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‘… then he ate my boy entrancers.’
Louise Rennison


Hilariously funny Louise Rennison’s fabby sixth book of the confessions of crazy but lovable teenager Georgia Nicolson. Guaranteed to have the nation laughing their knickers off!“Come on, Jas, you do really want to know my plan, especially as it concerns you, my little hairy pally.”“I’m not hairy.”“Have it your own way, just don’t go near any circuses.”“Shut up. Go on then, tell me your plan.”“OK, this is it: when I go to Hamburger-a-gogo land… you come with me! Do you see? We will be like Thelma and Louise!”“We’re not called Thelma and Louise.”“I know that, I’m just saying we will be LIKE THEM!”“And we’re not American. And neither of us can drive.”“Oh dear God. Jas, your spaceship has arrived. Please get in.”Laugh your knickers off at Georgia’s tales from her trip to Hamburger-a-gogo land (the US) and her attempts to entice Masimo, the Italian stallion. Can Georgia become the composed sex-kitten she aspires to be…?








Confessions of Georgia Nicolson6




‘…Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers.’

Louise Rennison












In memory and love for the boys, Oscar Kakoschka and Arthur Hewlings. God bless.

Luuurve to the fabbest family a girl could have: Mutti, Vati, Soshie, Johnboy, Eduardo, Hons, Bibbity, Kimbo, Jolly, Arrow, Millie and the three remaining chickens. Oh, and welcome to the new diggy dog, Billy. Big luuurve to the Kiwi-a-gogo and Isle of Wight branches of mayhem. And of course to the Ace mates: Salty Dog ‘of course you haven’t broken it you fool otherwise you couldn’t speak’ Pringle, Mizz Morgan, Elton, Jimjams, Guildford calling, Phil and Ruth in Froggland, Jeddbox, Big Fat Bobbins, Kim ‘you can have that one mate’ and Sandy, Jools and the Mogul, Lozzer or Mrs Bridges as I know you, Ian the computer, Jenks, the Hewlings and the Willans (yes that means you, Candy), Baggy Aggiss and Jo, B and J, Mrs H and Dan, Alan ‘it’s not a perm’ Davies, Jo Good(ish). And of course to Stewpot and Sue (please no more jokes about snot). Ay up to the Northern branch: The Cock, Ann-marie, Katy and Patrick; to the Ace Gang from Parklands: Rosie, Barbara, Christine C, Linda, Ali and everyone. To Chris the Organ. Love to the Captain and thank you for letting me use your togglestick thing. To the St Nicks crew for everything, and in particular to Dezza the vicar for joy and love and the APPALLING jokes about farting. (And also to young Phil and family…just love, nothing to do with farting.) Also a big kiss to the new cruise mates: Bungalow Steve, Dancing Steve, Simon the Rock God and Adéle, Ironing Tony and Marg. Big luuurve to Mirella, Dave and the very gorgey Mattea. Thank you to Karen Cunningham for the lovely frocks and to that Eve the Minx. Finally thank you to everyone at my work family at HarperCollins: the divine Gillie, fabby Sally Martin and groovy Sally Gritten; to Caroline and all in the publicity and design departments – what a beyond marvy job you have all done. Thank you to Emma at Midas. Bye bye Dom. And as always best love to the Empress. The end. P.S. Hahahaha you thought I had finally shut up, didn’t you? But finally, thank you to all the fabby readers of my books and all of you who have sent me such lovely letters (and now and again inscribed thongs…). I luuuurve you all. I do. I think this is everything…hopefully! Luuurve Lou xxxxxxx.




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u54678140-2dc5-5792-9a68-fa69785ff4ff)

Title Page (#udebead04-4683-572a-8fbc-d0d8776ce6c1)

A Note from Georgia (#u151e5e02-b9b9-5891-8be2-c5065a542d4a)

Jas, your spaceship has arrived. Please get in. (#u3d917055-9d1e-5aa4-9146-0cbc8faefdf7)

Howdy, Hamburger-a-gogo land! Brace yourselves for a knicker invasion!!! (#litres_trial_promo)

Let the nuddy-pants bison disco inferno dance commence! (#litres_trial_promo)

Bum bum bum bum oley bum bum, and good afternoon officer (#litres_trial_promo)

“What PANTS through yonder window breaks?” (#litres_trial_promo)

The Big Furry Paw of Fate (#litres_trial_promo)

Georgia’s Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




A Note from Georgia (#ulink_b66fe913-66d7-5766-9ecb-36c9f5da17b0)


Dear Chumettes and Chums,

I hope you are all righty as two all righty things. I am, though ONCE AGAIN I am full of exhaustiosity. I have been as busy as a bee (two bees) finishing my latest oeuvre. Oh yes, AND I have been to Hamburger-a-gogo land to see for myself the nation that cannot be bothered to put the “i” in the second half of words…like aluminium, for instance, which those lazy cats spell aluminum. Where would we be if none of us could be bothered to finish off our words properly? I’ll tell you where we would be, we would be up shi cree without a padd…that’s where.

As you will see, I have reached new heights of sophisticosity in this latest of my oevvres…boys, lipstick, snogging, snogging, red-bottomosity, jokes about sausages and pants – the list is endless.

I do this only because I love you.



Georgia



p.s. You don’t know what oevvre means, do you?



p.p.s. You think it is french for eggs, don’t you? Like oeuf.



p.p.p.s. You think I have been saying that I have just finished writing my new egg.



p.p.p.p.s. Look it up in the glossary, you lazy minxes, I am far too tired to explain. I have to go and have a lie down on my snogging emporium (bean bag)…zzzzzzzzzzzz.





Jas, your spaceship has arrived. Please get in. (#ulink_61fc9e21-d924-5a48-b3e6-32c3a50457e1)

Saturday May 7





Sun shining like a big yellow shining…er…warmey planet on fire thing.

Yesssssssss!




10:05 a.m.


I am quite literally not wandering lonely as a clud, in fact I am treading lightly in the Universe of the Very Nearly Quite Happy.




10:10 a.m.


Something full of miraculosity has happened. My vati, world renowned fool and paid-up member of the Big Twit club, has for once in his entire life accidentally done something good. We are going to Hamburger-a-gogo land! Honestly.

And guess who is there already? Besides a lot of people in huge psychedelic shorts and that bloke who is half-chicken half-colonel. I’ll tell you who is there, the Luuurve God is there! Masimo, the Italian Stallion, has gone to visit his olds, leaving me – his new, lurker-free-nearly almost girlfriend – back here in Billy Shakespeare land. So he thinks! Imagine how thrilled he will be when I pop up and say “Howdy!”, or whatever it is they say over there.

Let the overseas Snog Fest begin!




10:15 a.m.


The only fly in the ointmosity of life is that Vati is making us go to some crap clown-car convention.




10:20 a.m.


And Uncle Eddie, the baldest man on the planet, is coming with us.




10:25 a.m.


Still, with a bit of luck they will both be arrested for indecent exposure when they don their leather motoring trousers.




10:30 a.m.


Filled with the joie de vivre that is so much a part of my attractive but modest personality, I phoned my bestest pally.

“Jas, it is mich, your sehr guttest pally. I am calling you mit wunderbar news!”

“Oh God. Look, it’s only a week till Tom leaves and we were just sorting out my—”

“Jas, I cannot waste time discussing your knicker collection; that is between you and Tom…quite literally…hahahahaha. Do you get it? Do you get it? Knickers…between you and Hunky…do you…?”

But as I should have known from long and tiring experience, it is useless to waste my wit on Jazzy. So I cut to my nub and gist.

