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Friday, November 26, 1999, 2.30 p.m.

Wisteria Walk, Ashby de la Zouch, Leicestershire

I have not kept a diary since fire destroyed my house, furniture, clothes, books and life savings. The arsonist, Eleanor Flood, is residing in a secure unit, where she is doing an MA. Her dissertation is entitled ‘The Phoenix – Myth Or Metaphor?’ I know, because she writes to me occasionally.

I have protested to the authorities, but they are powerless to stop her letters, which are obviously being smuggled out by a corrupt prison guard. As I lie in bed at night, listening to the breathing of my sons. William, 7, and Glenn, 13, in their bunk-beds only inches away from my head, I often think of Eleanor Flood, and envy her. At least she has a room of her own, and time in which to think and write. 11 p.m.

Took the boys to watch Santa abseiling down the side of Debenhams in Leicester tonight on his way to his grotto. William was enchanted by the sight of Santa swinging from a climbing rope, but Glenn kept looking around anxiously at the crowd of onlookers. He said, ‘If anybody from school sees me ’ere, I’m a dead man, Dad.’

The queue for the grotto was at least 70 deep. It snaked through Toys into Bed Linens and Small Electrical Appliances. To placate us, Debenhams played Sir Cliff Richard’s rendition of the ‘Lord’s Prayer’, sung to the tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. An old man with his great-granddaughter muttered, ‘I didn’t fight in two world wars so that Cliff Richard could line his pockets by exploiting the ‘‘Lord’s Prayer’’.’ A Scotsman behind him said, ‘Aye, and the bastard’s murderin’ ‘‘Auld Lang Syne’’.’

I left the boys in the queue, and went to Boots to buy some Nurofen and a packet of Starburst (I am mildly addicted to both). As I walked through the Foxhunter Shopping Centre, I passed a fat elf smoking a cigarette. I approached the elf and said, ‘Forgive me, but are you one of Santa’s little helpers?’ He scowled and said, ‘I’m on my break. Whadja want?’

I explained about the queue in Debenhams and asked for his help, citing Glenn’s Attention Deficit Disorder. On our way back to the queue, the fat elf explained that he’d just been sacked from his job as an under-manager at NatWest. He said elf work was harder than it looked – cheeriness didn’t come easily to him. I sympathized.

‘Perhaps we can meet up for a drink one night,’ he said. I looked at his weak eyes and his beer gut spilling over his green tights, and gave him a false telephone number. The fat elf took us to the front of the queue by saying, ‘Make way, make way, for this tragic family.’ The queue parted with much speculation as to which of the three of us was terminally ill.

Santa was a disgrace: his beard was hanging off, and he’d made no attempt to hide his Reebook trainers. However,William was sufficiently deceived and asked for a Barbie Hairdressing Salon.

Saturday, November 27, 1999

Wisteria Walk, Ashby de la Zouch, Leicestershire

My mother married for the fourth time today. She is on the way to being the Elizabeth Taylor of Ashby de la Zouch. Unfortunately, her bridegroom, Ivan Braithwaite, had been encouraged by his night-school creative-writing teacher to write a ‘millennium marriage service’. I had to look away when he turned to my mother and vowed, ‘Pauline, my soon-to-be wife, I swear to love you emotionally, spiritually and physically, forever, plus one more day.’

When my mother replied, ‘Ivan, my soon-to-be husband, I swear to be supportive of your life choices, aware of your hidden vulnerability, and fully cognizant of your sexual needs’, I almost ran from the registrar’s office. My mother didn’t actually say ‘I do’, because she got a rogue hat-feather stuck down her throat and had a choking fit. Does this make the marriage invalid? I hope so.

2 a.m.

Work on my serial-killer comedy for the BBC, ‘The White Van’. It’s coming along nicely.

Wednesday, December 1, 1999

Wisteria Walk, Ashby de la Zouch, Leicestershire

I found a tin of Whopper Hot Dogs in my mother’s bed this morning. It was a disturbing image; reminding me somehow of my one and only visit to Amsterdam. I was intending to wash her bed-linen as a surprise for when she returned from her honeymoon in Pompeii. But in the circumstances. I simply pulled the duvet straight and plumped up the pillows.

Thursday, December 2, 1999

After waiting three weeks, I’ve finally got to see the new GP, Dr Ng. I asked him if he was related to the Dr Ng in Soho, whom I occasionally consulted. He said no. I said I was surprised, as Ng was an unusual name. For some reason, he took offence at this and snapped, ‘There are millions of Ngs in the world.’ I sensed that I had committed a faux pas and changed the subject to that of my health. I explained that, for some five years, I have needed to consume at least five packets of Opal Fruits a day. He furrowed his brow. ‘Opal Fruits?’ he checked.

‘They’ve since changed the name to Starburst,’ I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I told him about the panic attack I had recently when I discovered there were no Opal Fruits in the house. Of how I had walked to the BP garage in the rain at 3 a.m. to buy some. ‘Do you have any advice?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said turning to his computer, where my records were displayed. ‘Buy them wholesale.’ I had booked a double appointment, so I took my time while I filled him in about my latest phobia – falling in the crater of a live volcano. Should I seek help? ‘No,’ said Dr Ng, ‘you should keep away from volcanoes.’ For the first time in my adult life, I left the surgery without a prescription. On my way out, I asked Mrs Gringle, the receptionist, what the yellow sticker on the front of my medical records denoted. ‘Time waster,’ she said coldly. She has never liked our family since my mother called the doctor out on Christmas Day after my father swigged a decanter full of Stolichnaya vodka, believing it to be Malvern water.