He then invited Mohammed to say what the Koran meant to him.

Mohammed said quietly, 'The Koran as I interpret it helps me to live my life. I follow its rules, I take comfort from its teachings, and I use it for guidance when I am uncertain and need to hear God's word.'

Darren interrupted and said, 'I was proper surprised to read about Adam, Abraham, Moses and Jesus. It weren't all that different from the Bible.'

Lorraine said, 'Yeah, and Pharaoh, who's a right evil bastard.'

Melanie Oates said, 'What I liked about it was the language. I was reading it in a deckchair in the garden, and it was like I was hypnotized. A bit scary really -- I should have been watching the children in the paddling pool.'

Mohammed said, excitedly, 'Melanie, you have hit the spot. The Koran helps us to meditate, it should be read sitting cross-legged on the floor, then its power is revealed.'

I said, 'The carpet is a bit dirty, but if nobody minds?' I heard Mr Carlton-Hayes's knees crack as he sat down and crossed his legs in front of him. The rest of us joined him, forming a circle, and Mohammed began to chant. As he read, his body swayed in a slight oval pattern, and took on a rhythm of sixty beats per minute.

'In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful, All praise is due to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.

The Beneficent, the Merciful, Master of the Day of Judgement.

Thee do we serve and Thee do we beseech for help.

Keep us on the right path.

The path of those upon whom Thou has bestowed favours. Not of those upon whom Thy wrath is brought down, nor of those who go astray.'

Melanie said, 'It's very rhythmic. Do you think Flaubert ever read the Koran?'

Mr Carlton-Hayes said, 'Almost certainly. It is one of the greatest books in the civilized world: We stayed sitting on the floor, and Mohammed explained that his personal interpretation was not shared by anybody else, including his sons. 'Each Muslim interprets the Koran in their own way he said.

Melanie sighed and said, 'I'm a bit disappointed to hear that. I was hoping to find some definite rules on how to live my life.'

At the end of the meeting we spontaneously applauded Mohammed, and I think he was quietly pleased.

Thursday June 26th I went to see my father after work. My mother was already at his bedside, dressed in her builder's overalls and steel-toe-capped boots. I was there when his consultant came to give him the results of the blood and urine tests they had done earlier in the week.

The consultant was pink and podgy and called Mr Fortune. He said to my father, 'George, it's as we feared, you ye got a super bug.'

My father said, 'Super.'

I don't think he fully realizes the seriousness of his condition. He obviously thinks that a super bug is a more superior type of bug.

Mr Fortune said to me and my mother, 'MRSA is a bit of a bugger to 'treat. He's on a very powerful antibiotic mix already, and we don't have much more up our sleeve.'

My mother said, 'I'm relying on you to get him back on his feet, Mr Fortune. He's needed back at the pigsty.'

Mr Fortune looked my mother up and down and I felt an explanation was needed.

I said, 'My mother is converting a pigsty into a dream home.'

Mr Fortune said, 'Splendid. I live in a converted cow-shed myself.'

As I walked to my car, I passed Animal. He was teaching Ivan to sit up and beg.

Friday June 27th Went to the bank today and withdrew PS2,000 in cash courtesy of the AA card. Then paid it back over the counter. PS1,000 went to Visa and the other PS1,000 to MasterCard.

The bank clerk, a middle-aged woman with nine chins, said, 'Pardon my presumption, but you are paying over the odds for your cash. Would you like to see our accounts manager?'

I said, 'The AA loan is interest free: She said, wobbling her chins, 'Not for cash it isn't: So my attempt to give myself a breathing space has failed. I am in an iron lung of debt.

Daisy came for the weekend. I picked her up from the station. She brought two large suitcases with her, full of shoes and clothes.

Saturday June 28th Had a mango session last night so had to clean the bathroom floor before I went to work. I left Daisy in bed reading an article in the Independent about Ali, the little boy who had both arms and both legs blown off by an American bomb. Apparently he was here having major surgery. I wanted to say something, but we have agreed not to talk about Iraq, Weapons of Mass Destruction or Marigold.

