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‘Stop in the name of pants!’
Louise Rennison


Sound the Cosmic Horn for bestselling author Louise Rennison’s ninth book of confessions from crazy but loveable teenager Georgia Nicolson!Now that Georgia has finally won over gorgey Masimo, the Italian Stallion, her old friend and lip-nibbling partner Dave the Laugh has popped up again. Will Georgia go to Pizza-a-gogo land to visit dreamy Masimo? Or could her perfect boy be closer than she thinks. A Sex Kitty’s life is never simple…More hilarious confessions from our fave teen drama queen, Georgia Nicolson.





















To my groovy and fabby and marvy family and mates (including my extended family at HarperCollins and Aitken Alexander).



‘Stop in the name of pants!’ – my latest work of geniosity – is dedicated especially to absent mates. Who have selfishly gone off to have fun. (Yes, you know who you are, Jeddbox and Elton.)



And also to absent mates who aren't really absent but lurking about somewhere pretending to be absent.




Contents




Title Page (#ufb20a3be-57f7-5f43-bcb5-36deb3eff905)Dedication (#udc7c1213-21ef-5f3b-9455-7e9fcd291bb0)A Note from Georgia (#u20edc347-c37f-5a01-b599-142cd8d6c9e9)Deep In The Forest Of Red-Bottomosity (#ua7c17ae2-690a-5492-a99f-f782633542e8)Once More Into The huffmobile (#u8bc76132-440f-5a93-a699-85a3c2178a5c)The Turbulent Washing Machine Of luuurve (#litres_trial_promo)Viking Hornpipes a-gogo!!! (#litres_trial_promo)Big Furry Paw Of fate (#litres_trial_promo)Why can’t Everyone Just Speak English? (#litres_trial_promo)Hark! What Owl Through Yonderwindow breaks? (#litres_trial_promo)Fisticuffs At dawn (#litres_trial_promo)Georgia’s Backing Dancer Portfolio (#litres_trial_promo)The Having-The-Hump Scale (#litres_trial_promo)Georgia’s Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


A Note from Georgia (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Dear chums, chumettes and, er… chummly wummlies,

I write to you from my bed of pain. Once again I have exhausted myself with creativitosity writing ‘Stop in the Name of Pants!’ I am having to lie down with a cup of tea and a Curly Wurly. But that is how vair vair much I care about you all, my little pallies. I am a fool to myself, I know.

I ask only one thing in return and that is this. All of you must dance the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza in classrooms and recreation facilities throughout the world. It doesn't matter if there are only two or three of you, just stand up proudly, get your horns and paddles out (oo-er) and dance!!!

Loads and loads of deep luuurve,



Georgia

xxx



p.s. Some of you don't know what the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza is, do you?

p.p.s. Please don't tell me you didn't know that Vikings had discos.



p.p.p.s. Or that they shouted “Hooooorrrn!!!”



p.p.p.p.s. For those of you who haven't bothered to keep up with my diaries because you are just TOO BUSY, I have put instructions for the dance at the back near the glossary.



p.p.p.p.p.s. What have you been TOO BUSY doing?



p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I suppose you have been TOO BUSY to even know what the having-the-hump scale is as well.



p (x7). s. So I have included that at the back too. My so-called friend Jas (who has the hump pretty much all of the time) would be at number four with you by now (cold-shoulderosity work).



p (x8). s. I really luuurve you and do not mind that you are lazy minxes. That is your special charm. Pip pip. x











Deep in the forest of red-bottomosity (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Saturday July 30th

Camping fiasco

11:30 p.m.


In my tent of shame.

Again.

The rest of my so-called pals are still out in the woods with the lads and I have crept back to the campsite aloney. I can hear snoring from Miss Wilson’s tent and also Herr Kamyer’s. I bet there will be a deputation of voles coming along shortly to complain that they can’t get any sleep because of the racket.




11:32 p.m.


I’m going to forget about everything and just go to sleep in my lovely sleeping bag. On the lovely soft ground. Not. It’s like sleeping on an ironing board. And I do know what that is like actually.




