Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction Read Online Free Page B

of women who are taller than me.
    I said, ‘I hadn’t realized the book was for you, Mrs Flowers.’
    She replied, ‘It isn’t for me, but Marigold is easily takenadvantage of. How much are you going to charge her for this?’
    I said that the book cost $21.95 and that the cost of postage and packaging was a further $25.
    Mrs Flowers said, ‘How much is that in good English money?’
    I handed her the invoice.
    ‘£29.75! For a little book with only 168 pages?’
    I said, ‘But it’s been flown from America in three days, Mrs Flowers.’
    She threw the book on to the counter and said to Marigold, ‘If you want to squander your money, then go ahead, but it makes nonsense of me and Daddy scrimping and saving to try and keep the business going.’
    I said to Marigold, ‘Perhaps I ought to take it back.’
    And she said quietly, ‘Perhaps you should. I’m sorry.’
    When I got back to the shop, I told Mr Carlton-Hayes that
Miniature Embroidery for the Georgian Doll’s House
was unwanted by the customer.
    He said, ‘Never mind, Adrian. I’m sure there must be somebody else in Leicester who is interested in miniature Georgian-style embroidery.’
Sunday October 13th
    Moon’s First Quarter
    An email from Rosie:
    Aidy, have you seen the news about the bombing in Bali? My friend Emma is on her way to Australia via Bali. Canyou phone the emergency number for me please – I’ve got no credits on my mobile. Her name is Emma Lexton and she is twenty.
    I emailed her back:
    Information is only being given to next of kin. I am sending you £10 by first-class post. Don’t give it to Simon. Please ring Mum. She is worried about you.
Monday October 14th
    No replies from the Right Honourable Tony Blair, Jordan or Beckham.
    Dear Mr Blair
    Perhaps my letter of September 29th has been mislaid or overlooked in the confusion of these turbulent times. I enclose a copy and would appreciate an early reply. My travel company, Latesun Ltd, are still refusing to return my deposit of £57.10.
    I remain, sir,
    Your most humble and obedient servant,
    A. A. Mole
    Only four of us turned up for the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group meeting tonight. There was me, Gary Milksop, Gladys Fordingbridge and Ken Blunt. We met as usual in Gladys’s front room, hemmed in by cat ornaments and photographs of her vast family.
    I opened the proceedings by reading from my dramatic monologue, ‘Moby-Dick Speaks’, wherein we get the whale’s point of view on being harpooned.
    After a few moments Gladys interrupted me, saying, ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it. What’s going on? Is it supposed to be the fish talking or what?’
    Ken Blunt stubbed his cigarette out into a cat ashtray and said, ‘Gladys, a whale is not a fish, it’s a mammal.’
    I continued, but I could tell that I had lost my audience.
    At the end, Gary Milksop twittered, ‘I liked the bit about Captain Ahab looking like a man who had been born without a soul.’
    Gladys read her latest crappy cat poem – something about ‘I love my little kitty because she is so pretty…’ Naturally, because she is eighty-six, this received a round of applause.
    Milksop followed with the latest chapter of the Proustian novel he has been writing and rewriting for fifteen years. It took 2,000 words to describe his first memory of eating a HobNob.
    Milksop cries if he gets negative criticism.
    Ken Blunt said, ‘Well done, Gary. I like the bit about the HobNob melting into the tea.’
    I informed the group that I had not yet managed to arrange a guest speaker for our dinner on December 23rd, but that I had several irons in the fire.
    Ken said he hadn’t written anything for this week’s meeting because he had been doing double shifts at Walkers Crisps. They are introducing a new line.
    Gladys said, ‘What flavour will they be?’
    Ken said, ‘I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.’
    She said, ‘It’s hardly
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
, is it? It’s only a few