“I am going to Hamburger-a-gogo land to meet Masimo the Luuurve God of the universe and beyond. And back.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“How?”

I explained to Jas about the trip and the “Howdy!” business and everything, but as usual she displayed cold waterosity.

“Where is Masimo going to be in Hamburger-a-gogo land?”

“Ahaha!!!”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Well, not yet, but—”

“He could be anywhere.”

“I know, but how big can America be?”

“It’s huge.”

I laughed. Nothing was going to spoil my peachy mood, let alone swotty nit-picking from Mrs Big Pantaloonies.

I said, “Is it as huge as your gym knickers?”

There was silence.

“Jas, come on, be happy for me.”

“It’s all very well for you, you can just fancy anyone, but it’s different with Tom and me – he’s off to Kiwi-a-gogo and I will be left here all on my owney.”

Oh good grief.

Hunky is only going to the Land of the Big White Clots for a couple of weeks, but I am still going to have to listen to her moaning and rambling on about the twig-collecting years. However, before she could start raving on about molluscs and cuckoo spit I had a flash of inspirationosity.

“Jas, listen, I have a plan of such geniosity that I have even surprised myself, and might give myself some sort of award.”

She didn’t even say “What is it?” There was just silence.

I said, “Aren’t you even going to ask me what it is, Jas?”

“It’s bound to be stupid.”

“Oh, cheers, thanks a lot. Well I won’t bother you with it then. Even though it involves you and your happiness and is très bon and also vair vair gut. Au revoir. Bonne chance.”

And I put the phone down. Even Jas cannot spoil my mood. Lalalalalalala.




11:00 a.m.


Better start planning my wardrobe for the Luuurve Trail. What do the Hamburgese wear? Cowboy hats, I suppose.




11:10 a.m.


From what I hear, the Hamburgese are a bit strict hygienewise. They’re always in the shower and so on. It is to be hoped the customs man doesn’t glance inside Libby’s bag and find her night-time blankie, otherwise we will all be buggered.

Oh, so many things to worry about. I think I will have a little zizz to relax myself and then plan my cosmetic routine.




11:11 a.m.


Fat chance.

“Gingey! Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee!!! I have just been to the lavatreeeeee!”

My darling sister has kicked open my bedroom door. Hurrah.




11:13 a.m.


Oh good, and she has her “fwends” with her – scuba-diving Barbie, Charlie Horse, a parsnip and Cross-eyed Gordy. Gordy is under house arrest because he has not had the immunisation injections he needs before he is set loose into the wild jungle world of our street. I’d like to see the germ hard enough to take him on.

As they all snuggled comfortably into my bed, the phone rang downstairs and Dad answered it. Vati yelled up, “Georgia, quickly, one of your mates wants to talk rubbish with you for an hour or two on her father’s phone.”

He has not got the flare of charm, my vati; but on the other hand, what he has got are my tickets to paradise. I must remember that, however ludicrous he is, he has bought me a passage to the Luuurve Machine.

Masimo-a-gogo!!!

I shouted down, “Thank you, Papa, I’ll be down immediately, and perhaps later I will entertain you with my piano playing.”

We haven’t got a piano, but it’s the thought that counts.




11:15 a.m.


It was Jazzy Spazzy…tee-hee. I knew she would crumble and want to know my plan.

I said, “So, now do you want to know what my plan is?”

“If you like.”

“No Jas, you are still not showing enthusiosity. Try harder.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Gird your loins and so on; laugh and the world laughs at you. Come on, you do really want to know my plan, especially as it concerns you, my little hairy pally.”

“I’m not hairy.”

“Have it your own way, just don’t go near any circuses.”

“Shut up. Go on then, tell me your plan. Although, unless you are going to give me the money to go to Kiwi-a-gogo with Tom, I don’t—”

“Jas, forget about Hunky. He will be too busy lying around in streams with Robbie and hugging marsupials to get up to anything. This is about you and me on the road.”

“What road?”

“OK, this is it: when I go to Hamburger-a-gogo…you come with me! Do you see? Driving across America, you and me. We will be like Thelma and Louise!”

“We’re not called Thelma and Louise.”

“I know that, I am just saying we will be LIKE THEM.”

“And we’re not American.”

“I know that, but I—”

“And neither of us can drive.”

Oh dear God.

I said, “Jas, your spaceship has arrived. Please get in.”




12:00 p.m.


Ahahaha, Jazzy Spazzy has finally come to her senses (ish). She has got the scent of funosity in her nostrils and wants to come to Hamburger-a-gogo land. A LOT. So now all we have to do is get our parents to let us. We have a two-pronged plan.

Prong One is a charm offensive on our muttis and vatis to persuade them to let Jas come to America with me. (And also to give her sqillions of squids for spenderoonies.) We are going to be really nice and sweet and listen to them ramble on about the Beatles. I’ve been practising my pleading and they would have to be made of stone not to give me the entire contents of their wallets.

However, if that fails and they say no, we launch Prong Two: relentless moaning. You know the kind of thing – “All my other friends are allowed to take a mate on holiday with them. How come I am the ONLY person in the universe who is not allowed to take a mate on holiday? Why is it just me? Why? Why oh why oh why?”

“Why?”

“It is sooo unfair.”

“Why?”




Outside the front-room door 9:10 p.m.


Right, this is it. I’ve got my old Teletubbies jimjams on for maximosity on the loveablenosity front.




Front room


Mutti and Vati were on the sofa, curled round each other. I could clearly see Mum’s knickers. Erlack. And the curtains were open; anyone could see in. A fat bloke passing by might think it was a brothel for the porkier gentleman. I was going to say that but then I remembered my prongs. So I said, “Good evening, Mother, Father.”

Vati said, “How much?” without even looking at me. I laughed attractively.

“Oh, Papa, this is not a material matter, it’s to do with friendship and love and—”

Mum said, “I don’t care how many of your friends have had their navels pierced. You are not.”

“But I—”

But she was still rambling on. “Ditto tattoos.”

“But I—”

Vati joined in. “And no, you cannot have a flat in Paris and a manservant to help with your homework.”

Oh, how I nearly laughed. Not. I thought about telling Dad that Rosie said he looked like a brothel madam in his flying helmet and leather jacket, but then I remembered my charm prong and forced a little grin to play around my mouth.

“You two!!! Always kidding about you cheeky minxes! Anyway, all it is really is that, well…you know…Jas is all miz because of Tom going to Kiwi-a-gogo and, well…You know she’s my pal, and…well…it would be nice for me if you know…anyway, can she?”

Vati said, “Can she what? Move in? Levitate? What?”

I bit the whatsit. “Can she come with us to Hamburger-a-gogo land?”




10:00 p.m.


Both of our parents have said yes. Unbelievable. Actually, I am not that amazed that Jas’s parents said yes because they are, on the whole, not entirely mad. But my parents?

Weird.

It is a miracle for which I would normally thank Jesus. He does seem to be coming up trumps lately. I left Robbie to the snogging possums but then Jesus sent me a replacement Luuurve God. Hurray! As I say, I would normally thank him personally by laying gifts at his feet (or foot, actually, because one of his feet snapped off), however there is a bit of a problem. Libby has been rifling around in my room and she has nicked my statue of him. I’m afraid Jesus has not quite been himself since. The last time I saw him he had a frock on and Libby was calling him “Sandra”, Barbie’s new bestest pal.

I don’t think God will hold it against us, as he is, after all, a merciful God.




10:10 p.m.


