Saturday 16 September

Mum has locked herself in her room again. She is wailing and throwing things about. I though Antony’s father was very polite when he appeared in full uniform and asked Mum if he could see her CRB clearance, which mum is supposed to have now that she is on the PCC, the PCC being stacked with vulnerable adults, and I don’t think it was very wise of mum to throw the blancmange all over him, for mum’s blancmanges are often a bit lumpy. When I had helped him get up and wiped his uniform down and pushed back the dents in his helmet he said he was very sorry, but he now had no choice but to arrest mum. It was at that moment that Mrs Ramsbotham phoned. I explained that there was a bit of a problem with a policeman, and that mum had just gone up to her room to throw things about, but she just sighed and said: “Barry. This is official PCC business. Put the ruddy rozzer on.”

The policeman wasn’t like mum, who always repeats everything Mrs Ramsbotham says, so I always hear both sides of a conversation. After warning Mrs R that anything she said might be taken down, he didn’t say very much at all, as people tend not to when Mrs R is in full swing. But I could hear Mrs Ramsbotham crackling away at him, and when he gave me the phone back he looked a bit pale, and said it might be a good idea if he came back tomorrow, if I thought I would be safe in the house. “Jolly good, then”, he said, before I’d even had time to answer. He must have a had a lot of serious crimes to solve before bedtime, for he was off like a shot, so rapidly that he left his handcuffs behind.

The phone started whistling at me, so I picked it up. “Barry – is that you?” said Mrs R. I confessed that it was. “Has that bluebottle gone?” “Yes”, I said, “but he’ll be back – he’s forgotten his handcuffs.”

“Oh poo”, shrieked Mrs R (well, she didn’t exactly say ‘poo’). “Listen, Barry. On no account let your mum find those handcuffs. Barry – promise me you will hide them? It was handcuffs and hormones that caused all that trouble in 1993.*”

I promised Mrs Ramsbotham I would hide them, just to get her off the phone, and I put them in my satchel, which even after two nights in the shed still pongs a bit of the sort of cheap aftershave which some teenage boys splash liberally about their persons rather than a) employ it for its proper purpose, viz. and to wit, descaling lavatories, or b) wash.

After the events of today I shall need a period of calm and reflection so that I am able to fulfil my obligations at church tomorrow. I shall therefore go to bed now and read a little more Dostoevsky. I have nearly finished p8.

*No, she didn’t go into details. I wondered, too.