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

Marigold’s eldest sister, who had sent a letter to her parents the week before, denouncing them and blaming them for her miserable childhood.
    Michael Flowers said, ‘Poor Daisy, she was always rather a strange child.’
    Netta, Marigold and Poppy started to slag off Daisy, who was in public relations in London.
    The more they slagged her off, the more I liked the sound of her. Apparently she was ruining her health andher feet by teetering from premieres to book launches while wearing skimpy clothes and five-inch heels.
    Michael Flowers shook his head. ‘Such a shallow life,’ he said. Then my interrogation began. ‘We know so little about you, Adrian. Tell me about your family.’
    I said that my mother’s parents, the Sugdens, had been potato farmers in Norfolk.
    Flowers said, ‘Yes, there is something of the Fens about you.’
    I said that my father’s family were unskilled factory workers in Leicester.
    Flowers said, ‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
    I said that I wasn’t in the least ashamed.
    Flowers said, ‘We can trace our ancestors back to the Magna Carta. How far back does your family go?’
    I don’t know what made me say it, diary. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, particularly when I saw the distress on Marigold’s face. My excuse was that I was goaded beyond endurance. I wanted to see Michael Flowers discomforted.
    I said, ‘The Sugdens were yeomen farmers and were mentioned in the Domesday Book, and the Moles were believed to be Mexican refugees who fled religious persecution, and came to England on the return journey of the
Mayflower
.’
    Flowers tugged at his beard and muttered, ‘Mexicans.’ Then he left the room, saying, ‘I have wood to chop.’
    Marigold walked me to the car in silence.
    Just before I drove away she said, ‘That was terribly cruel of you. The
Mayflower
made no return journey.’She put her frail hands underneath her glasses and wiped her eyes.
    I apologized and once more heard myself making a date to see her again.
    As I drove through the gently undulating Leicestershire countryside, I thought about Mr Carlton-Hayes. I know nothing about his private life. He occasionally refers to his partner, Leslie. I have no idea if Leslie is a man or a woman.
    It was dark when I drove into the car park at Rat Wharf, but I could see the white shape of Gielgud watching me from behind a clump of reeds as I got out of my car and ran to the entrance of the Old Battery Factory. He seems to take an unhealthy interest in my comings and goings.
Monday November 18th
    Walked to work along the towpath. No sign of swans, but saw an alarming number of rats. At one time I felt like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Tuesday November 19th
    When we were reorganizing the Travel section I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes if he had any children. He said he had a son, Marius, who was in a secure mental hospital and a daughter, Claudia, who worked in Ethiopia, distributingfood for UNICEF. He said, ‘Leslie and I are awfully proud of them,’ then added quietly, ‘both of them’. I still don’t know if Leslie is the mother of his children or a male soul mate.
    Parvez paid me an unexpected visit tonight. When I opened the door he was panting and sweating, having been chased by ‘a bloody great white thing’ across the car park.
    I told him that it was almost certainly Gielgud the swan.
    Parvez said, ‘A.S.C.B.A.M.A.Y.K.’
    He looked around my apartment and admired my new furniture, then he asked me awkward accountant-type questions. Eventually I cracked and admitted I’d got a store card. He clapped a hand to his head dramatically and said, ‘Where is it?’
    I took it out of my wallet and handed it to him. He searched in his pocket, found a small Swiss Army knife, prised out the mini scissors and cut my card in half. He said, ‘You’ll thank me for this one day.’
    I didn’t tell him that there was only £89 left to spend on it and that I owed Debenhams £9,911.
    Parvez asked