Adrian Mole is pushing forty, a beleaguered bookseller looking back through the wistful eyes of an unrecognized intellectual and, admittedly, pretty much of an Everyman. But he’s also looking forward, despite a few things: His five-year-old daughter is showing alarming Stalinist traits; his son is fighting the Taliban and he’s worried sick; his unfaithful wife is keeping a diary of her own and it’s all rather heartbreaking; frequent urination has made him fear trouble “down there;” and his mother is penning a misery memoir that is one gross slog of a lie (born an aristocrat in a Norfolk potato field, indeed!).
Then one day he receives a phone call out of the blue from the great and only love his life: Pandora Braithwaite. “Do you think of me?” she asks. Only ever since he was 13¾ . . .