11:33 p.m.


I said coming on this school camping trip would be a fiasco of a sham and I was not wrong.




11:34 p.m.


I was right.




11:35 p.m.


I wonder what the others are doing?




11:36 p.m.


Anyway, the main thing is that I am now, officially, the girlfriend of a Luuurve God. And therefore I have put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand. I will never again be found wandering lonely as a clud into the cakeshop of luuurve. Or picking up some other éclair or tart or fondant fancy. Ditto Eccles cakes and Spotty dick or… shut up, brain.




11:37 p.m.


So, speaking as the official girlfriend of a Luuurve God who has put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand and who will never be wandering around looking for extra cakes, can someone tell me this…

How in the name of God’s pantyhose have I ended up snogging Dave the Laugh?

Also known as Dave the Tart.




Two minutes later


Oh goddy god god. And let us face facts. It wasn’t just a matey type snog. You know, not a – “It’s all right, mate, I’m just a mate accidentally snogging another mate” – sort of snog.

It was, frankly and to get to the point and not beat around the whatsit, a “phwoooaar” snogging situation.




Thirty seconds later


In fact, it was deffo number four and about to be number five.




Four seconds later


Anyway, shut up, brain, I must think. Now is not the time for a rambling trip to Ramble Land. Now is the time to put my foot down with a firm hand and stop snogging my not-boyfriend Dave the Laugh.




One minute later


I mean, I am practically married to Masimo the Luuurve God.




Ten seconds later


Well, give or take him actually asking me to marry him.




Five seconds later


And the fact that he has gone off to Pizza-a-gogo land on holiday and left me here in Merrie but dangerous England to fend for myself. Being made to go on stupid school camping trips with madmen (Miss Wilson and Herr Kamyer).

He has left me here, wandering around defenceless in the wilderness near Ramsgate, miles away from the nearest TopShop.




Three seconds later


And how can I help it if Dave the Laugh burrows into my tent? Because that is more or less what happened. That is le fact.

I was snuggling down under some bit of old raincoat (or sleeping bag, as Jas would say in her annoying oooh isn’t itfun outdoors sort of way). Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was snuggling down earlier tonight after an action-packed day of newt drawing when there was a tap-tap-tapping on the side of the tent. I thought it might have been an owl attack but it was Dave the Laugh and his Barmy Army (Tom, Declan, Sven and Edward) enticing us into their tent with promises of snacks and light entertainment.




Four seconds later


I blame Dave entirely for this. He and I are just mates and I have a boyfriend and he has a girlfriend and that is that, end of story. Not. Because then he comes to the countryside looking for me and waving his Horn about.

We were frolicking around in the lads’ tent, and Dave and me went off for an innocent walk in the woods. You know, like old matey-type mates do. But then I put my foot down a bloody badger hole or something and fell backwards into the river. Anyway, Dave was laughing like a loon for a bit before he reached down and put his arms around me to lift me up the riverbank and I said, “I think I may have broken my bottom.”

And he was really smiling and then he said, “Oh bugger it, it has to be done.”

And he snogged me.

When he stopped I pushed him backwards and looked at him. I was giving him my worst look.

He said, “What?”

I said, “You know what. Don’t just say ‘what’ like that.”

“Like what?”

I said, with enormous dignitosity, “Look, you enticed me with your shenanigans and, erm, puckering stuff.”

He said, “Erm, I think you will find that you agreed to come to my tent in the middle of the night to steal me from my girlfriend.”

I said, “It was you that snogged me.”

He looked at me and then he sighed. “Yeah, I know. I don’t feel very good about this. I’m not so… well, you’re used to it.”

My head nearly exploded. “I’m USED to what??”

He looked quite angry, which felt horrible. I’d seen him angry with me before and I didn’t usually like what he had to say. He went on: “You started all this sounding the Horn business ages ago, using me like a decoy duck and then going out with Robbie, then messing about with me and then going out with Masimo. And then telling me that you felt mixed up.”

I just looked at him. I felt a bit weepy actually. I might as well be wet at both ends.