Unless you happen to be that snake in the Garden of Eden. Snakey only asked, “Anyone fancy a bit of apple?” and then God made him crawl around on his belly for eternity. Seems a bit harsh. (Although, as I pointed out to Miss Wilson in our interesting talks in RE, if you were a snake in the first place, being made to crawl around on your belly for the rest of your days doesn’t actually seem that bad. Almost like being a snake in fact. I mean this with all reverencosity. I just have a lively mind.)

Oooohhhhh, I am so excited. I can’t wait to tell the Ace Gang.

I even kissed my own father AGAIN. This is twice in two days. I must be a bit feverish.




In my bedroom


Libby, Gordy, Sandra and Barbie are all snoozing. They look so lovely and cosy. Our Lord, now heavily rouged, is next to Libby’s feet. I don’t know why she likes to sleep upside down. Perhaps because it is very scary waking up to see Gordy looking cross-eyed at you.

I looked out the window as I did my alternate nostril breathing. It is vair vair calming. You pinch one nostril closed and then breathe in through the other one, and then hold your breath and let the pinched-up one go and breathe out of that. And then you…well, anyway…all I can say is that the Lord Buddha did it, and he didn’t just do it for nothing.




One minute later


I hope it’s not like body building. I don’t want to be really calm and have massive nostrils.




Two minutes later


For once Mr Next Door has done something nice. He has built a sort of anti-cat fence on the top of his wall made out of barbed wire. Angus will really like it. He gets a bit bored with leaping down on to the Prat Poodles and riding them round. He is the sort of cat who needs a bit of a challenge.




Five minutes later


Oh, here comes Supercat with Naomi. With his head up her bottom as ususal.




One minute later


Aha! He has removed his head and he has seen the new fencey. He luuurves the fencey.




Four minutes later


Old Nimble Paws did this beyond-fabby thing. He did a vertical jump! From standing on the wall he just shot straight up in the air and over the fence.




Five minutes later


Angus is really getting into it now. He leaps over the anti-cat fence and then comes back into our garden by hurling himself through Mr Next Door’s rhododendron bush. Excellent! He has made it into a track-and-field event. It is quite literally the Cat Olympics.




Five minutes later


I would prefer it if Naomi stuck to the usual giving of medals ceremony rather than licking Angus’s trouser-snake area, but there you are – that is appalling furry tarts for you.




Monday May 9




The crack of 8:00 a.m.


Crikey. I’d better not get carried away with happiness, otherwise I will be on time for school, or Stalag 14 as I so amusingly call it.




8:25 a.m.


Lolloping along to Jas’s place, I had to pass by Mark Big Gob smoking on the corner with his lardy mates. He is quite literally a mouth on legs. Sadly he seems to have recovered his former (crap) self after the minor duffing-up incident with Dave the Laugh.

He just can’t help himself, especially when, like now, he has the backup lardy lads with him. As I walked by in a dignified manner, trying not to let anything jiggle about, BG and the lard arses were just ogling my nungas like ogling oglers (if you can imagine the horror of that, and I think you can). Then he licked his lips! Erlack, he was licking his lips at me!

He is so très pathetico.

I may have to ask Dave to repeat the duffing-up incident.




Five minutes later


Jas was on her wall. I don’t know what she had for breakfast but she has put on about twelve stone. Either that or her knickers have reached elephantine size.

When she jumped down, I saw it was because she had her skirt rolled over so much that she looked like a melon with a head and an annoying fringe in a school uniform.

She said, “My mum and dad want to come round to yours to talk about the arrangements.”

“I must rush home and make them normal. Your mum and dad will never let you come with us if Dad happens to be wearing his masonic apron…or his velvet loons that he wears for ‘grooving’ in. No one in their right mind would let a child of theirs anywhere near him.”




Stalag 14


Hawkeye was on glaring duty at the school gates, so Jas had to do a quick dive behind me to let her skirt down. She was fiddling away as we walked along, so to distract Hawkeye with my youth and exuberance I started singing, “Oh, what a beautiful mornin’, oh what a—”

“Why are you shuffling along like idiots? Put a spring in your step!”

I started doing a bit of springing for a laugh, but then she said, “Georgia, I have been glancing at your report card and it seems to me a bit of extra tuition wouldn’t come amiss.”

Bloody sacré bleu! I scuttled off to the loos as fast as I could.

Jas was pouting at herself in the mirror as I grumbled on. “‘Glancing at your report card’. What kind of life is that? You might as well have a life ‘glancing at paint drying’ or ‘glancing at a cactus not doing anything’, or…anyway, it is no kind of a life for a human being. Which is why Hawkeye is so vair vair good at it.”

Jas was now upside down under the hand dryer getting maximum voluminosity into her fringe for the day ahead, but she nodded her head wisely, in an upside-down way.




Assembly


Usual routine: Klingon salute to the Ace Gang, a quick burst of “The Lord is my shepherd” and then some incomprehensible lecture from Slim, our huge headmistress. What is she rambling on about now? She has certainly excelled herself on the fashion front this morning. Polka-dot suit in a lovely subtle orange and black, and sling-back shoes. Parts of her feet have made a desperate bid for freedom out of the sling-back bit. I’ve never known anyone with fat feet. It’s fascinating watching her. When she loses her rag (i.e. every time she speaks to us) every bit of her quivers in a tip-top jelloid way.

“So to my point, girls: achievement. What does it mean today in the modern world? I want you all to consider what achievement really means.”

Then she stood there and looked at us. For ages. We stood looking back. She just stood there; we just stood there. Like a staring competition. Good Lord. It went on for ages and ages – you could practically see Miss Stamp’s beard growing. Two centuries later, Slim said, “How many of us could put our hands on our hearts and say ‘I have achieved something really worthwhile this term.’?”

Me and Rosie put our hands on our hearts.




Corridor 9:30 a.m.


Oh bloody marvy. Wet Lindsay, who was stick-insecting around on snitcher duty, saw us with our hands on our hearts and is gave us her world famous ‘How childish you are’ lecture. Ho hum, pig’s bum. Another fabulous opportunity to look at Mrs No Forehead.




9:36 a.m.


Hahahahaha! While Wet Lindsay was telling us off, me and Rosie kept our eyes fixed on her forehead. She couldn’t say we were doing anything wrong, but afterwards she scuttled off to the loos for forehead inspection.

The staring campaign continues!

And she doesn’t know I am off to America to a Snog Fest with the Luuurve God.

I said to Rosie as we ambled off to the Science block, “He probably only took her to Late and Live because he is in the European Union for the preservation of rare species.”

Rosie said, “What? The ‘No Forehead Stick-insect Fighting Fund’?”

“Absolutemento mon pally.”

We are indeed vair vair amusant.




Blodge


Miss Baldwin has got gigantic basoomas. Even bigger than my mutti’s, and that is saying something. I was very much afraid that she would set fire to them with the Bunsen burner. Sadly there was no basooma incendiary action, so I couldn’t use the foam extinguisher, which would have topped the lesson off in my humble opinion.




On the knicker toaster Break


I told the Ace Gang about Operation Go to Hamburger-a-gogo Land. They were, as usual, agog as two gogs. Three gogs in Ellen’s case. Thank the Lord she seems to have dropped her infectious laugh. I was going to have to kill her if she kept it up.

As we crunched through our nutritious snacks of cheesy Wotsits and chuddie, I said, “It is going to be marv, as I said to Jas – even though she didn’t get it – we will be like the Thelma and Louise of England.”

Rosie said, “But you won’t have a gun.”

“I might do.”

“No, you won’t. Your dad won’t let you go to an all-nighter, so he is definitely not going to get you a gun.”

“He is. He said I could have one when I got there.”

Rosie just looked at me.

“Just a small one for emergency shooting.”

They all just looked at me.

