By Sue Townsend

An unintended superstar, with a spreading bald patch, despairing of present kinfolk values, Mole continues to be caring: Is Viagra dishonest? Why won't BBC1 produce "The White Van", his serial killer comedy? Will the Millennium Wheel ever flip? Will Pandora Braithwaite MP develop into Blair's favorite babe? Will Pauline Mole throw warning to the winds with a pre-millennuim fling? Will George Mole regain his erectile functionality? and may Adrian himself locate the fulfilment he seeks as big name offal chef, unmarried dad or mum, and celibate novelist?

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Additional info for Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years (Adrian Mole, Book 5)

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It was creased in half so it sat like a little tent on top of the roofer’s work boots, which were on the floor next to the bed, wool socks still nestled inside. Before my father even picked up the note, he recognized the lined yellow paper, a pad of which my mother kept in the drawer of her bedside table for copying down interesting passages in books, and gift ideas from the catalogues that she also read while in bed. “O CLOUD-PALE eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes…” You look so beautiful asleep I can’t bring myself to wake you.

Mom. I study. ” “I’m sure I do have an idea, Veronica. ” I ran my tongue along my teeth, looking away. The comparison was too ridiculous to respond to. She had majored in education. “I just…” She turned to me and sighed. ” “Right. ” “For your information,” I said to her now, “I do not spend all my time with Tim. I hardly spend any time with Tim. I work and I study. ” “He’s a lot older than you, isn’t he? ” “He’s in graduate school. ” “You’re only twenty,” she said, as if I didn’t know. ” She looked away and clicked her tongue.

She’d realized how bad it was for the environment, she said. It was the same reason she’d let the lawn go, she said—all that wasted water and energy and gasoline for the mower. I asked her, half-joking, if that was also why she had stopped using the vacuum cleaner, and the mop. And the dishwasher. Throughout my childhood, my mother had been an energetic housekeeper. She’d baked bread. She’d kept a little flagpole by the front door, with a different colorful flag for every holiday and season. But when I first came home that May, the Christmas flag, with its faded smiling snowman, was still flying over the doorway.

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