Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend

Author:Sue Townsend
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing
Published: 2004-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

Monday February 3rd

Went out on my balcony this morning. Gielgud was attacking what looked like a dead body in the reeds on the opposite bank. Fearing the worst, I rang the local police station. A recorded message told me that PC Aaron Drinkwater, our local community police officer, was away from his desk but would get back to me later if I left a message on his voicemail.

A couple of minutes later Professor Green banged on my door and told me there was a postbag full of letters in the canal.

We walked down to Packhorse Bridge and crossed to the opposite towpath. Gielgud and his gang were at a safe distance now, paddling towards the town.

We heaved the postbag out of the water. Almost the first letter I saw was addressed to me. It was from M&S, offering me a store card.

Professor Green and I tried to remember what the organization that delivers the letters is called these days. Was it still Royal Mail, Consignia, Post Offices Ltd, Parcelforce or just the post office? Neither of us knew who to contact. Eventually I made an executive decision, dialled 999 and asked for the police. After a short delay a woman requested my name and address, and then asked what the problem was. I explained about the postbag in the canal.

The policewoman said, ‘It’s hardly an emergency, sir. You are asking me to divert police personnel from possible life-and-death duties.’

I said, ‘I’m not asking for a team of frog persons and a police helicopter, am I?’

She said, ‘Our patrol cars are engaged in fighting crime, sir.’

I told her that I had passed a patrol car in a lay-by on the A6 last week and both of the policemen inside had been eating Kentucky Fried Chicken.

She said, ‘I am terminating this call now, but you might be hearing from us some time in the near future. Wasting police time is a criminal offence.’

Professor Green and I dragged the sodden postbag to the basement of the Old Battery Factory to await collection by the authorities. Although I am increasingly of the mind that there are no authorities who want to take responsibility for anything whatsoever these days.

I was late for work. Mr Carlton-Hayes was very understanding about my mailbag problem. He has been writing weekly to a double murderer in Dartmoor Prison for years, but the murderer phoned recently to complain that he hasn’t received any letters for the past month. Apparently the murderer is being released on licence soon. If I was in charge of the Dartmoor and District sorting office, I would be sleeping uneasily in my bed.

At lunchtime I went to the Flower Corner and asked if they would send £50 worth of English garden flowers, via Interflora, to Daisy’s office.

The florist said, ‘There are no English garden flowers in February, sir. Not unless you want £50 worth of snowdrops sending.’

I asked her to suggest something appropriate.

She said, ‘Are the flowers to mark a special occasion, sir?’

I found myself blushing – something I hadn’t done for years.

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