True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole by Sue Townsend Read Free Book Online Page B

moron so it is only to be expected. Still, at least he’s making a living out of his poetry. In the guise of ‘Baz the Skinhead Poet’ he tours pubs and rock venues, and shouts poetry at the audience. Sometimes they shout back and then there’s a fight. Barry always wins.
    On my way home I call in to see Pandora who is usually sitting under the anglepoise lamp bent over ‘A’ level homework. On the wall above her desk are two notices written in pink neon marker pen. One says ‘GET TO OXFORD OR DIE’, the other says ‘GO TO CAMBRIDGE AND LIVE’. There are five exclamation marks after each of them. We share a cup of cocoa or, if her parents are out, gin and tonic. Then we kiss passionately for about five minutes, longer if it’s a gin night, and I make my way home racked with latent sexuality. On such occasions I am pleased to find it’s raining. There’s nothing like a cold shower to ease sexual frustration.
    By 11 o’clock I am in bed with the dog, reading, with a digestive biscuit and a cup of cocoa on my bedside table. It isn’t the lifestyle I would choose for myself. Given the choice I would opt for a mixture of Prince Andrew and Prince Edward’s social life, Ted Hughes’s working life and Wham! or Mick Jagger’s romantic life. But at least I’ve got a life. Some people haven’t. And I’m on the verge, the very kerb of the dual carriageway of Fate. Will I go one way towards London, celebrity and media attention?…Or will I go the other way, towards the provinces, and be forced to write letters to the local paper in order to see my name in print? A third possibility occurs to me. I could break down at a roundabout and remain, unsung, in limbo.
    But I mustn’t burden you, kind listener, with my introspective musings. And anyway I shall have to finish now – it’s started raining and my jeans are on the line.

∨ The True Confessions ∧
Mole’s Prizewinning Essay
January 1986
    Monday
    Oh joy!…Oh rapture!…At last I have made my mark on the world of literature. My essay entitled ‘A Day in the Life of an Air Stewardess’ has won second prize in the British Airways Creative Writing Competition.
    My prizes are: A Concorde-shaped bookmark inscribed in gold leaf by Melvyn Bragg, a hostess apron which has been donated by ‘The Society for Distressed Air Stewardesses’, and £50.
    Here, for posterity, is my prizewinning essay.
A Day in the Life of an Air Stewardess
By A. Mole
Jonquil Storme opened her languorous blue eyes and looked at the clock. “Oh drat and bother,” she expectorated. The clock said seven o’clock and Jonquil was due at Heathrow Airport at seven fifteen, where she was in charge of Concorde.
Jonquil stretched out her lissome white hand and picked up the phone. Her other hand dialled the number: with her other hand she fondled an orchid that stood next to her bed in a jam jar.
“Hi Brett!” she said into the receiver… “Jonquil here, darling. I’m late, our night of passion wore me out and caused me to oversleep.” Brett’s manly chuckle reverberated down the phone.
“OK Jonquil,” he guffawed, “I’ll tell the passengers that there is snow on the runway. Take your time my darling!”
Jonquil put the phone down and sank into the pillows that were still impregnated with Brett’s hair oil. She wondered if she would ever get to marry Brett, the Captain of Concorde, and whether the excuse about snow on the runway would be believed. After all it was July . Thus ruminating, Jonquil showered in the shower and dressed in the dressing room. Soon she was soignée and was climbing into her Maserati open-topped sports car to the gapes of ordinary dingy passers by.
Soon she was wriggling up the steps of Concorde in her high-heeled shoes. Brett met her at the door of the plane and gave her a French Kiss. The passengers didn’t mind at all, in fact they applauded and cheered. A jolly American shouted “God bless you, Captain!”
Brett flashed his manly teeth and went to the