Ellen said (annoyingly), “Where…er…where is Masimo? I mean where is he going to be in America?”

I said, “Well, you know, near where we are going to be.”

She went on in her vague, dumped-by-Dave-the-Laugh way. “Yes, but I mean, well…where are you going to be?”

I said, “At the clown-car convention in America.”

Rosie blew a big gob-stopper bubble and then sucked it back in again. Then she put her face right up close to mine and said slowly, “Yes, but Georgia, where is the clown-car convention?”

“Memphis.”

“And where is that?”

I laughed and said, “Good grief, I thought I was bad at geoggers. Don’t you know?”

“YOU don’t know, do you?”

“Of course I do. It’s…down…a…bit from New York.”

“Down a bit from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Like you thought Hamburg was famous for its hamburgers?”

What had Rosie turned into? Memo the Memory Man? Honestly, just because I had been secretly exfoliating my legs under the desk in geoggers when we were doing the Rhine, and Miss Simpson sprang a surprise question on me…

I changed the subject. “So, what do you think I should pack for my trip?”

Jools said, “Well, not knickers, because they don’t wear them there.”

I said, “Wow, saucy minxes! You mean they go round in the nuddy-pants? They don’t mention that in geoggers, do they? It’s all boring stuff about wheat belts and the Atlantic drift.”

Jools said, “Panties.”

I said, “Oy, clear off with your panties talk. You are a nicelooking girl and everything, but I am just not interested.”

Jools said, “No, that’s what the Hamburgese wear.”

The bell went.

Donner and Blitzen! How am I supposed to discuss my wardrobe if we keep having to go to lessons?

Oh, hang on though, it’s German next, so that’s OK. We can discuss it then without being disturbed.




German


Herr Kamyer was, as usual, rambling on about the Koch family going on one of their endless camping trips.

Keeping in mind that Koch is pronounced ‘cock’, and keeping in mind that they are the family that star in our German textbooks, you have to ask yourself this: what sadist decided to feature a family called Koch in our textbooks? They know that they are going to be read out by the naff and the sad (German teachers) to a load of giggling and hysterical girls obsessed with boys and rudey-dudeyness. The family could have been called anything, couldn’t they? Schwartz or Schmidt, for instance, but oh no, it had to be the Kochs and their spangleferkels. How many sausages can one family eat? In the Kochs’ case, the answer is A LOT.

I put my hand up because I am sehr interested in the Kochs.

Herr Kamyer said, “Ja, Georgia?”

I said, “Herr Kamyer, did all the Kochs go camping, or was it just the little Kochs and the big Kochs stayed behind? Or was it a mixture of little and big Kochs that came out?”

The whole class was in uproar. Herr Kamyer was, as usual, completely bewildered. He said, “Vat is zo funny about the Kochs? Do you not haf the Kochs in England?”

Happy days.

As we lolloped off I said, “German is such a restful and amusing language, isn’t it? Incomprehensible, obviously. As, indeed, are the lederhosen that the Germans go yodelling in.”

Jas was in Jasland and said, “You think The Sound of Music is what Germany is like, don’t you? That’s why you always rave on about singing nuns and yodelling.”

“Well, The Sound of Music is, of course, a documentary-style film. You can’t argue with facts, and I do know what I’m talking about because Libby has made me watch it twelve times.”

“It was set in Austria.”

“Yes…and?”

“Last term you said that Germans were obsessed with goats and cheese.”

“Yes…and?”

“That was because you had read Heidi, and that was set in Switzerland.”

“Jas, what in the name of Beelzebub’s stamp collection are you going on about?”

“You are crap at geoggers.”

Oh, rave on, fringey nitwit. (I didn’t say that bit aloud because I am grooming her to be my sidekick on the Road to Romance.)

Still, in the interests of world peace I might be forced to get the old atlas out and look at where Memphis is and so on.

Work work work, I’m so vair tired. And I still have to walk all the way home.

I wonder if Jazzy will give me a piggyback?




4:30 p.m.


No.




5:00 p.m.


I’ll be bloody glad when Gordy is allowed out. When I arrived home he had the rubber plant on his head. I’ve put the stump back in the plant pot and superglued some of the leaves back on. With a bit of luck it will be all right till we go away, and then I can blame it on whatever fool cat-sits for us.




In my bedroom


How can I find out exactly where Masimo is?




Five minutes later


I can’t trust Radio Jas to ask Tom to find out where Masimo has gone in Hamburger-a-gogo land. Anytime I ask her anything private it’s usually on the Radio Jas airwaves in about two and a half minutes. Her idea of being subtle and finding out things is that she goes out into the street and shouts, “Anyone know anything about this secret thing I am never going to mention?”

Hmmmmmmmm.

I hate to admit it, but I need the assistance of Dave the Laugh.

Donner and Blitzen!

If I could just accidentally bump into him on the way home then I wouldn’t have to phone him.




Ten minutes later


Because if I phone him and Rachel is there I will feel like a facsimile of a sham. I mean he is officially (ish) going out with her.




Five minutes later


Even though he keeps snogging me.




Ten minutes later


Anyway, how can I trust anything he says – it was him, after all, who said he fancied my mum!

But then he is also my mate and official Hornmeister.

Also, he said that I have accidentally done the right thing and become Mystery Girl with Masimo.




Tuesday May 10




on the way home


Jas and me were ambushed by four Foxwood lads. Two of them deliberately ran into my legs on their bikes, fell off, got back on backwards and started circling us really fast yelling, “You slags!!”

Why?

We were just looking at them and then they fell off their bikes again, this time down a ditch. While they were climbing out we set off walking. After a couple of minutes we noticed they were lurking along behind us, pretending not to follow us. Then Dave the Laugh and his mates appeared round the corner. Dave smiled. He has a great smile and he looked as if he was really glad to see me. He has grown his hair a bit since I last saw him and it looked very cool. Oh shutupshutup, voice of the Horn.

He said, “Hello, Sex Kitty and pal.”

Then he saw the boy bloodhounds following us.

“Well, if it isn’t Tosser Thompson and his band of trainee tossers. On your way kids.”

Dave really is quite well built and he was just standing looking at them.

One of the trainee tossers said, “Come on, it’s not worth it.” and they shuffled off, shoving each other and making pretend farting noises.

Wow! It was a bit like Gladiator. But not set in Roman times, and Dave was wearing his school trousers and not a goatskin…More’s the pity. Shutupshutup.

Dave put his arm around me.

“You entice them, you know, with your sparkling personality and magnificent nungas.”

He is soooo annoying. And rude. I tried to have a strop, but he is notoriously difficult to do that with.

As we walked along Jas said, “S’later” and went off home. Dave’s mates all said “S’later” until it was just me and Dave.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m surpressing my red bottom, but he does seem to be getting better-looking all the time. But no, no, he is not the only one and only. He is yesterday’s news. Last week’s snog. Anyway, I said to him, “Aren’t you rushing to meet your GIRLFRIEND? Won’t your GIRLFRIEND be upset if she sees you with me?”

And he started that, “Are you mad?” thing. I managed to stop myself joining in, otherwise it would have developed into tickly bears and then possibly number six. Who knows?

Who knows what goes on in my mind? I will be the last to know. Even when I am totally and without doubtosity in luuurve, absolutely wouldn’t dream of being with anyone else, etc. etc., still the Cosmic Horn rears its ugly head. And there is something about Dave and his special lip-nibbling technique. In fact he is one of the best snoggers I have come across, and I haven’t even snogged Masimo yet. What if Italian boys are useless in the snoggosity department? What if Masimo looks cool but is a nunga-pouncer like Mark Big Gob? Or kisses all wet and sucky like Whelk Boy?

