Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend Page A

that I had never been to Mexico, I knew no Mexicans and I did not speak Mexican, so it was highlyunlikely that I would ‘bring up Mexico’. I protested to her that these conversational prohibitions meant that I could well remain mute throughout my visit.
    Marigold said, ‘Stick to talking about books and how marvellous
I
am.’
    I entered the house with a heavy heart and with Marigold hanging on my arm.
    I had bought Netta a bunch of flowers from the BP garage. When I gave them to her she said, ‘How perfectly lovely, a forecourt bouquet. I’m sure I can revive them if I plunge them into water immediately. Please excuse me.’
    She hurried off with the bouquet as though she was rushing them into intensive care to hook them up to a heart and lung machine.
    Michael Flowers was in his study. He pretended to be too engrossed in a big leather-bound book to notice when Marigold knocked on the half-open door and walked in, with me following behind. The tree sweater was looking the worse for wear. He pushed his spectacles on to the top of his head and rose to his feet.
    ‘You bearded me in my lair, young sir,’ he said. ‘I was just looking up the derivation of the word “mole”. It seems, Adrian, that a mole is a burrowing animal with hairy forearms, a blemish or spot, a fleshy growth in the uterus, a measurement in physics, a harbour protected by a breakwater, or a spy who has infiltrated an organization and over a long period of time has become a trusted member of it. Which of these are you?’
    Through the study window I could see Netta throwinghalf of the flowers I had just bought her on to a large compost heap at the bottom of the garden.
    Marigold saved the day. She said, ‘I think Adrian is more of the spy. He’s terribly secretive.’
    I said, ‘On the contrary, Marigold, my life is an open book.’
    Michael Flowers said, ‘Yes, books. Marigold tells me you work for that dreadful old libertarian Hugh Carlton-Hayes.’
    I thought of Mr Carlton-Hayes’s kind face, his cardigans and his soft white hair, and felt honour bound to defend him. I said, ‘Mr Carlton-Hayes is the most decent man I know.’
    Flowers said, ‘I’ll let you keep your illusions for now, Adrian.’
    A sulky girl with extraordinarily long hair wearing a T-shirt which said ‘Bitch’ banged in and snarled, ‘I’ve been ordered to tell you that tea is apparently ready.’
    It was Poppy, Marigold’s middle sister, who had returned home temporarily to recover from an unhappy love affair with a fellow maths teacher.
    I was led into the sitting room and made to sit down and introduced to the cats, Saffron and Fleur.
    Poppy had the longest hair I have ever seen. Apparently she has been growing it since she was twelve. She fiddled with it, pulled it over her shoulders, pushed it back, sat on it, twirled it on top of her head and let it fall. I knew I was expected to comment on the length of her hair and that she had built her whole personality around this hirsute feature, but I could not bring myself to mention it.
    Marigold said, ‘It takes Poppy four and a half hours to dry her hair.’
    Apart from a slight inclination of the head, I could not respond.
    I was given the choice of having apple and blackberry, nettle, peppermint or basil and borage tea.
    Netta said encouragingly, ‘We grow and dry our own herbs. There are no additives and preservatives. Everything is quite pure.’
    I was handed a plate of stodgy brown lumps. These turned out to be scones made by Netta using stone-ground flour that was posted to her from a windmill in Somerset.
    Michael Flowers said, ‘We try to eat much as they did in the Middle Ages, before our food became adulterated.’
    I was very hungry and would have given anything for a Mr Kipling Iced Fancy. However, I took a scone and nibbled at it from time to time. It tasted as if it had been baked in ad 1307 over a fire made of twigs and dried cow dung.
    The talk eventually centred around the absent Daisy,