When I came back from work, Daisy had filled the remaining wardrobe space with her stuff. She has got twenty-seven pairs of shoes. Some of them she can't walk in at all and has never worn.

She had moved my furniture around and tidied my bookshelves. She had obviously been out shopping: there were white flowers on the worktop and the fridge was full of the food we both like. Our underwear was conjoined in the washing machine.

She said, 'I don't know what happened to me, I came over all Snow White.'

I said, 'Don't do it again, Daisy. Domesticity is the death of romance.'

I opened my emails.

Hi, Moley -- Great news! Marigold has made me the happiest man in the world and agreed to fit me up with a ball and chain. Yes, she has said she will be Mrs Bruce Henderson.

We are not hanging about, we are tying the knot on Saturday July 19th at the Heritage Hotel, Little Smeton. I wonder, Moley, would you do me the great honour of being my Best Man?

Marigold is in agreement with this, though she thinks it would be good if you had a haircut before the 19th.

Poppy has agreed to be Matron of Honour, and I'm sure Daisy will agree to be a bridesmaid; it's just a matter of tracking her down.

Marigold is being a real trouper about losing the baby. She hasn't mentioned it once.

Yours, Bruce Please reply ASAP Later, when we were lying in bed, Daisy asked me if there was anything I didn't like about her.

I said, 'Your swearing and asked if there was anything she didn't like about me.

She said, 'You read too many fucking books: Sunday June 29th I took Daisy to visit my father today. He is on his fourth course of antibiotics but is showing no improvement.

Daisy told me, as we were walking down the corridor towards the David Gower ward, that about 5,000 patients a year die in British hospitals of MRSA. I can't imagine a world without my dad in it.

We passed Edna, who was rubbing a filthy rag over the door to the entrance of the ward.

Edna said, 'I've just fed your dad his dinner. He didn't eat much.'

My mother was happy to see us and told us that she had received an invitation to the wedding. She said, 'Your dad won't be well enough to go. Would you mind if Animal was my escort for the day?'

I said, 'Yes, Mum, I would.'

Monday June 30th My patriotic support of Henman is over. An interviewer asked what he did in the locker room during the breaks for rain. Did he read books?

Tim, one of England's heroes and role models replied: 'NO, I NEVER READ BOOKS. BOOKS ARE BORING.'

I thought about Arthur Ashe, John McEnroe, Boris Becker and Bjorn Borg, who were all booklovers, and wondered if there was a connection between literature and winning the men's singles final at Wimbledon.

Tuesday July 1st All three of my credit-card bills arrived this morning. I put them, unopened, in the gadget drawer.

Wednesday July 2nd Jo Jo rang from Nigeria. She said, 'Your son waited all day yesterday for his birthday present to come from England. My heart bled for him. When I put him to bed, he said, "Mamma, perhaps the airplane bringing the parcel from Dad has crashed."

'I told him that he was almost certainly correct. Every half an hour he checked for emails, and whenever the telephone rang he ran to answer it. Glenn remembered to send a card, as did his friend, Robbie, whom William has never met. I hope you are ashamed of yourself: Diary, I am. How could I have forgotten William's birthday? Why didn't my mother remind me?

Thursday July 3rd Letter from Robbie.

Dear Mr Mole Thank you very much for the boots. They fit spot on. Glenn was lucky the other day, wasn't he? I think he took it hard, but he hasn't told me much. I expect he told you a bit more. He is always bragging that he can talk to you about anything.

Some of the Iraqi people are OK, but we have to wear our helmets all the time now. Sometimes it's stones, sometimes it's bullets. We have stopped giving the little kids sweets.

I wouldn't mind a bit of English rain right now; it is ninety-five in the shade.

Well, I have come to the end of the page, so I will say goodbye.

Best wishes, Robbie I immediately rang Sharon and asked her if she had heard from Glenn. She said that Glenn had rung her in the middle of the night, but the line was so bad she couldn't make out what he was saying.

All the MOD lines were busy.

10 p.m.

Henman was knocked out of the men s singles quarterfinal today by Sebastien Grosjean in four sets. The last took only thirty-two minutes. Naturally, Henman's wife and parents were there watching the match. When will he learn?

