True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole Read Online Free PDF Page B

Braithwaite lost his nerve and the capable hands of Mrs Braithwaite took the wheel. It was the first time I had flown in a plane so I was expecting sympathy and a bit of cherishing from the air stewardesses who stood by the plane door. I said: “This is the first time I’ve flown, I may need extra attention during the flight.” The woman said in broken English, “Well you won’t get it from me, Englishman. I will be too busy flying the plane.” Mr Braithwaite went pale when I told him that the pilot was a woman. Then he remembered that he was an avowed feminist and said, “Jolly good.” Apart from my putting my seat belt around my neck, the flight was uneventful. The passengers concentrated on hiding or eating the garlic sausage and cream crackers they were served for lunch; but they warmed up a bit when the vodka came round, and by the time we landed at the airport just outside Moscow some of them were disgustingly drunk and were not good examples of Western Capitalist Society.
    The airport was ill-lit and a bit chaotic, especially when it came to collecting luggage. Nearly everybody had brought Marks & Spencer’s luggage so quite a few arguments ensued and suitcases had to be opened on the floor, and underwear examined before the rightful owners managed to sort out the ‘Y’ fronts from the silk culottes.
    A big blonde woman stood in a gloomy corner of the arrival lounge, holding a placard saying ‘Intourist’. Five hundred people milled around her asking her questions.
    Mr Braithwaite was bleating, “I’m here to study milk distribution; my name is Ivan Braithwaite; am I in the right place?” The big blonde woman threw her placard down, clapped her hands and yelled, “All you foreigners are to be quiet. I am thinking I am in Moscow Zoo. Now you are to sit on your suitcases and wait.”
    We waited and waited, more light bulbs went out and then in the gathering gloom four people arrived holding placards. One said, ‘Siberia’, one said ‘Moscow’. Another one said ‘Milk’. Mr Braithwaite and I stood by the ‘Milk’ placard and were eventually joined by two’ German dairy farmers, three retired English milkmen and a dyslexic American family who thought the sign said ‘Minsk’. We were invited aboard a coach and our guide gave us a commentary on the Moscow suburbs we were passing through. The dyslexic American daughter peered out of the window and said, “ Gross …where’s the shops for chrissake?” Her mother said, “Honey we’re in the suburbs, the shops are downtown.” No shops could be seen, although one of the English ex-milkmen spotted a dairy and applauded, which made our guide smile for the first time.
    The hotel we stopped in was monolithic and swarming with every nationality on earth. Our guide screamed above the babble of languages, “Be patient please while I am wrestling with your room keys. If I am lost for ever you must ask for Rosa. It is not my name but it will do. My name in Russian is too difficult for your clumsy tongues.” I fell asleep on the marble floor and woke hours later to the sound of a heavy metal key jangling in my ear.
    Having checked the room for hidden microphones, I got into bed in my underwear because my grandma had warned me that secret television cameras were behind every mirror and I did not like the thought of my English genitals being mocked by unseen viewers. Mr Braithwaite fell instantly asleep in the bed next to me but I lay awake for hours listening to the trams outside the hotel and composing a poem in my head:
Oh Moscow Trams
Are your wheels revolutionary?
Are your carriages forged from the steel of conflict?
Are there bloodstains on the uncut moquette of your seats?
Do your passengers keep to the tracks of sacrifice and denial?
I, Adrian Mole will soon know
For in the morning I will be a fellow traveller.
    In the morning Mr Braithwaite was nowhere to be seen. My first thought was of abduction, but then I found a note on the toilet seat. It