My eyes filled with tears and I blinked them away and he just kept on looking at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe he had had enough of me and he really hated me.

Then he just walked away and I was left alone. Alone to face the dark woods of my shamenosity and the tutting of Baby Jesus.




Ten seconds later


And I didn’t even know which way the tent was.

The trees looked scary and there was all sorts of snuffling going on. Maybe it was rogue pigs. Pigs who had had enough of the farm life, fed up with just bits of old potato peelings to eat and nowhere to poo in privacy. Maybe these ones wanted a change of menu and had made a bid for freedom by scaling the pigpen fence late at night. Or perhaps they were like the prisoners of war in that old film that Vati’s always rambling on about. The Great Escape. When the prisoners dug a tunnel under the prison fence.

That’s what these pigs must have done. Tunnelled out of the farm to freedom.

There was more snuffling.

Yes, but now they were hungry. Runaways from the farm just waiting to pounce on some food. If they found me, they would think of me like I thought of them. As some chops. Some chops in a skirt. In sopping knickers in my case. Out here in the Wild Woods the trotter was on the other foot.

I could climb up a tree.

Could they climb trees?

Could I climb trees?

Oh God, not death by pig!!!

The scuffling got nearer and then a little black thing scampered out of the undergrowth. It was a vole. How much noise can one stupid little mousey thing make? A LOT is the answer.

I should make friends with it really, because with my luck I will be kidnapped by voles and raised as one of their own. On the plus side, I would never have to face the shame of my red-bottomosity, just spend my years digging and licking my fur and being all aloney on my owney.

Like I am now.

Dave appeared out of the darkness in front of me. I ran over to him and burst into tears. He put his arm around me.

“OK, Kittykat, I’m sorry. Come on, it’s all right. Stop blubbing. Your nose will get all swollen up and you’ll collapse under the weight of your nungas and I can’t carry all of you home.”

It was nice in the forest now. I could see the moon through the trees. And my hiccups had almost gone. As we walked along he smiled at me and stroked my hair. Oooh, he was nice.

He said, “We haven’t done this luuurve business before, so we are bound to be crap at it. I do feel bad about Emma, but that is not your fault. That is my fault. We can put away our Horns and be matey-type mates again. Come on. Cheer up. Be nasty to me again, it’s more normal. I like you and I always have and I always will.”

I sniffed a bit and gave him a brave, quivering but attractive smile. I kept my nostrils fully under control so that they didn’t spread all over my face. As we walked along I could hear little squelching noises coming from the knicker department. With a bit of luck you couldn’t hear it above the noise of rustling voles (also known as my nearly adopted family).

Dave said, “Is that your pants squelching, Gee? You should change them when we get back. You don’t want to get pneumonia of the bum-oley on top of everything else.”

We walked back through the trees in the light of the jolly old big shiny yellow thing, and no, I do not mean an illuminated banana had just appeared, although that would have been good.

Then everything went horrible again; there were some hideous noises coming from the left of us…

“Tom, Tom. over here. I think I’ve found an owl dropping.”

Oh brilliant – Jas, Wild Woman of the Forest, was in the vicinity. Dave took his arm away from my shoulder. I looked up at him, he looked down at me and bent over and kissed me on the mouth really gently.

“Ah well, the end of the line, Kittykat. You go off with your Italian lesbian boyfriend and see how it goes and I’ll try and be a good mate to you. Don’t tell me too much about you and him because I won’t like it – but other than that, let’s keep the accidental outburst of red-bottomosity to ourselves.”

I smiled at him. “Dave, I…”

“Yes?”

“I think I can feel something moving in my undercrackers.”




Midnight


And that is when I scampered off back to Loony Headquarters. That is, our school campsite. To change my nick-nacks.




Ten past midnight


I said to Baby Jesus, “I know I have done wrong and I am sorry times a million, but at least you have been kind enough not to send a plague of tadpoles into my pantaloonies.”




Sunday July 31st

11:00 a.m.