Dave interrupted my brain, thank the Lord.

“So, how are you, chicklet?

I said, “Fab fanks. I’m going to Hamburger-a-gogo land for a clown-car convention.”

Dave looked at me.

“YOU are going to a clown-car convention? Mad as a hen.”

I got quite huffy.

“I am very interested in old cars, as you know, and—”

Dave said, “You would rather snog Spotty Norman than go to a clown-car convention.”

Fair point well made.

I said, “Well, there is another reason…”

Dave raised one of his eyebrows. Which was quite amusing.

We were passing Luigi’s and Dave said, “Come on, let’s do coffee, man.”

And we went in.

Oh, buggering bums buggering bum. Sitting down at one of the tables were Wet Lindsay and Astonishingly Dim Monica. Sacré bloody bleu.

Perhaps they were doing reverse stalking.

Wet Lindsay almost threw up when she saw me with Dave. But she covered it quickly and was all dillydollyish with him. He said “Hi” and she batted her eyelashes and flicked her hair. She must have read that book, How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You. If she tried toffee eyes on Dave, I would have to kill her.

Even though Dave was slightly behind me, she looked straight through me and said to him, “Oh, Dave, it was really groovy at Late and Live, wasn’t it? Mas and me had a great time. Did you and Rachel?”

I hate her double with knobs on.

Dave was coolosity personified. “Yeah, it was cool.”

And then he deliberately pulled a chair out for me at a table not too near the grotesque twins. As I sat down he said loudly enough for them to hear, “Now then, even though you treat me bad, what would you like, Ms Gorgeous?”

He is soooo nice. I really like the way he is…you know…so nice to me.




Five minutes later


As Lindsay and ADM went out, Lindsay gave Dave what she probably thinks (wrongly) is her attractive smile. She said, “Bye, Dave, maybe see you when Mas gets back.” Then she stick-insected out of the door, without leaving a slimy trail on the floor, surprisingly.

I said to Dave, “I hate her, I hate her. She called him ‘Mas’. How crap is that?”

Dave looked at me.

“You don’t like her, then?”

As we drank our coffee (me trying to avoid the foam moustache fandango) I wanted to ask Dave if he could find out where Masimo was. But I didn’t think I could just launch in, so I thought I would ask some limbering-up questions first.

“Dave, you know those boys…well, just before you got there, they ran into my legs on their bikes, then they rode off backwards. Then they called us slags.”

Dave said, “Ah, the old running into your legs, riding off backwards and calling you slags thing. Ah hum. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“They fancy you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Uh-huh. Clear as daylight.”

“But why don’t they say ‘I fancy you’?”

“Because you might reject them in front of their mates.”

“So they think running into my legs on their bikes is better?”

“Yep.”

“And calling us slags?”

“Yep.”

“And they think that after they’ve done that, I will say, ‘Gosh, yes, I would love to go out with you and be your slag. Once my legs heal up.’”

“Yep.”

“But that is mad. Boys are mad.”

Dave looked all wise and did his eyebrow thing again.

We slurped a bit more, then I said, “But, why? How does it work? You know at break at school, when you talk about personal stuff, well…”

Dave said, “Let me interrupt you there, Kittykat. Lads don’t talk about ‘stuff’ at break. They play footie or that other well-known game, ‘Do you know any good dentists?’”

I said, “What?”

“You know: ‘Do you know any good dentists? Because you’re going to need one in a minute when I have to deck you.’”

Blimey.

Dave went on. “Of course, lads have the same feelings, we just communicate in a different way. Sometimes it does get personal though.”

I looked at him. This was better.

“Yeah, for instance, yesterday one of the fifth form hung his girlfriend’s knickers out of the science-block window.”




5:30 p.m.


Walked home after my session with the Hornmeister still in a bit of a daze. When we said s’later, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and didn’t attempt tickly bears or anything. Perhaps he is going straight. Who knows? But, on the plus side, he has said he’ll find out all he can about Masimo for me. He is such a good boy-type pal. He didn’t mention Rachel, which is a bit odd as she’s supposed to be his girlfriend.




5:35 p.m.


Crossing the High Street I bumped into Tom. I like Tom, even though I think he’s mad to go to Kiwi-a-gogo land. And go out with Jas. And go on camping fiascos. And go on about food produce. Other than that, I like him.

He seemed to have a touch of sadnosity about him when he said, “All right, Gee?”

“Yes, fanks all right as an…all-right thing. And you?”

He was unusually silent for him and eventually just said, “You’ll look after Jas for me, won’t you?”

I said, “You bet your goddamn bottom dollar, mister. I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He just looked at me. Like I was talking complete rubbish or something.




6:00 p.m.


Home in my room, covered in unguents for tip-top beautosity.

I will say this: mashed banana is vair vair good for the luuurve complexion, which is not easy to say when you have a face full of mashed banana.

I wish I had a photo of Masimo. I hope I don’t forget what he looks like. I’ll just lie down in my (unusually empty) bed and have a mental snog with him.




6:25 p.m.


Oh, buggering God’s bum. Angus and Gordy have come in and started playing the mouse-disguised-as-a-foot game. They attack my feet for a bit really viciously until I pull my feet up under my bum, then they lie down and go to sleep. But they are not really asleep, they are just doing pretend asleep. As soon as I snuggle down to snooze off into Masimo land, they leap on my foot underneath the blankets and wrestle it. Then they “go to sleep” again. They don’t really think my foot is a mouse and that it will creep out when it sees they are asleep, do they?




6:40 p.m.


How did Ms Furry Tart, aka Naomi, get past the armed warden (Vati) and into my bed?

Blimey, I am quite literally lying in a cat basket.




6:45 p.m.


I wish she wouldn’t do that lying-on-her-back-with-her-legs-spread-open thing on my bed.




6:50 p.m.


Gordy is sniffing her bottom. This is disgusting!! In front of his dad. This is kitty-porn – surely there must be some sort of helpline for this. A kittykat helpline.

It could be called Paws for Thought.




7:30 p.m.


Oh, Masimo, soon we will be together and you can tell me all about Pizza-a-gogo land. The music. The art. The snogging. I wonder if they have special techniques that go with their passionate Latin temperament? I hope he doesn’t get carried away and nibble my lips off.




7:35 p.m.


No, I hope he does! Nibble away, Luuurve God!!




Wednesday May 11




In my bedroom 7:07 p.m.


How many hours is it till we go to Hamburger-a-gogo? Jas will know. I’m not phoning her though.

Doorbell rang.

I went quietly to the top of the stairs and looked down. Crikey! Loon Alert! It was my grandad, and he was wearing shorts! Not his huge, all-encompassing grandad shorts that he wore during the Boer War, but cycling shorts. In Lycra. Good grief.

Please, please tell me he has not taken up cycling. Please.

I went back to my room quietly.

Maybe if I hide behind the door they will think I am out and JUST GO AWAY.




One minute later


Oh, yeah. Dream on.

Mutti called up, “Georgie, Grandad’s here!”

I kept silent behind the door. Naomi, Angus and Gordy were all in my bed – again – doing their idiot-cat-staring-at-me thing. They had better not give my position away. It would be all right if it was just Gordon – then I might have a one in two chance of not being caught; because although one of his eyes is fixed on me, the other is glancing out the window.

The advance loon party came clanking up the stairs.

“Gingey, Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee, Libbbbeeeeee…Where is you?”

I heard her huffing and puffing outside my door and doing her alarming laugh. “Hoggyhoggy. Here I come, reggy or nut.”

Then she kicked my door and it burst open, very nearly flattening my nose.

