Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend Read Free Book Online

tonight.
    Her mother answered and said, ‘Netta Flowers speaking.’ I asked to speak to Marigold, but Netta said, ‘She’s in the attic. I daren’t disturb her.’
    She made Marigold sound like Mr Rochester’s mad wife.
    I have started packing my few belongings. I won’t need a removal lorry. The contents of my life will fit into the back of an estate car, including books and clothes.
Monday October 28th
    Rose at 6.30 and caught the bus from Ashby de la Zouch into Leicester. It was quite pleasant sitting at the front, looking at the countryside. I was able to think about my life during the journey. Where did I want to be ten years from now? Did I want the bother of getting married and starting another family? Or should I concentrate on trying to get published?
    I dictated a letter into my Philips Professional Pocket Memo 398 to Clare Short.
    Dear Clare
    Forgive me for addressing you by your Christian name, but you are so friendly and approachable I was sure you wouldn’t mind. I wonder if you would agree to come to Leicester and be interviewed for my new book,
Celebrity and Madness
. My thesis is that all celebrities eventually go mad and start to think that they are superhuman.
    I cannot pay a fee or expenses, but I’m sure that you are adequately recompensed for your ministerial duties. Sunday afternoons are good for me.
    As a famously honest and straightforward person, I hope you won’t mind a bit of plain-speaking when directed towards yourself. The scarves you have taken to wearing lately are less successful than you think. In my opinion only French women know how to wear a scarf. Why don’t you pick up a copy of French
Vogue
the next time you are in an upmarket newsagent’s?
    I look forward to hearing from you in the near future.
    I remain, madam,
    Your most humble and obedient servant,
    A. A. Mole
    When I was getting off the bus, a woman said to me, ‘You’re right about them scarves.’
Tuesday October 29th
    Moon’s Last Quarter
    Sharon Bott came into the shop this afternoon. She had been shopping at Evans for clothes to wear at Glenn’s passing-out parade. She took the vast garments out of the bags and held them against her. There was a pink jacket that could have graced a hippo, and a pair of wide-legged trousers that an elephant would have found a comfortable fit.
    I introduced Sharon to Mr Carlton-Hayes. In doing so, my two worlds collided. Sharon Bott, the mother of my first, illegitimate son, Glenn, represents the venality and weakness of my flesh, whereas Mr Carlton-Hayes personifies my intellectual and cerebral self.
    Sharon looked around and said, ‘All these books.’ She gave a little laugh as if Mr Carlton-Hayes and I frittered away our working day in meaningless and frivolous activity.
    I told Sharon that Glenn had invited us to a party on Friday night to celebrate his passing out.
    Sharon said, ‘That’ll be a late drive back for you.’
    I said I had no intention of driving back from Surrey in the early hours, due to my poor night vision, and suggested that we stay in a hotel.
    Sharon almost swooned with delight. ‘A ’otel,’ she said. ‘’ow lovely.’ Then her face clouded over. ‘But, Aidy, I can’t afford to pay for a ’otel. And anyway I’m scared to sleep in a room on my own.’
    Before she left, I talked her into buying a pile of Barbara Cartlands that Mr Carlton-Hayes had been anxious to get rid of.
    I rang Les and enquired about my car. He said, ‘The little ’uman is still in the engine.’
Wednesday October 30th
    Another bus ride.
    Rang Les this morning. He said that the little ’uman was either dead or had escaped.
    I could hear coarse male laughter in the background.
    I said, ‘Are you telling me my car is mended and available for collection?’
    Les said, ‘It’s out at the moment having a test drive. Why don’t you call for it at about 5 o’clock?’
    At 3 p.m. Mr Carlton-Hayes and I were rearranging the window display. The theme was the Middle East. I