Monday, July 10

Next week, I go to Wind-on-the-Wolds prison to be shown around the library. There is a part-time job available, worse luck!

Thursday, July 13, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

My Mother has just phoned in a panic, gabbling about CJD. She was once driven through the village of Queniborough on the way to a garden centre in Quorn and is now convinced that she is to be the next victim in the cluster of unfortunates to have contracted the deadly disease. She has become a hypochondriac since Ivan Braithwaite moved into our house with his mania for sterilising the chopping boards and sprinkling Dettol on the new dog's bedding.

I tried to calm her fears but she was near to hysteria and begged me to forgive her. "For what," I enquired, wondering which of her parental crimes I should forgive her for. "The cheap beefburgers I used to serve up, three times a week," she said. "I didn't know they were made of bits of old spinal chord and sawdust, Aidy."

I reassured her that the beefburgers of my childhood were so utterly disgusting that I used to surreptitiously feed the dog with them. It would take its place under the table whenever it saw my mother drag a box of the vile things out of the freezer. Personally, I'm waiting for the boil-in-the-bag cod-in-butter-sauce food scare. I must have consumed a shoal of the fish. Then there's the frozen beef TV dinners for one, which we used to consume on Sundays. That tinfoil couldn't have done us much good, either. "It's 100 % organic food for me from now on," said my mother.

"But you don't know what to do with real food," I reminded her. She replied, "I've got Delia and Nigel and Jamie to help me," as though her ill-equipped kitchen was full of celebrity chefs jostling for space.

Friday, July 14

Mrs Wormington has gone to Mablethorpe with the Ludlows. They have got an eight-berth caravan in a field near to the sea. They asked if they could take William with them but I had to say no. He is an impressionable lad and easily picks up on the Ludlows' verbal infelicities. Yesterday he came back from playing at their house, and when I told him it was time for bed, he said, in a Louisiana accent while showing me his left palm. "Tell it to the hand, cos the face ain't listening. Leave a message after the bleep." Peggy Ludlow said that the Jerry Springer Show had been on while William had been playing on the rug with Vince Ludlow's socket set.

Saturday, July 15

I watched the Inside Downing Street documentary tonight. What a fine figure of a man he is. He is masterful, charming, clever and has a good head of hair. He is altogether impressive. Mr Blair, on the other hand, seemed lacklustre by comparison. He has been transformed since Leo insisted on sharing the marital bed and Euan started hitting the bottle. In fact, Tony has undergone a feminisation: his hair has turned fluffy, his voice has softened, his expression is girly, his hands move as gracefully as a geisha's. Is he on a course of hormones that will eventually transmogrify him into Toni — the first woman Labour Prime Minister? The country should be warned. We will need time to adjust to the change.

William Hague, on the other hand, is awash with testosterone lately. He'll be starting a parliamentary chapter of the Hell's Angels next if he doesn't watch his hormone levels. Does Ffion welcome this new thrusting Mussolini-like man in her bed, or is she already sleeping in the spare room, like Prince Edward's wife?

Sunday, July 16

The Ludlows have returned home with hypothermia after walking along the promenade at Mablethorpe. Mrs Wormington has been taken to hospital in Skegness. She has been wrapped in a silver space blanket.

When Auntie Susan rang my mobile and asked angrily why I'd not turned up at the prison library as promised, I replied truthfully that I was anticipating a tragic bereavement.

Wednesday, July 19, Ashby-de-La-Zouch

The summer weather in Mablethorpe has killed Mrs Wormington. She was a perfectly fit, 90-year-old when she left my house in Ashby-de-La-Zouch on Friday, July 14, at 1.15pm. I am being specific about details because Eunice, Mrs Wormington's daughter- in-law, has just left this house after calling to collect the dead one's belongings. She accused me of sending "an ailing woman to the east coast, to die".

It was only after she had driven off in her Reliant Robin that I realised that she was virtually accusing me of murder. I immediately called my mother, who is an acknowledged expert on litigation (she haunts the small-claims court). She advised me to seek the advice of her solicitor, Charlie Dovecote. It cost me £50, plus VAT, to be told by Dovecote that allowing a nonagenarian to ride a donkey in a stiff east wind may have been foolhardy, but did not constitute murder.

I found a bundle of old letters under Mrs Wormington's mattress when I stripped her bed. I was glad that the horrible Eunice had missed them.

This, I presume, was Mrs Wormington's maiden name. Social intercourse was conducted with such delicacy in those days. It's no wonder that Mrs Wormington was shocked at Denise Van Outen's grubby little TV show. Even I, an admirer of the female breast, begin to tire of prime-time mammaries.

Thursday, July 20

William wanted to know where Mrs Wormington had gone. I said she had gone on a long journey to a place where she would be in peace. I went on a bit, about Mrs Wormington running up hills and picking wild flowers under the warming rays of the sun, etc. Perhaps I went too far down the pastoral path, because when William was watching Glenn clean his roller-blade boots I heard him say, "Mrs Wormington's not dead, Glenn. She's gone to live in Teletubby Land."

Friday, July 21

A car in which Jack Straw was being conveyed was stopped by police for speeding at 103mph. I hope the full might of the law is brought to bear on the miscreant. I am still smarting from the tirade of abuse I received from a traffic policeman because I drove at 32mph in Foxglove Avenue, a 30mph zone. When I remarked, humorously, "I'm not exactly Jeremy Clarkson", the policeman sneered, "No, he's taller, got more hair, and is almost certainly richer and more famous than you are, sir." I thought of reporting him to the Police Complaints Board, but wasn't sure if sarcasm counted as assault — though I still feel hurt by it.

Saturday, July 22

I went to see Pandora at the MP's surgery today. I wanted to talk to her about my theory that Mr Blair has secretly embarked on a course of hormones that will transform him from Tony to Toni. I reminded her that he'd recently stated that he disliked wearing a suit.

"Don't be so bloody ridiculous," she snapped. "Get out and give your seat to a constituent with a genuine problem." I pointed out that there was nobody else waiting to see her. "Apathetic bastards," she raged of the electorate. "I could have stayed in London and picked up my bowling bag from Prada."