I must say, it was a lot easier getting our tent down than up. I pulled all the peg-type things out of the ground, Rosie and Jools kicked the pole over, and though it wouldn’t go in its stupid bag thing, we made a nice bundle of it in about three minutes flat.

Jas and her woodland mates and Herr Kamyer and Miss Wilson were folding and sorting and putting things in little pockets and so on for about a million years.




Ten minutes later


Rosie, Jools and me stashed our tent bundle in the suitcase holder thing at the side of the coach and got on board past Mr Attwood. The only reason we got on without some sort of Nazi investigation and body search was because he was slumped at the wheel with his cap pulled down over his face.

Rosie said, “That’s how he drives.”

And she is not wrong if the nightmare journey home was anything to go by.




Twenty minutes later


We were having a little zizz on the back seat under a pile of our coats when Jas, patron saint of the Rambling On Society, came on board. I knew that because she came to the back of the coach and shook my shoulder quite violently. I peered at her. She was tremendously red-faced.

I said, “Jas, I am trying to sleep.”

“You didn’t pack your tent up properly.”

I said, “Oh, I’m sorry, are the tent police here?”

She said, “You have just made a big mess of yours in the boot. We had to take it out and pack it up so that we could get ours in!”

“Yes, well, Jas, as you can see, I am very, very busy.”

“You are soooo selfish and lax and that is why you have a million boyfriends, none of whom will stay with you.”

She stormed off to sit at the front near her besties Miss Wilson and Herr Kamyer.

God, she is annoying, but luckily no one else heard her rambling on about the million boyfriends scenario. I wonder if the boys are home yet?




Five minutes later


Herr Kamyer stood up at the front of the bus and said, “Can I haff your attention, girls.” Everyone carried on talking, so he started clapping his hands together.

Mr Attwood jerked to life and said, “It’s time to go.”

Herr Kamyer said, “Ja, ja, danke schön, Herr Driver, but first I vill count zat ve are all pre—”

At which point Mr Attwood put his foot down and Herr Kamyer fell backwards into Miss Wilson’s lap.

Quite, quite horrific.

We just watched the young lovers as they got redder and redder. Like red things at a red party.

Herr Kamyer tried to get off her lap, but the coach was being driven so violently by Mr Mad that he kept falling back again, saying, “Ach, I am sehr sorry I…”

And Miss Wilson was saying, “No, no, it’s quite all right. I mean I…”

Eventually, when Mr Attwood was forced to stop at the lights, Herr Kamyer got into his own seat and pretended to be inspecting his moth collection. Miss Wilson got out her knitting but kept looking over at him.

I said to Rosie, “Just remember this – he was there when Nauseating P. Green did her famous falling into the shower tent fiasco and Miss Wilson was exposed to the world having a shower. He has seen Miss Wilson in the nuddy-pants.”

I was just thinking about popping back to Snoozeland when Ellen dithered into life.

“Er, Georgia… you know when Jas said… well, when she said that you had… like a million boyfriends or something, I mean have you or something?”

Rosie said, “Ellen, gadzooks and lackaday, OF COURSE Georgia hasn’t got a million boyfriends. She would be covered in them if she had.”

Ellen said, “Well, I know but, well, I mean, she’s only got Masimo, and that is like… well…”

Mabs said, “Yeah, Masimo… and the rest.”

I said to Mabs, “Who rattled your cage?”

And Mabs said, “I’m just remarking on the Dave the Laugh factor.”

Ellen sat up then. “What Dave the Laugh factor?”

Oh Blimey O’Reilly’s nose massager! Here we go again, once more into the bakery of love. I am going to have to nip this Dave the Laugh thing in the bud.

I said, “Ellen, did you snog Declan and, if so, what number did you get up to?”

Ellen looked like she had swallowed a sock full of vole poo, which is not a good look.

“Well, I… well, you know, I, well, do you think I did or something?”

I said, “A yes or no any time this side of the grave would be fab, Ellen.”

Ellen said she had to get her cardi from Jas’s rucky and tottered off to sit next to her. Hahahahaha. I am without doubtosity top girlie at red-herringnosity.




4:00 p.m.


