Adrian Mole: The cappuccino years
At 10:00pm not-quite-four-year-old Daniel runs through the house like a madman, or a young cat. So he does most nights.
So Samuel used to do. But now he must rise for Kindergarten, and has conditioned himself to retire before eight o’clock.
Abel, at thirteen months, sleeps last. He has taken a turn toward ultraviolence.
Adrian Mole is in his fifth book. He is thirty years old. He has two sons. One of them, he recognizes as his son. The reader recognizes them both. Adrian isn’t the most self-aware diarist.
It’s the 1990s. Blair is the new Prime Minister. Adrian works as an offal chef at Hoi Polloi, a Tory restaurant. In his spare time he scripts an unsold radio serial, The Windsors, about the Royal Family. Princess Diana’s death scuttles Adrian’s plot. Adrian’s own life seems plotless, notwithstanding his acquisition of sons.
His parents also are chronic failures – after a livelier fashion (even what with Adrian’s father’s depression). The most impressive figure in this book is Adrian’s mother, who unexpectedly succeeds as a ghostwriter, spinkling pages with unsolicited references to Germaine Greer (author of The Female Eunuch).
“Philistines” always succeed where Adrian fails.
Adrian considers writing his vocation. Thus he wastes time agonizing over semicolons.
Pity. He is eloquent.
I reflected on his feelings as I chopped vegetables for our “hobo’s stew.”
So Samuel used to do. But now he must rise for Kindergarten, and has conditioned himself to retire before eight o’clock.
Abel, at thirteen months, sleeps last. He has taken a turn toward ultraviolence.
Adrian Mole is in his fifth book. He is thirty years old. He has two sons. One of them, he recognizes as his son. The reader recognizes them both. Adrian isn’t the most self-aware diarist.
It’s the 1990s. Blair is the new Prime Minister. Adrian works as an offal chef at Hoi Polloi, a Tory restaurant. In his spare time he scripts an unsold radio serial, The Windsors, about the Royal Family. Princess Diana’s death scuttles Adrian’s plot. Adrian’s own life seems plotless, notwithstanding his acquisition of sons.
His parents also are chronic failures – after a livelier fashion (even what with Adrian’s father’s depression). The most impressive figure in this book is Adrian’s mother, who unexpectedly succeeds as a ghostwriter, spinkling pages with unsolicited references to Germaine Greer (author of The Female Eunuch).
“Philistines” always succeed where Adrian fails.
Adrian considers writing his vocation. Thus he wastes time agonizing over semicolons.
Pity. He is eloquent.
I sometimes wish I lived in pre-feminist times when if a man washed a teaspoon he was regarded as “a big Jessie.” It must have been great when women did all the work, and men just lolled about reading the paper.Bear in mind that Adrian is on the liberal end of the political spectrum.
I asked my father about those days when we were preparing the Brussels sprouts, the carrots and the potatoes, etc., etc. His eyes took on a faraway misty look. “It was a golden age,” he said, almost choking with emotion. “I’m only sorry that you never lived to see it as an adult man. I’d come home from work, my dinner would be on the table, my shirts ironed, my socks in balls. I didn’t know how to turn the stove on, let alone cook on the bleeding thing.” His eyes then narrowed, his voice became a hiss as he said, “That bloody Germaine Greer ruined my life. Your mother was never the same after reading that bleeding book.”
I reflected on his feelings as I chopped vegetables for our “hobo’s stew.”