He's back. Mole, now an angst-ridden 38, is still coping with life in middle-England as a single parent to Glen and William, and battling his own particular weapon of mass destruction. Marigold and I quarrelled last night as to which of us has the most monstrous mother and only stopped when Marigold screamed, "You couldn't find my clitoris if you were led there by Sir Ranulph Fiennes." After she'd slammed out I consulted 'The Joy of Sex' and discovered that I'd probably been playing too much attention to relevantly unimportant bits of her genitalia whilst ignoring the clitoris, yet it had been staring me in the face for the last eighteen months. Glenn rang at 2 am from somewhere in Iraq to say that his standard issue army boots had melted in the desert heat and could I get Parcel Force to rush him some size ten Timberlands.