Dropped off at the bottom of my road. By some miracle we have arrived home not maimed and crippled by our coach “driver” and school caretaker Elvis Attwood. He hates girls.

I don’t think he has a driving licence. When I politely asked to see it after a near-death experience at a roundabout, he suggested I remove myself before his hand made contact with my arse. Which is unnecessary talk in a man who fought for his country in the Viking invasions. I said to him, “You are only letting yourself down by that kind of talk, Mr Attwood.”




Two minutes later


Walked up the drive to Chez Bonkers. Opened the door and yelled, “Hello, everyone, you can get out the fatted hamster, I am home!!!”




Two minutes later


No one in.

Typico.

I don’t know why they ramble on so much about where I’m going and what time I will be in, when they so clearly don’t give two short flying mopeds.




Kitchen


I’m starving.

Nothing in the fridge of course.

Unless you like out-of-date bean sprouts.




Four minutes later


Slightly mouldy toast, mmmmm. I think I am getting scurvy from lack of vitamin C, my hair feels tired. Perhaps Italian Luuurve Gods like the patchy-hair look in a girlfriend.

I wonder if he has left a message on the phone for me?




Five minutes later


I really wish I hadn’t listened to the messages – it is a terrifying insight into the “life” I lead.

First it was some giggling pal of Mum’s saying that she had met a bloke at a speed-dating night and had got to number six with him. How does she know about the snogging scale? My mum is obviously part crap mother and part seeing-ear dog.

The next message was from Josh’s mum, saying, “After Josh came home with a Mohican haircut I don’t think it is a good idea that he comes round to play with Libby again. I am frankly puzzled as to why she had bread knives and scissors in her bedroom. Also I cannot get the blue make-up off his eyes. I suspect it is indelible ink, which means the word BUM on his forehead will take many hours to get off.”

There was a bit more rambling and moaning, but the gist is that Josh is banned from playing with my little sister Libby.

Dear Gott in Himmel.

And that was it. No message from the Luuurve God. It’s been a week now. I wonder why he hasn’t called? Has he gone off me?

Maybe I did something wrong when we last saw each other.




One minute later


But it was so vair vair gorgey porgey.




One minute later


He said, “We like each other. It will be good, Miss Georgia.”




One minute later


What he didn’t say was, “I will call you as soon as I get there.”




One minute later


Or “I will pay your airfare to Rome, you entrancing Sex Kitty.”




Ten minutes later


God, I am so bored. And my bottom still hurts from my falling-in-the-river fiasco. So I can’t even sit down properly.




One minute later


I wonder if Dave the Laugh will tell Emma about our accidental number four episode. Probably not. After all, it didn’t mean anything and, as he said, we are mates in a matey way. And what goes on in the woods stays in the woods.




Thirty seconds later


Hmmm. He also said in the woods that he has always really liked me. Maybe he meant that in a matey-type mate way.




One minute later


Will I tell Masimo?




One minute later


If he doesn’t ring me, I won’t have to make the decision. Anyway, it was only an accidental number four, verging on the number five. It could happen to anyone.




One minute later


It could happen to Masimo and his ex-girlfriend. What was her name? Gina. Yes, it might happen if, for instance, she happened to be in Rome.




One minute later


Even if she is not there, I bet he and his mates will be roaring round Rome on their scooters smiling at all the girls in their red bikinis or whatever it is they wear there.

Probably nothing. They probably go to work in the nuddy-pants because they are wild and free Pizza-a-gogo types. They don’t have inhibitions like us, they just thrust their nungas forward proudly and untamed. Probably.




In my bedroom looking in the mirror


The only thing that is really thrusting itself forward proudly is my nose. Even Dave mentioned it.




One minute later


Perhaps it has grown bigger and bigger in Masimo’s imagination in the week he has been away. He hasn’t even got a photo of me to remind him that I am more than just a nose on legs.




Five minutes later


Perhaps because he is foreign he is a bit psychic. Perhaps he has a touch of the Mystic Meg about him and he knows about the Dave the Laugh incident.




