Read Online Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Townsend
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poem is a contrivance
To rhyme with Douglas Hurd.’
I pointed out to Ken Blunt that ‘a contrivance’ didn’t scan properly.
Gary Milksop said that Gladys should collect her cat poems together and send them to a publisher.
Ken Blunt said, ‘What for, cat litter?’
Gladys said that we were mocking Blackie’s death and that we should leave. I was glad to get out of there. I was covered from head to toe in cat hair.
Ken Blunt asked me and Gary if we fancied a drink. We went to the Red Cow near the university. It was full of students singing along to Rolf Harris songs. Gary Milksop told me that Rolf Harris is a cult figure in student circles. How come I didn’t know this?
We discussed the future of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group and came to the reluctant conclusion that Gladys was holding us back. Her cat poems now dominate the meetings. Ken said expulsion is the only answer.
I was deputed to tell Gladys Fordingbridge that she is no longer a member of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group.
I asked Ken what he was working on at the moment; he said, ‘Nowt.’
Marigold rang and left a message on my mobile to say that she was ‘…concerned that you haven’t been in touch. Are you poorly?’ I didn’t want to speak to her so I scribbled a note:
Dear Marigold
Forgive me for my silence. You have been on my mind constantly. My breathing still quickens when I think about your delicate wrists and the way your glasses slip down your nose.
If you had had a mobile I would have been in regular text contact. This is a v. busy week for me. I move into Rat Wharf on Friday and I will no doubt be engaged in settling in for some time afterwards. But I will contact you when I have some free time.
Yours, with very best wishes,
Adrian
PS I expect your father is annoyed with Geoff Hoon for agreeing to let President Bush install Star Wars missiles onEngland’s fair and pleasant land. Myself, I think it is a price we have to pay for freedom.
Wednesday November 13th
I reminded my parents that the fire fighters go on strike at 6 p.m. today. I begged them not to smoke in bed and also not to leave cigarettes smouldering in ashtrays while they cut their toenails etc. It would be a disaster if this house burnt down before I move to Rat Wharf and they move to what they now call the Piggeries.
Thursday November 14th
Mr Carlton-Hayes has given me three days off to move. I cannot bear to drag the old cheap pine bed I have been sleeping in since childhood to my new cutting-edge loft apartment. It would be like putting an antimacassar on a Terence Conran sofa. I need to buy a futon, new bed linen, simple but stylish kitchen equipment, a table and two chairs for my balcony, bookcases, a television and curtains for my glass lavatory. The problem is I have no money at all.
When I explained my predicament to my mother, she looked up from her book,
The Beginners’ Guide to Renovating Property
, and said, ‘Nobody uses money any more. Money as such doesn’t exist. Everybody I know lives on credit. Get yourself a store card.’
*
I have found a small firm to help me with my move tomorrow, Two Gals ’n’ a Van.
I spent a confusing and demoralizing afternoon on the phone, listening to Vivaldi and various robots. It appears that the gas at Rat Wharf is supplied by Severn Trent Water, the electricity by the gas board, my water by a French company with a name I can’t pronounce. The cable company ntl is in charge of my phone. They are connecting me to over 200 television channels tomorrow at 2 o’clock.
The two girls of Two Gals ’n’ a Van are not girls. They are strong-looking middle-aged women called Sian and Helen. They came round to assess how many journeys the van would have to make between Ashby de la Zouch and Leicester tomorrow.
The answer was one.
They gave me some cardboard boxes and left me upstairs, packing my books. My mother had invited them downstairs to have a cup of
To rhyme with Douglas Hurd.’
I pointed out to Ken Blunt that ‘a contrivance’ didn’t scan properly.
Gary Milksop said that Gladys should collect her cat poems together and send them to a publisher.
Ken Blunt said, ‘What for, cat litter?’
Gladys said that we were mocking Blackie’s death and that we should leave. I was glad to get out of there. I was covered from head to toe in cat hair.
Ken Blunt asked me and Gary if we fancied a drink. We went to the Red Cow near the university. It was full of students singing along to Rolf Harris songs. Gary Milksop told me that Rolf Harris is a cult figure in student circles. How come I didn’t know this?
We discussed the future of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group and came to the reluctant conclusion that Gladys was holding us back. Her cat poems now dominate the meetings. Ken said expulsion is the only answer.
I was deputed to tell Gladys Fordingbridge that she is no longer a member of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group.
I asked Ken what he was working on at the moment; he said, ‘Nowt.’
Marigold rang and left a message on my mobile to say that she was ‘…concerned that you haven’t been in touch. Are you poorly?’ I didn’t want to speak to her so I scribbled a note:
Dear Marigold
Forgive me for my silence. You have been on my mind constantly. My breathing still quickens when I think about your delicate wrists and the way your glasses slip down your nose.
If you had had a mobile I would have been in regular text contact. This is a v. busy week for me. I move into Rat Wharf on Friday and I will no doubt be engaged in settling in for some time afterwards. But I will contact you when I have some free time.
Yours, with very best wishes,
Adrian
PS I expect your father is annoyed with Geoff Hoon for agreeing to let President Bush install Star Wars missiles onEngland’s fair and pleasant land. Myself, I think it is a price we have to pay for freedom.
Wednesday November 13th
I reminded my parents that the fire fighters go on strike at 6 p.m. today. I begged them not to smoke in bed and also not to leave cigarettes smouldering in ashtrays while they cut their toenails etc. It would be a disaster if this house burnt down before I move to Rat Wharf and they move to what they now call the Piggeries.
Thursday November 14th
Mr Carlton-Hayes has given me three days off to move. I cannot bear to drag the old cheap pine bed I have been sleeping in since childhood to my new cutting-edge loft apartment. It would be like putting an antimacassar on a Terence Conran sofa. I need to buy a futon, new bed linen, simple but stylish kitchen equipment, a table and two chairs for my balcony, bookcases, a television and curtains for my glass lavatory. The problem is I have no money at all.
When I explained my predicament to my mother, she looked up from her book,
The Beginners’ Guide to Renovating Property
, and said, ‘Nobody uses money any more. Money as such doesn’t exist. Everybody I know lives on credit. Get yourself a store card.’
*
I have found a small firm to help me with my move tomorrow, Two Gals ’n’ a Van.
I spent a confusing and demoralizing afternoon on the phone, listening to Vivaldi and various robots. It appears that the gas at Rat Wharf is supplied by Severn Trent Water, the electricity by the gas board, my water by a French company with a name I can’t pronounce. The cable company ntl is in charge of my phone. They are connecting me to over 200 television channels tomorrow at 2 o’clock.
The two girls of Two Gals ’n’ a Van are not girls. They are strong-looking middle-aged women called Sian and Helen. They came round to assess how many journeys the van would have to make between Ashby de la Zouch and Leicester tomorrow.
The answer was one.
They gave me some cardboard boxes and left me upstairs, packing my books. My mother had invited them downstairs to have a cup of
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