To keep myself awake as William chewed each individual Coco Pop individually twenty times (the kid is a genius - how many almost-three-year-olds can count to twenty?), I read Pandora's election pamphlet, which was fastened to the fridge with a Postman Pat magnet. It was a tawdry document. She'd been far too profligate with her exclamation marks.

Dear Voter (it started)

• Are you sick of hearing the same tired excuses from the nearly morally corrupt Tory Candidate for Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Sir Arnold Tufton? Yes! So am I!
• Do you think that his record on civil liberties (petitioning Ashby-de-la-Zouch council to deter vandals by installing close-circuit TV in the cubicles of public lavatories) is disgraceful? Yes! I do!
• Do you agree with Sir Arnold Tufton that TV license dodgers should be jailed for a minimum of fifteeen years? No! Nor do I!
• Do you demand an explanation as to why Sir Arnold Tufton was photographed in Marbella in the company of the notorious criminal Len Fox? Would you like to know what was inside the Jiffy-bag that passed from Len Fox to Sir Arnold Tufton in the Bar Espanol? Yes! So would I!
• If I voted for me on May 1st, I pledge that I, Dr Pandora Braithwaite, Oxford Don, Linguist of Leicestershire Stock, will work conscientiously, honestly and fearlessly to represent the wishes of the people of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. In this cradle of democracy! The mother of parliaments! Send me to the House of Commons!
• IT CLEARLY MAKES SENSE!

At nine o'clock I took a cup of Nescafe' up to my father. He lay where we had left him, his face to the wall, his hands clasped together as if in anguished prayer. He said he could hear Tony Blair's voice whispering from the corner of the room. For a split second I thought madness had set in and that he would leave the house in a straitjacket, but then I realised that the clock radio had turned itself on and Radio Four was transmitting Tony Blair's soundbites. I crossed the room, turned it off and my father seemed to relax a little. But I couldn't persuade him to leave his bed and come with me and my mother to vote.

...

My mother and I left William in the care of his depressed grandad and his foul-mouthed aunt and walked the quarter of a mile to vote.

There was a gaggle of voters outside the Scout hut polling station. Some enterprising senior Scouts had set up a stall and were selling chilli-flavoured Doritos and little pots of salsa. There was a choice of Coke or Diet Coke to drink. 'Whatever happened to tea and home-made scones?' asked my mother of a Scout-master-type person, who appeared to be in charge.

'We've had to move with the times,' he said politely. 'This is what the public want.' 'Baden-Powell would turn in his grave,' she said. The man blushed and turned away, and began fiddling with the salsa dip as though embarrassed. 'What did I say?' she asked of me, as we went into the smelly hut.

'Baden-Powell has been discredited by World in Action. He got a bit too fond of the boys,' I said.

'There are no heroes left anymore,' she said. 'Apart from Tony Blair...'

A woman in urgent need of orthodontic treatment smiled and handed us our ballot papers. It gave me a thrill to see Pandora's name - I had forgotten that she had two middle names: Louise Elizabeth. I wondered if she ever used her initials. I went into the voting booth and took up the pencil on the string and paused, savouring the moment. I, Adrian Mole, was about to exercise my democratic right and vote for a government of my choice. My reverie was broken when a scrutinizer inquired, 'Are you alright in there, sir?' I drew a thick, pencilled cross next to Pandora Louise Elizabeth Braithwaite's name, and withdrew from the cubicle.

As I stood before the ballot box, folding my voting paper into a small square, I tried to fully realize the awesome significance of the moment.

I began to cook the cabbages for dinner. Savage liked them to boil for at least half an hour. My work as a chef had been a doddle since Savage instituted his Traditional English, No Choice menu.Tonight's repast is:

Heinz tomato soup
(with white bread floaters)

Grey lamb chops
Boiled cabbage avec Dan Quayle potatoes
Dark brown onion gravy

Spotted Dick a la Clinton
Bird's custard (skin £6.00 extra)

Cheddar Cheese, Cream Crackers
Nescafe'
After Eight Mint

There are two types of wine - white £46, red £46

Service charge not included. You are expected to smoke between courses. Pipes and cigars are particularly welcome.

The restaurant is fully booked six weeks ahead. Savage turned Princess Michael of Kent away from the door last night. She was distraught.

The restaurant critic A. A. Gill said in his review in the Sunday Times that Hoi Polloi served execrable nursery food. 'The sausage on my plate could have been a turd: it looked like a turd, it tasted like a turd, it smelled like a turd, it had the texture of a turd. In fact, thinking about it, it probably was a turd.'

Savage has had Gill's review blown up at the Copy Shop and stuck it up in the window, where it draws admiring crowds.

At junction eighteen I ran out of Opal Fruits, so I pulled into the services and bought three packets. Are the manufacturers putting something extra in them? Something addictive? I seem to be getting through rather a lot of them lately. The other night I woke at 3a.m. and was distraught to discover that there wasn't a single Opal Fruit in the flat. I tramped the streets of Soho looking for them. Within two minutes of leaving home I was offered lesbian sex, heroin and a Rolex watch, but an innocent packet of Opal Fruits took over half an hour to track down. What does it tell us about the world we live in?

A Labour government will change all that. Mr Blair is a committed Christian, and I forecast that a religious revival will sweep the land. I long for the day that I wake up in the morning and realize that, Hallelujah! I too believe in God!

William came home with a note from Mrs Parvez:

Dear Mr Mole,
If you require help in purchasing school shoes for William, may I draw your attention to the enclosed Social Security leaflet, 'Help with Footwear'.
Sincerely,
Mrs Parvez

There was a message on the answerphone to say that Glenn had not attended school or afternoon registration. When I tackled him on this, he said, 'I couldn't do it, Dad. There was no way I could go walkin' in that school in Marks & Spencer's trainers.' Tears sprang to his eyes. He looked surprised at this.

I took him and William to the out-of-town shopping complex The Pastures, where it is now possible to shop until 10 p.m. seven days a week. We went to Footlocker. A handsome black shop assistant said to Glenn, 'These equal respect, man.' He handed Glenn a pair of trainers that to my eye looked like those vehicles that pick up minerals from the surface of the moon. He tried them on and I could tell he had a moment of epiphany. He said, 'Oh, Dad, they're top!' They were £75.99.

I said, 'Almost seventy-six pounds for two bits of rubber! It would kill me, Glenn.'

He handed them back to the shop assistant who put them back in the box. Then I remembered the grey slip-ons I was made to wear to school, instead of the Doc Martens that everyone else in my year was wearing. I heard Barry Kent's taunts in the playground and went back into the shop and bought the trainers. £75.99! It has made me ill.

A weekend of non-stop toil. The washing, ironing, folding, putting away of clothes! The washing, drying and putting away of crockery! The sucking up of dirt from the floors! The endless wiping of surfaces! The constant preparation of food! I should have a woman to do all this for me. A woman I don't have to pay. A wife.