One minute later


Jas has probably sent a message via an owl to let him know. Just because she has got the hump with me. AGAIN. About the stupid tent business.




Lying on my bed of pain

8:00 p.m.


And I mean that quite literally because my cat Angus (also known as a killing machine) is pretending my foot is a rabbit. In a sock. If I even move it slightly, he leaps on it and starts biting it.

Also, ouch and double ouch. I can’t get into a comfy position to take the pressure off my bum-oley. I think I may have actually broken something in my bottom. I don’t know what there is to break, but I may have broken it. I wonder if it is swollen up?

Then I heard the phut phut of the mighty throbbing engine that is my vati’s crap car. Carefully easing my broken bottom off the bed and slapping at Angus, I went downstairs. Angus was still clinging to my sock-rabbit-foot even though his head was bonking against the stairs.

As I got to the hall I heard the front door being kicked. Oh good, it was my delightful little sister.

“Gingey, Gingey, let me in!!! Let me in, poo sister.”

Then there was squealing, like a pig was being pushed through the letter box.




Thirty seconds later


It wasn’t a pig being pushed through the letter box, it was Gordy, cross-eyed son of Angus. I could see his ginger ears poking through.

Oh, bloody hell.

I said, “Libby, don’t put Gordy though the letter box. I’m opening the door.”

She yelled, “He laaikes it.”

When I got the door open, it was to find Libby in Wellington boots and a bikini. Gordy was struggling and yowling in her little fat arms and finally squirmed free and leaped off into the garden sneezing and shaking.

Libby was laughing. “Funny pussy. Hnk hnk.” Then she came up to me and started hugging my knees and kissing them. In between snogging, Libby was murmuring, “I lobe my Gingey.”

Mutti came up the steps in a really short dress, very tight round the nungas. So very sad. She gave me a hug, which can be quite frightening seeing her enormous basoomas looming towards your head. She said, “Hello, Gee, did you have a larf camping?”

I said, “Oh yes, it was brillopads. We made instruments out of dried beans and Herr Kamyer did impressions of crap stuff with his hands that no one could get except Jas. And, as a pièce de résistance, I fell in a pond and was attacked by great toasted newts.”

She wasn’t even listening as usual, off in her own Muttiland.

“We went to see Uncle Eddie’s gig at The Ambassador last night. It was like an orgy; one of the women got so carried away she stole his feather codpiece.”

Is that really the sort of thing a growing, sensitive girl should have to listen to? It was like earporn.




One minute later


I watched her bustling about making our delicious supper (i.e. opening a tin of tomato soup). She was so full of herself burbling on and on.

“Honestly, you should have been there, it was a hoot.”

I said, “Oooooooh yeah, it would have been great to have been there. Really great.” But she didn’t get it.

Libby was still kissing my knees and giggling. She had forgotten that they were my knees; they were now just her replacement friends for Josh. But then she had a lovers’ tiff with her knee-friends, biffed me on the knee quite hard and went off into the garden, yelling for Gordy.

I said, “Mum, you didn’t take Libby with you to the baldy-o-gram fiasco, did you?”

“Don’t be silly, Georgia, I’m not a complete fool.”

I said, “Well, actually, you are as it happens.”

She said, “Don’t be so rude.”

I said, “Where’s Dad? Have you managed to shake him off at last?”

And then Vati came in. In his leather trousers. Oh, I might be sick. Not content with the horrificnosity of the trousers, he kissed me on my hair. Urgh, he had touched my hair; now I would have to wash it.

He was grinning like a loon and taking his jacket off.

“Hello, no camping injuries then. No vole bites. You didn’t slip into a newt pond or anything?”

I looked at him suspiciously. I hoped he wasn’t turning into Mystic Meg as well in his old age. I said, “Dad, are you wearing a woman’s blouse?”

He went completely ballisticisimus. “Don’t be so bloody cheeky! This is an original sixties Mod shirt. I will probably wear it when I go clubbing. Any gigs coming up?”

Mum said, “Have you heard anything from the Italian Stallion?”