Friday July 4th Independence Day (USA) Went to see my father in hospital. Edna was telling him that asylum-seekers have been stealing the Queen's swans and cooking them. Apparently over one hundred swans have disappeared from the River Lea in the East End of London.

In Edna's opinion, the asylum-seekers should be sent back to face whatever murderous regime they had fled from.

I could see that my father wanted to agree with Edna, but he kept his mouth shut.

To cheer him up, I bought him the latest lane's Missiles and Rockets (An Enthusiast's Guide).

No nurses were available, so me and Edna gave my father a stripwash and changed his pyjamas.

On the way back from the hospital I listened to Peter Allen and Jane Garvey on Five Live. They were discussing the Asylum-seekers Eat Swans story.

Mrs Garvey was of the opinion that this was an urban myth, similar to the one about the dead granny transported on the roof of a car in a roll of carpet.

A listener from Wolverhampton rang the programme convinced otherwise. He shouted that swan-eating asylum-seekers could expect a PS5,000 fine or six months in prison.

Which, if true, seems to me to be unnecessarily harsh. Surely swans are vermin.

Saturday July 5th Letter from Glenn.

Dear Dad Sorry I haven't wrote, but there is not much time, and when we are not on patrol we are eating and doing our washing and trying to get some kip. The Yanks are lucky, they have got air conditioning, but we have not got it, I don't know why.

Me and Robbie got the boots this morning, they are great, thanks a lot, and the pick and mix went down well with the lads, thanks a lot again.

Dad, I don't know what I'm doing here. Half the people are glad Saddam has gone, and half the people are trying to kill us. Trouble is; we can't tell which is which no more.

One of the cooks here, Tommy Cumberbush, has read that cookery book you wrote years ago. When Robbie told him you were my dad, Tommy asked me for my autograph.

I can't wait to go on leave, Dad; I'm fed up with people trying to blow me up.

Road blocks are the worst. Me and Robbie tried using the flashcards, but an Iraqi translator attached to our squad said that the Arabic was dead old-fashioned and didn't mean what the English words meant on the other side of the card. So it's back to doing Charades, that game you used to make us play at Christmas. But I was no good at Charades. Nobody could guess when I did The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Remember?

I was in an armoured vehicle the other day when we was caught in a blue on blue and our sergeant got his fingers blown off.

Dad, if anything happens to me, promise you will look after Mum. That bastard Ryan will do a runner one day, like all the others.

Give my love to Granddad. I hope he gets well soon.

Love Your son, Glenn PS Sorry this is such a moaning letter, but I'm a bit fed up today.

Sunday July 6th Daisy entertained my father at his bedside today by telling him about the Summer of Love video she has been promoting in London all Week. She said, 'Do you remember Acid Bungalow, George? Their big hit was "I am a Greenhouse".'

My father smiled and said, 'I went to see them at a Rock Festival on the recreation ground, next to the football club. I was eighteen and had a twenty-nine-inch waist, and my hair was longer than Adrian's is now. A girl with bells on her skirt put a flower behind my ear and said, "This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius." I didn't know what she was talking about.'

My mother said, 'I remember Acid Bungalow. I used to love Terry, the lead guitarist, the one with the long red hair.'

Daisy said, 'Poor Terry. When we went to Broadcasting House he thought he was in the Priory for rehab. I felt more like his nurse than his PR person.

My mother said, 'I do envy you, Daisy. It must be fantastic mixing with celebrities on a daily basis.'

Daisy sighed and said, 'Most celebrities are totally talentless tossers. I'm sick of pandering to their ludicrous demands, feeding their horrible little dogs on Raspberry Ruffles and Badoit water.' She dropped her voice and said, 'When I was promoting a book by a certain round-the-world yachtsman, he confessed to me one night in the hotel bar that he'd spent the whole of the voyage moored up in a harbour in Malta.'

Monday July 7th 'A Bad Day at Black Rock'.

Barclays Bank Dear Mr Mole UnpaidDirect Debits I am writing to advise you that you have insufficient funds to meet the direct debit payments listed below.

Insurance PS40.00

Debenhams PS200.00

Mortgage Co. PS723.48