“Owwwwww.”

She put her mad little face around the door and smiled at me. When, and how, did she lose her front teeth? And why did she think it was attractive to push her tongue through the gap?

“Gingey, there you is! Cheeky monkey.”

She threw all the cats off the bed and started tucking scuba-diving Barbie and Jesus/Sandra up nice and comfy under the duvet. I tried to reason with her.

“Bibsy, that’s not really Barbie and…er…Sandra’s bed, is it? It’s my bed, and there’s no room for—”

She put her arms up to me and said, “Kiss.”

Oh, blimey. She is cute, though. I picked her up to give her a little cuddle, and she put her hand on my nose and was sort of squeezing it and twirling it around. It was quite painful, actually. Dear God I hope it doesn’t swell up.

Grandad was the next to arrive at the open-bedroom loon party.

He popped his head around the door and said, “Hello, love, I’ve just been to the doctor because I’ve got a steering wheel down my shorts. I said to him, ‘Doctor, will you do something about this steering wheel down my shorts? It’s driving me nuts!’ Do you see? ‘Steering wheel, driving me nuts!’ Do you get it? Do you?”

How DISGUSTING!!

He’s an octogenarian.

My ears feel like prostitutes.




8:00 p.m.


Thank the Lord, Grandad has gone. Unfortunately not before giving me a present from his “girlfriend” Maisie. I am sorry I ever suggested that Grandad was mad. His girlfriend has reached new and giddy heights of bonkerosity. Have you ever been given knitted toeless socks? In green, yellow and purple?

No, I thought not.

Grandad is going to house-sit the kittykats for the week we are away.

I said to Mutti, “Let’s just burn the house to the ground before we go. Because that’s what it will be like when we get back. Face it.”

Mum said, “You are so rude, Georgia. You’ll be old one day yourself.”

I was going to go put my toeless socks on to give her the gist of what I was saying about the elderly insane, but then I realised I was on a charm mission. Also, Jas’s parents were coming round in half an hour. So I said, “Shall I make some snacks for when Jas’s M and D come round?”

She looked at me as if I had turned into a talking egg.

Even Gordy stopped eating Mum’s mules and looked at me with one eye.




9:30 p.m.


Phew. Jas and I did secret thumbsie-upsies as she and her mutti and vati left. Yessssss! And thrice yesss! We are off to Hamburger-a-gogo land!!

Jas has got one hundred squids for spendies.

How far can Memphis be from where Masimo is? Wherever that is.




11:00 p.m.


All’s well that ends well. Libby is in her own bed with Barbie and Our Lord Sandra, and the big cats have been thrown outside to lay waste to the vole population. Gordy is in his basket in the kitchen. So I can get some wellearned beauty sleep. My nose doesn’t seem any more swollen than normal.




11:15 p.m.


Dad says that Elvis Presley lived in Memphis and he was a musician (not that you would know that from the crap songs that Dad sings). Anyway, he was a musician and Masimo is a musician, ergo Memphis must be somewhere that musicians hang out.




Midnight


Pray God that Dad doesn’t take his Elvis Presley quiff with him. Sometimes for a “joke” he sticks the quiff on and starts shaking his hips about. It’s disgusting – and also probably very dangerous hipwise for a man of his years.

He and his lardy mates, the “lads” think it’s hilarious.

It isn’t.




12:05 a.m.


Anyway, what do I care, I am on Cloud Nine in Luuurve Heaven.

We go on 22nd May, which is eleven days away. I am sooooo excited.




12:10 a.m.


Hawkeye called me a ninny and said that I “had the attention span of a pea” but what she doesn’t know is that I have powers of discipline that would surprise a lot of people who accuse me of laziosity. When I put my mind to it I can do stuff. For instance, even though I’m tired now and it’s midnight, it is imperative that I get up and go to the bathroom and cleanse and tone my…zzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzz.




Thursday May 12




Ten days to Hamburger-a-gogo land on the way to school


“Jas, I am so vair vair full to the brim with excitementosity. Aren’t you?”

“Hmmm.”

“Yes, so am I. Let’s sing ‘New York, New York’ to get us in the mood.”

“No.”

“That’s the spirit. You see, that is why coming to Hamburger-a-gogo is sooo good for you – it will broaden what there is of your mind.”

I started to sing, “I want to be a part of it, New York, New YORK!!!!!”

I stopped because of intense pensioner-glaring when we passed the post office.

Jas was slouching along by my side like a trusty…badger.

“Jas, why do they call it that? New York, New York? We don’t say London, London, do we?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Perhaps it’s because Hamburgese people are a bit on the slow side and don’t get it immediately, so they have to say it twice.”




9:30 p.m.


Vati made us watch a really old film tonight with John Wayne in it.




Midnight


I was right to be worried about them being a bit on the slow side. Crikey, John Waaaaaaayne speaks slowly. If all Americans speak so slowly, I’ll be there all day queueing up behind people as they ask for a cup of “caaaaaawwwwwfffeeeee”. (And I won’t even know why I am in the queue, as I don’t even like caawwfffee.)

Also, if Dad doesn’t stop singing Elvis songs I may go insane.




Friday May 13th

Nine days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Dawn


Dad burst into my room in his pyjamas and Elvis quiff, singing “Heartbreak Hotel”.

Still, now that I’m up, I’ll make a list of stuff to take to Hamburger-a-gogo.




7:25 a.m.


This is my packing list:



1 Make-up essentials

2 Really gorgey clothes


I’ve gathered my make-up essentials together and they fill a suitcase.

I wonder if I can get Jazzy to put some of my make-up in her bag. Mind you, knowing her, she’s already filled her bag with her ginormous knickers – or big “panties”, as we must learn to call them now.

Although “big panties” reminds me of incontinent knickers.

Still, let the Americans have it their way. I love them all. And I mean that most sincerely. Even though I have never met them.




Chaos headquarters 8:00 a.m.


Mutti was dragging Gordy out of Libby’s rucksack, and Libby was hitting Mum on the head with her spoon.

“Bad Mummy, bad.”

Libby had hidden Gordy in her rucky because she wanted to take him to nursery school with her. But even Mum noticed the rucksack walking around by itself.

Then the phone rang.

Mutti yelled at me, “Get that, Georgia, it’s bound to be one of your daft friends.”

Oh, that is nice, isn’t it? It’s much more likely to be one of her daft friends.

I answered it and said, “Yes, hello. Reception speaking, Hotel Insane.”

It was Dave the Laugh. Oh my giddy God, and I hadn’t even got any lip gloss on.

He said, “Hi, Sex Kitty, Hornmeister here. I’m in a hurry, but thought you would like to know that the extremely flash Masimo, who I personally feel might be on the gay side handbagwise—”

“Dave…”

“OK, OK. All I can find out is that he is staying in Manhattan and his surname is Scarlotti.”

I said, “Oh, thank you thank you, Dave.”

“It’s cool. I’m sure we can think of some way you can repay me – it may involve heavy snogging. Bye.”

And he put the phone down.

Yipppppeeeee!!!

Manhattan, here I come!




8:30 a.m.


Ran to meet Jas.

She was all flustered like a fringey loon.

I said, “Howdy.”

“Come on, Georgia, we’ll be late.”

As we galloped along, I said, “I am going to speak American all day today.”

Jas went, pant pant, “They speak English.”

I said, “Don’t be mad,” pant pant.

We arrived on time, but only just. Wet Lindsay was on sadist duty. She looked at us as we panted by her like we were a couple of turds in uniform.

“Can’t you two grow up and be on time for once?”

I gave her a big smile while gazing at her ear, and said, “Howdy. Now you all have a nice day. You hear?”

