Read Online Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend - Free Book Online
Authors: Sue Townsend
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wear?’
My mother sighed and looked sad. She said, ‘No, George, that was 4711.’
When he had gone out of the kitchen, she said, ‘I wish I was married to somebody like Roy Hattersley, somebody who was interested in politics.’
She lit her first cigarette of the day and we watched the news on the kitchen television. Mr Blair was very impressive. He looked sternly into the camera and said directly to Saddam Hussein, ‘Disarm or face force.’ His voice trembled with emotion.
My mother said, ‘He looks as though he’s about to burst into tears.’ She shouted at the screen, ‘Butch up, Tony.’
4 p.m.
Marigold came in to the shop this morning. She couldn’t stay long because she was on her way to the Karma Health Centre to have an Indian head massage. She has suffered from migraines all her life. I was astonished to hear that having her head rubbed for half an hour was going to cost £25. I advised her to buy a packet of Nurofen Extra instead and told her that they always work for me. Migraines are the only thing we have in common.
She asked me if I would like to accompany her to a concert the Madrigal Society is giving in Leicester Cathedral. She said her father was singing a solo. He is a counter-tenor.
5.30 p.m.
Mr Carlton-Hayes has gone home. I am sitting here waiting for Marigold. I don’t know where this relationship is going. I can’t think of a more horrible way tospend a Friday night than sitting in a cold cathedral listening to Michael Flowers singing in a woman’s voice.
Midnight
Marigold and I walked to the cathedral arm in arm. She was wearing a red beret and a khaki trouser suit. I didn’t say anything, but she looked like a paratrooper on leave. Perhaps she is subconsciously preparing herself for war.
You would have thought that Michael Flowers would have changed his clothes for the occasion, but, oh no, he has worn the tree sweater for twenty consecutive days to my knowledge. When I mentioned this to Marigold, she said that detergents are a major pollutant of our rivers and waterways.
Michael Flowers started the concert by giving what he said would be a short address about the history of the madrigal, but he droned on for twenty-five minutes, seemingly oblivious to the fidgeting and boredom of his audience. Eventually the terrible singing started.
Netta Flowers loomed over the other choristers. She was also vocally dominant. Her deep contralto seemed to make the pew Marigold and I were sitting in reverberate.
Afterwards, when we were mingling in the vestry, convention forced me to congratulate Mr and Mrs Flowers on their performances.
Mr Flowers said, ‘Are you two young people going to a rock and roll club later?’
I almost laughed out loud. He smells of damp wool.
*
Later, in Wong’s, I asked Marigold if she had ever considered leaving home. She pushed a clump of bean sprouts around her bowl with a chopstick and said that she had expected to be married by now.
Saturday November 9th
Marigold rang early this morning to say that her parents had told her that I was an admirable young man. She sounded very happy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had been awake half the night wondering how I could end the relationship.
Sunday November 10th
Watched the old blokes and old women marching past the Cenotaph. Some of them looked like they were on their last legs; others didn’t have legs and were pushed past in wheelchairs. My father asked me why I was sniffing. I said I was allergic to poppies.
He said, ‘Your grandad Arthur was in the Second World War.’
I asked him where my grandad had fought.
My father said, ‘He wouldn’t talk about the war, but if he saw it on telly or heard “Lili Marleen”, he’d cry like a baby. Your grandma Mole would send him out to the backyard with a clean handkerchief, until he’d recovered himself. She was a hard woman.’
*
My mother has made some change of address cards on her Apple Mac. Their new address is going to be The
My mother sighed and looked sad. She said, ‘No, George, that was 4711.’
When he had gone out of the kitchen, she said, ‘I wish I was married to somebody like Roy Hattersley, somebody who was interested in politics.’
She lit her first cigarette of the day and we watched the news on the kitchen television. Mr Blair was very impressive. He looked sternly into the camera and said directly to Saddam Hussein, ‘Disarm or face force.’ His voice trembled with emotion.
My mother said, ‘He looks as though he’s about to burst into tears.’ She shouted at the screen, ‘Butch up, Tony.’
4 p.m.
Marigold came in to the shop this morning. She couldn’t stay long because she was on her way to the Karma Health Centre to have an Indian head massage. She has suffered from migraines all her life. I was astonished to hear that having her head rubbed for half an hour was going to cost £25. I advised her to buy a packet of Nurofen Extra instead and told her that they always work for me. Migraines are the only thing we have in common.
She asked me if I would like to accompany her to a concert the Madrigal Society is giving in Leicester Cathedral. She said her father was singing a solo. He is a counter-tenor.
5.30 p.m.
Mr Carlton-Hayes has gone home. I am sitting here waiting for Marigold. I don’t know where this relationship is going. I can’t think of a more horrible way tospend a Friday night than sitting in a cold cathedral listening to Michael Flowers singing in a woman’s voice.
Midnight
Marigold and I walked to the cathedral arm in arm. She was wearing a red beret and a khaki trouser suit. I didn’t say anything, but she looked like a paratrooper on leave. Perhaps she is subconsciously preparing herself for war.
You would have thought that Michael Flowers would have changed his clothes for the occasion, but, oh no, he has worn the tree sweater for twenty consecutive days to my knowledge. When I mentioned this to Marigold, she said that detergents are a major pollutant of our rivers and waterways.
Michael Flowers started the concert by giving what he said would be a short address about the history of the madrigal, but he droned on for twenty-five minutes, seemingly oblivious to the fidgeting and boredom of his audience. Eventually the terrible singing started.
Netta Flowers loomed over the other choristers. She was also vocally dominant. Her deep contralto seemed to make the pew Marigold and I were sitting in reverberate.
Afterwards, when we were mingling in the vestry, convention forced me to congratulate Mr and Mrs Flowers on their performances.
Mr Flowers said, ‘Are you two young people going to a rock and roll club later?’
I almost laughed out loud. He smells of damp wool.
*
Later, in Wong’s, I asked Marigold if she had ever considered leaving home. She pushed a clump of bean sprouts around her bowl with a chopstick and said that she had expected to be married by now.
Saturday November 9th
Marigold rang early this morning to say that her parents had told her that I was an admirable young man. She sounded very happy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had been awake half the night wondering how I could end the relationship.
Sunday November 10th
Watched the old blokes and old women marching past the Cenotaph. Some of them looked like they were on their last legs; others didn’t have legs and were pushed past in wheelchairs. My father asked me why I was sniffing. I said I was allergic to poppies.
He said, ‘Your grandad Arthur was in the Second World War.’
I asked him where my grandad had fought.
My father said, ‘He wouldn’t talk about the war, but if he saw it on telly or heard “Lili Marleen”, he’d cry like a baby. Your grandma Mole would send him out to the backyard with a clean handkerchief, until he’d recovered himself. She was a hard woman.’
*
My mother has made some change of address cards on her Apple Mac. Their new address is going to be The
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