue to attend Mrs Claricoates' reception class, where he is excelling at colouring in and computer studies. Besides, he has a school trip to Flyingdales Moor in Yorkshire, planned in February.

Incidentally, I am surprised at your choice of new husband. William tells me that the man has never heard of Pokémon cards, and that he was unable to name the individual members of Steps. He sounds an unworldly man.

How could a sophisticated woman like you saddle yourself with such a dolt? I cannot but fear for the longevity of your marriage. As you will recall (perhaps fondly), when we were man and wife, we used to talk in bed for hours about world and current affairs.

Anyway, Jo-Jo, I'm afraid you must return to Nigeria without William.

I remain, yours, as ever, Adrian.

Sunday, January 14

I received the following fax this morning:

The Hempel, Craven Hill Gardens, London.

To Adrian Mole from Mrs Jo-Jo Mapfumo.

Thank you for your fax. I am, of course, disappointed that you will not give your permission for William to visit Nigeria with me and my new husband, Colonel Ephat Mapfumo. My family in Lagos are most anxious to meet him. He is, after all, my first son and is accordingly held in high esteem by them.

I found your remarks about my husband offensive in the extreme. He is far from being a dolt. He was educated at the Sorbonne and Sandhurst. He plays the piano, violin and oboe, collects contemporary African art and has written an acclaimed book: The Coup — a Post-Colonial Alternative to Democracy .

As to our own marriage, I do not recall our conversations in or out of bed 'fondly'. My recollection is that you talked at length about three subjects: 1. Your unpublished novels; 2. Dostoevsky; 3. The Norwegian leather industry. I realised that our marriage was a mistake five minutes after the wedding, when you accused me of exhibitionism, because I chose to wear my traditional tribal dress.

Yours, Mrs Jo-Jo Mapfumo.

PS: If you will not allow William to visit Nigeria, then my family must visit him in Ashby-de-la-Zouch. I will proceed with these arrangements as soon as I return to Lagos.

I admit that I was taken aback when I saw Jo-Jo enter Leicester Register Office. She had told me that she was going to wear "traditional dress". Therefore, I was expecting white lace and a veil — not a riot of pattern and primary colours. In her tribal turban, she stood 6ft 3in tall. She towered over me. We looked ridiculous as we lined up in front of the registrar.