She stomped off to terrorise some first formers, but she was fingering her lugholes. Hahahahahaha. And also hasta la vista, baby.




Maths


God, maths is boring. And complete bollocks.

When I marry Masimo, I will have manservants to do my adding up for me.

And my quadratic equations, which I will never use.




Lunchtime Operation Track Down the Luuurve God


Made Jas come to the library with me.

Miss Wilson almost fell off her stool when we came in.

I calmed her by saying, “Alrighty? Now you all have a nice day.”

We lugged the big atlas to a table, and I leafed through the maps until I got to America and found New York, New York.

I said to Jas, “Now, where is Memphis, Memphis?”

Jas found it and said, “It looks a bit far down.”

For once she is not wrong. On the plus side, Manhattan is only about an eighth of an inch long.

But it is about two feet from Memphis.

Still, there must be buses. Surely?




4:30 p.m.


On the way home I was singing “Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play” to Jazzy. She loves a bit of a singsong.

I said that. I said, “You love a bit of a singsong, don’t you, Jazzy?”

“No.”

“See, I knew you did. You do a little dance while I sing the chorus. You could do a dance based on a deer. Go on, do the little deer dance, make your feet like—”

And that is when she kicked me. She can be very violent.

She said, “I haven’t told him yet.”

“What? Who?”

“Hunk—er, I mean Tom, about Hamburger-a-gogo land.”

I looked at her in amazednosity. Radio Jas, the voice of the nation, had not told Hunky something?

She said, “I can be just as independent and adventurous as him.”

I didn’t laugh, even though I have seen the amount of knickers that Jas thinks she will need for seven days.

I MUST sort out my clothes this weekend.




Le Weekend

11:00 a.m.


Now then, I am going to take a “capsule” wardrobe. It’s what Naomi Campbell and all the top models do. They just take the absolute essentials with them when they travel.




12:00 p.m.


I’m exhausted, but I have managed to whittle my capsule wardrobe down to six cases.




12:01 p.m.


And a rucksack.




12:03 p.m.


Apart from my shoes, which I can’t get in, but Mum will probably put them in her case.




12:30 p.m.


Nobody has yet told Libby that Angus and Gordy are not coming with us on our holidays.




12:35 p.m.


When someone does tell her, I’ll tell you one thing for free – it will not be me. I need all my limbs for my Luuurve Quest.




12:40 p.m.


Libby has made Gordy a paper bikini for his holidays, which might come in handy if he were coming on holiday.

And cats wore bikinis.

And if he hadn’t immediately destroyed it and then buried it in the rubber plant.




Sunday May 15th

Seven days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Midday


I hate my dad. He is so unreasonable. It’s like dealing with a spoiled child.

I asked Mum if she would be so kind as to slip my shoes in her case, and all hell broke loose.

Dad said, “Why don’t you put them in your case?”

And I said, “Because, Father, all of my cases are full.”

Vati came stropping into my bedroom, saw my cases, and said, “Don’t be ridiculous! You can take one case. That is it.”

I said, “Excuse me if I’m right, Dad, but do you want me to look like a poor person in front of the Hamburgese? I am representing the English nation abroad.”

But you might as well be talking to yourself.




2:00 p.m.


I’ve repacked, but there are still three cases of essentials. Sacré bloody bleu.

Jas phoned to tell me that she told Hunky about her trip and he has had the boy version of a nervy spaz. He phoned her eighteen times in two hours.

“He was so upset.”

“Yes, you said.”

“Really really upset. He phoned me eighteen times in two hours.”

“Er…I know.”

“Eighteen times.”

“Wow…How many times did you say he phoned?”

I said it ironically, but Jas didn’t get it. She just went on and on. “Eighteen times, and then he came round this morning really early and posted a love-poem-song-type thing through my door.”

Oh no. Not a love poem.

“Do you want to hear it?”

“No.”

“It’s called, ‘You are the only fish in my sea’.

Good Lord. Tom’s whole family is obsessed with livestock.

To cheer her up and to get me out of my packing nightmare scenario I called a gang meeting.




The park, sitting on the swings 4:30 p.m.


Jas has read her poem to everyone, so I hope she’s got it out of her system now. It is truly crap. That is a fact. But I didn’t say so; I wanted Jas to perk up for our big adventure. I was soooo excited, and I was standing up swinging on a swing, singing “I want to be in America! Everything’s free in America!!!”

Then Ellen said, “Georgia, have you actually snogged Masimo yet?”

I laughed in a sultry way. “Have I snogged Masimo? Have I—”

Jas said, “No, she hasn’t. Well, not unless you count two seconds, which I don’t, and anyway it’s not on the snogging scale, so it’s not…on the…snogging scale.”

Oh, thanks, bestest pally NOT. I wish I had told her what I thought about Fish Boy’s poem now.

Jools said, “Do you think Wet Lindsay has snogged him? You know, when they went to Late and Live. She must have, you know…wanted to.”

Ohhhnooo. Get out of my head.

I said, “Who in their right mind would snog Wet Lindsay?”

Jools said, “Well, actually, Robbie must have snogged her because they went out together and—”

I started humming in my head so I didn’t have to listen to this; it was making me feel quite sick.

Jas said, “Perhaps some kinds of boys like tiny foreheads. Tom said that he knows a boy who’s mad for girls who wear really thick glasses.”

Good grief. Still, at least, there was a chance for Nauseating P. Green.

Ellen was obviously in her own dream world. “That mate of Tom’s – Speedy – asked me out when I was down the square, but…oh…I don’t know, it’s just there is something. I mean, he’s nice but I still…you know…have feelings for…well, you know…Do you think?”

I said, “Can I ask you something, Ellen? What are you raving on about?”

I wished I hadn’t asked.

“I mean Dave the Laugh. Is he going out with Rachel still…or…er…what?”

Jas said, “He wasn’t with her when we saw him the other day, was he, Gee? Did he mention her when you went for a coffee?”

Oh shutupshutup about Dave the sodding Laugh.

Ellen was just about to start the “I didn’t know that you saw Dave the Laugh, what did you talk about, did he mention me, how come you went for a coffee with him?” scenario when Mabs saved my bacon (ish).

She said, “How do you know that Masimo wants to see you?”

“Well, he asked me for my telephone number and I couldn’t give it to him because my head was about to drop off from redness. So he said, “OK, Miss Hard to Get, I will see you later, when I get back from America.”

Ellen was looking at me. “So he said ‘See you later’ then?”

I said, “No, not just ‘see you later’ like in ‘s’later’ but more—”

But Ellen was locked into her own ramblosity. “Dave the Laugh said ‘see you later’ to me and I did the flicky hair and everything and dancing by myself and so on…and then he went off with Rachel.”

The gang started nodding wisely (not).

I said, “Yes, but Masimo said ‘see you later’ after I had become Mystery Woman.”

Rosie said, “Mystery Woman?”

“Yes, after I had accidentally treated him to my glaciosity.”

Rosie had her face really close to mine.

“You are Mystery Woman?”

All the gang looked at me.

Jools said, “You are MYSTERY Woman?”

Then Mabs said, “YOU are Mystery Woman?”

What is this, a parrots’ convention?

Rosie said, “Mystery Woman. You are Mystery Woman. Not as you used to be – ‘Oooooooh my boy entrancers have stuck together’ Woman?”




Home 5:30 p.m.


Oh boo. Now I’ve got the screaming heebie-jeebies and doubtosityall rolled into one. Perhaps Masimo says “See you when I get back, Miss Hard to Get” to everyone.




5:45 p.m.


Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, they take a turn for the worserer.

