Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend Page A
Authors: Sue Townsend
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painstakingly opened her present and found a George Foreman family-size grill. However, good breeding and a lifetime of repressing her true feelings saved the day, and she gave a gracious little speech thanking the assembled company for their kindness and generosity.
When told what the present was, Nigel gave a bitter laugh and said, ‘Will it fit her mantelpiece?’
Barry Kent was invited on to the stage to draw the raffle. He turned a simple task into something akin to lighting the Olympic flame. Claire Neilson, who had gone home to check on her children, won the giant teddy bear. By a cruel irony, the second prize was won by Nigel, and the first prize was won, to Pandora’s considerable disgust, by Brain-box Henderson.
Kent then left for East Midlands Airport, saying that he had to meet a publisher in Amsterdam in the morning.
I am amazed, diary, at how much I still dislike Barry Kent and how much I long for his downfall.
*
When the caretaker came in jangling his keys, Craig put on ‘Every Breath You Take’ and announced that it was to be the last record. I asked Pandora if she would like to dance and amazingly she agreed.
She is slightly taller than me in high heels, but I have reached the age where it no longer matters quite as much as it once did.
I sang along with Sting, ‘I’ll be watching you’, until Pandora asked me to stop. But for once she didn’t try to lead and allowed me to shuffle her around the dance floor.
I am, of course, still madly in love with her. She has spoiled me for any other female. She is a ten-out-of-ten woman, whereas Marigold is, tragically, two and a half, or perhaps three on a good day.
I asked Pandora if she would like to join a group of intimates for dinner at the Imperial Dragon, explaining that Wayne Wong would give us a 10 per cent discount.
She said, ‘You’re still penny-pinching then?’
I replied, ‘On the contrary, I’ve just forked almost 10,000 quid out to furnish my new canalside loft at Rat Wharf.’
However, for the second time that night she surprised me and agreed to come to dinner.
Pandora, Nigel, Parvez, Barbara, Victoria Louise and I shared an Emperor’s Banquet. We sat at a large round table. I sat in between Nigel and Pandora. I asked the waiter, Wayne’s brother, Keith Wong, to take Nigel’s chopsticks away and bring a fork and spoon, explaining thatthis would make life easier for Nigel as he was almost blind.
To my astonishment, Nigel had a mini temper tantrum and demanded that Keith return his chopsticks.
Nigel said, ‘Keep your nose out, Mole,’ and turned his back to me and talked to Parvez about his finances.
Parvez said, ‘You’re not as badly off as Adrian. He’s saddled himself with a pile of debts.’
I said, ‘Parvez, don’t accountants take a vow of silence, or a Hippocratic oath or something? My finances are not a suitable subject for dinner-table conversation.’
Barbara Bowyer asked Pandora what Tony and Cherie were ‘really like’.
Pandora said, ‘I’m keeping my trap shut about the Blairs. Adrian keeps a diary, you know.’
Nigel said, ‘You’d better not write anything about me.’
I said, ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Nigel.’ And I said to Pandora, ‘Your secrets are safe with me. My diary is not for publication.’
Pandora said, ‘That’s what that creepy butler Paul Burrell said. I hear he’s toting Diana’s secrets around.’
‘And anyway,’ said Nigel, ‘who would be interested in publishing the diary of a provincial nonentity?’
I took a prawn cracker from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and bit into it to disguise how much his remark had hurt me.
At 11.45 p.m. my mobile rang. It was Marigold, asking me how the writing was going. Unfortunately, at that moment Keith Wong was serving the next course, shouting, ‘OK, you got yuck sung, you got seaweed, you gotprawn toasts, you got wantons, and you got vegetable spring rolls.’
Marigold said, ‘Where are you?’
I thought
When told what the present was, Nigel gave a bitter laugh and said, ‘Will it fit her mantelpiece?’
Barry Kent was invited on to the stage to draw the raffle. He turned a simple task into something akin to lighting the Olympic flame. Claire Neilson, who had gone home to check on her children, won the giant teddy bear. By a cruel irony, the second prize was won by Nigel, and the first prize was won, to Pandora’s considerable disgust, by Brain-box Henderson.
Kent then left for East Midlands Airport, saying that he had to meet a publisher in Amsterdam in the morning.
I am amazed, diary, at how much I still dislike Barry Kent and how much I long for his downfall.
*
When the caretaker came in jangling his keys, Craig put on ‘Every Breath You Take’ and announced that it was to be the last record. I asked Pandora if she would like to dance and amazingly she agreed.
She is slightly taller than me in high heels, but I have reached the age where it no longer matters quite as much as it once did.
I sang along with Sting, ‘I’ll be watching you’, until Pandora asked me to stop. But for once she didn’t try to lead and allowed me to shuffle her around the dance floor.
I am, of course, still madly in love with her. She has spoiled me for any other female. She is a ten-out-of-ten woman, whereas Marigold is, tragically, two and a half, or perhaps three on a good day.
I asked Pandora if she would like to join a group of intimates for dinner at the Imperial Dragon, explaining that Wayne Wong would give us a 10 per cent discount.
She said, ‘You’re still penny-pinching then?’
I replied, ‘On the contrary, I’ve just forked almost 10,000 quid out to furnish my new canalside loft at Rat Wharf.’
However, for the second time that night she surprised me and agreed to come to dinner.
Pandora, Nigel, Parvez, Barbara, Victoria Louise and I shared an Emperor’s Banquet. We sat at a large round table. I sat in between Nigel and Pandora. I asked the waiter, Wayne’s brother, Keith Wong, to take Nigel’s chopsticks away and bring a fork and spoon, explaining thatthis would make life easier for Nigel as he was almost blind.
To my astonishment, Nigel had a mini temper tantrum and demanded that Keith return his chopsticks.
Nigel said, ‘Keep your nose out, Mole,’ and turned his back to me and talked to Parvez about his finances.
Parvez said, ‘You’re not as badly off as Adrian. He’s saddled himself with a pile of debts.’
I said, ‘Parvez, don’t accountants take a vow of silence, or a Hippocratic oath or something? My finances are not a suitable subject for dinner-table conversation.’
Barbara Bowyer asked Pandora what Tony and Cherie were ‘really like’.
Pandora said, ‘I’m keeping my trap shut about the Blairs. Adrian keeps a diary, you know.’
Nigel said, ‘You’d better not write anything about me.’
I said, ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Nigel.’ And I said to Pandora, ‘Your secrets are safe with me. My diary is not for publication.’
Pandora said, ‘That’s what that creepy butler Paul Burrell said. I hear he’s toting Diana’s secrets around.’
‘And anyway,’ said Nigel, ‘who would be interested in publishing the diary of a provincial nonentity?’
I took a prawn cracker from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and bit into it to disguise how much his remark had hurt me.
At 11.45 p.m. my mobile rang. It was Marigold, asking me how the writing was going. Unfortunately, at that moment Keith Wong was serving the next course, shouting, ‘OK, you got yuck sung, you got seaweed, you gotprawn toasts, you got wantons, and you got vegetable spring rolls.’
Marigold said, ‘Where are you?’
I thought
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