Grandad has cancelled his cat duties because he’s going on a bicycling tour to the Lake District. He says he has heard the call of the wild and is setting out tonight with his backpack.

I cannot believe the utter selfishosity of the elderly.




5:50 p.m.


Family “conference” (aka Dad shouting a lot).

We can’t think of anyone stupid…er…kind enough to look after Angus and Gordy.




6:15 p.m.


Mum has tried all her so-called aerobics friends and none of them will come over.

I said to her, “Did you tell them about the mice cream incident?”

Of course she has, so she has only herself to blame.




6:30 p.m.


Sadly I have also shown off about Angus and Gordy’s “adventures” and alluring little habits vis à vis woodland animals, pooing, etc. So none of my friends will have anything to do with them. Rosie said that Sven said he’d look after Angus and Gordy in a cave he has found. But the whole idea of that is far, far too weird.

Vati said, “What about a cattery, then?”

That’s when Angus came in with a spade. We all just looked at one another.

Vati said, “Well, there is only one thing for it. I’m going to have to ask for a bit of neighbourly support.”




7:15 p.m.


Dad went to Mr Next Door first. As he went through the door he said, “Alfred and I have always had a bit of an understanding, although I know we’ve had our differences vis à vis the damage Angus has done to his rhododendrons—”

I said, “And when he rounded the Prat Poodles up and trapped them in the greenhouse.”

“Yes, well…”

“And then rode them round like little horsies.”

“Yes, well…”

“And the dog psychiatrist having to come in.”

Dad took his coat off.




7:25 p.m.


Dad said, “I’ll just pop across the road to Colin and, you know, see if maybe he could just keep an eye on feeding them.”




7:28 p.m.


Dad’s back.

He said, “He laughed.”

Dad has slammed off to the pub to talk to Uncle Eddie and see if he knows any fools who might help us out.




7:33 p.m.


Doorbell rang. I looked down the stairs from the safety of my bedroom.

Mutti answered. Uh-oh. It was one of our beloved boys in blue. And as policemen go, he didn’t look pleased. Now what?

I scampered down the stairs to give my mutti moral support. Although, as it happens, basooma support would have been more appropriate. Hasn’t she got one single piece of clothing that doesn’t reveal far too much flesh?

I put an interested look on my face. It’s the one I use when Hawkeye asks me where my homework is. It usually results in double detention, but you can’t have everything. The constable looked at me, and it wasn’t his guardian-of-the-community-and-servant-of-the-people look.

He said to Mum, “Good evening, madam, can you tell me if you know this person?” And he held up Grandad’s O.A.P. card, the one with the photo of him with the earring in.

Don’t ask.

Mum said, “Yes, it’s my father…Oh My God, is he all right?”

The officer said, “Yes, he is, madam, but he is a danger to himself and others.”

I said, “You can say that again, officer. I don’t need a helmet and truncheon to figure that out.”

Mum said, “Shut up, Georgia.”

Which I think is probably abusive behaviour, but I let it go.

It turns out that, for once, the officer was the bearer of glad tidings. Grandad had set out on his six-hundred-mile bike ride to the Lake District and fell off at the end of his street. But not before he knocked the policeman off his new community bike.

“I’d only had it for a week, madam.”

I tried to look concerned.

The policeman opened his notebook. “The gentleman we have now positively identified as your father was wearing Lycra shorts and kept falling off his bike. I asked him to walk a straight line.”

Mutti said, “Oh my goodness, had he been drinking?”

The officer said, “I don’t know, madam, but he refused to walk the line on account of an old war wound. Then he said…” The officer looked down at his notes again. “…‘Do you want to come back to my place, constable, and have one for the road?’”

You have to give Grandad full marks on the lunacy scale.




8:00 p.m.


The policeman radioed into his station and Grandad was released from chokey after being charged with careless biking and not having a bell. Apparently the budgie bell he had Sellotaped on to the handlebar doesn’t count.

He now has a criminal record.

Mum was all flustered and kept apologising to the policeman as he went off. “I am so sorry, officer. I hope you can mend your bike and you haven’t been hurt at all.”

The policeman said, “No, well, I’m quite tough, madam.”

“Yes, well you do seem very fit. I do a bit of aerobics myself; it’s awfully good for keeping in shape.”

The policeman winked at her (honestly!) and he said, “Yes, I can see that. Anyway, madam, I’d better be on my way.”

And then he said that classic thing that you think you’d only see on TV. He said, “Mind how you go, it’s a jungle out there.”

Mum practically wet herself with laughing. She is so so sad and embarrassing. After the policeman had gone I just looked at her, and she said, “What? What?”

I said, “You know what. You were practically slavering over him.”

“Well, he was a nice young man – of course, far too young for me.”

Unbelievable!!!




In my bedroom


How very embarrassing my family is.




Midnight


Still, on the plus side, Grandad’s cycling days are over and he can now be on house-burning-down duties for when we go to Hamburger-a-gogo land. Hurrah! And also zippety doo dah!!




Tuesday May 17




Five days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Evening


Oh, I just can’t stand this hanging around waiting to go on the Luuurve Plane.

Come on come on!!!

I’ve been trying out arrival outfits. Boots or shoes? It’s hard to know what to do weatherwise. Also, I may have to go from day wear to evening wear, depending on the timezone business.

I am practising speaking Hamburgese, even in my own head. The key seems to be to add stuff, so instead of weather you say weatherwise. Timewise. Daywise. Luuurvewise, etc.

But on a more seriouswise note, this time business is v.v. aggravating fashionwise.

I said to Jas on the phone (she is opting for sensible sports casual for travelling)…I said to her (Mistress of the Time Lords), “Are we flying backwards in time, or what?”

“Yeah, they are six hours behind us.”

“Why are they? Why can’t they just keep up with us? Didn’t we invent time?”

“What?”

“You know, Greenwich Mean Time – didn’t we invent it? So why can’t they just be the same as us?”

“Because they would be getting up in the middle of the night.”

“So?”

But you can’t reason with Jas.




Wednesday May 18




Four days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Evening


Grandad has come round for instructions about looking after the house and cats.

I am still in a ditherspaz about what to wear. I’ve been through all of my clothes about a million times.

Still, on the plus side, I have definitely decided what to wear nailwise. I’ve chosen Pouting Pink.

I am absolutely full of exhaustiosity.




8:15 p.m.


Dragged myself downstairs for a reviving snack.




In the front room


Grandad started fiddling about in his pockets.

“I’ve got something for you.”

Oh, joy unbounded. A boiled sweet.

I love him and everything, but why does he have to be so, you know…so…grandadish?

The TV was on, with my extremely unfit vati lolling around in front of it. As I sat down to try and get my tights away from Gordy, Vati said, “Now then, Georgia, why don’t you tell me how much spending money you expect for the holiday. Then we’ll have a good laugh and go from there.”

Vair vair amusing. Sadly though, I have to humour him. I said, “Well, it’s only for a week, isn’t it? And we’ve got the hotel rooms and food and so on, so actually, all in all, I think a thousand quid would just about cover it if I don’t buy anything extravagant.”

Mum said, “Don’t be silly, Georgia.”

Grandad said, “Do you remember when you took Georgia to the doctor’s surgery when she was a couple of weeks old?”

Mum ruffled my hair (very annoying) and looked all nostalgic. “I remember every single thing about your life, darling girl. You’ve been a pleasure and joy to me from the moment you were born.”

Dad said, “Bloody hell, Connie! Calm down.”

But Mum had gone off into Mumland, “Do you know you had no hair when you were born – all baldy, like Uncle Eddie. So sweet.”

Oh God.




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