Dad had his head in the fridge and I could see his enormous leather-clad bum leering at me. I had an overwhelming urge to kick it, but I wasn’t whelmed because I knew he would probably ban me from going out for life.

I gave Mum my worst look and nodded over at the fridge. I needn’t have worried, though, because Dad had found a Popsicle in the freezer and was as thrilled as it is possible for a fat bloke in constraining leather trousers to be. He went chomping off into the front room.

Mum was adjusting her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and looking at me.

I said, “What?”

And she said, “So… have you heard anything?”

I don’t know why I told her, but it just came tumbling out.

“Mum, why do boys do that ‘see you later’ thing and then just not see you later? Even though you don’t even know when later is.”

“He hasn’t got in touch then?”

“No.”

She sat down and looked thoughtful, which was a bit alarming. She said slowly, “Hmm – well, I think it’s because – they’re like sort of nervous gazelles in trousers, aren’t they?”

I looked at her. “Mum, are you saying that Masimo is a leaping furry animal who also plays in a band and rides a scooter? And snogs?”

She said, “He snogs, does he?”

Damn, drat, damnity dratty damn. And also merde. I had broken my rule about never speaking about snognosity questions with old mad people.

I said quickly, “Anyway, what do you mean about the gazelle business?”

“Well, I think that boys are more nervous than you think. He wants to make sure that you like him before he makes a big deal about it. How many days is it since he went?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been counting the days actually, I’m not that sad.”

She looked at me. “How many hours then?”

“One hundred and forty.”

We were interrupted by Gordy and Angus both trying to get through the cat flap at once. Quickly followed by Libby.




In my bedroom

8:45 p.m.


I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs because he hasn’t taken the rubbish out. And never does. On and on.

I will never behave like this when I am married. Mind you, I will not be marrying a loon in tight trousers who thinks Rolf Harris is a really good artist.

Who will I be marrying at this rate? I haven’t been out of my room for years and the phone hasn’t rung since it was invented.

Why is no one phoning me? Not even the Ace Gang. I’ve been home for hours and hours. Don’t they care?

The trouble with today is that everyone is so obsessed with themselves. They just have no time for me.




Five minutes later


At last, a bit of peace to contemplate my broken bum. Oh no, here they go again. They are so childish. Mum shouted out, “Bob, you know that sort of wooden thing in the bedroom, in the corner? Well, it’s called a set of drawers and some people, people who are grown up and no longer have their mummy wiping their botties, well those sort of people put their clothes in the drawers. So that other people don’t have to spend their precious time falling over knickers and so on.”

Uh-oh. Fight, fight!!

Then I could hear him shambling into their bedroom and singing, “One little sock in the drawer, two socks in the drawer and two pairs of attractive undercrackers on the head then into the drawer, yesssss!!”

How amazing. I shouted down, “Mum, is Dad on some kind of medication? Or have his trousers cut off the circulation to his head?”

That did it. Vati hit number seven on the losing it scale (complete ditherspaz). He yelled up, “Georgia… this isn’t anything to do with you!”

I said, “Oh, that’s nice. I thought we were supposed to be a lovely family and do stuff together.”

He just said, “Anyway, where is your sister? Is she up there with you?”

Why am I Libby’s so-called nanny? Haven’t I got enough trouble with my own life? I am not my sister’s keeper, as Baby Jesus said. Or was it Robin Hood? I don’t know. Some bloke in a skirt anyway.

I said, “No. Have you tried the airing cupboard or the cat basket?”




Five minutes later


Things have got worse. While Mum went hunting for Bibbsy, Dad unfortunately decided to check the phone messages. He heard Mum’s mate’s message. I could hear him tutting. And then it was Josh’s mum’s message.

He had the nervy spaz of all nervy spazzes, shouting and carrying on. “What is it with this family??? Why did Libby have a bread knife in her bedroom? Probably because you are too busy pratting around with your so-called mates to bother looking after your children!”

That did it for Mum. She shouted back, “How dare you! They’re MY children, are they? If you took some notice of them, that would be a miracle. You care more about that ridiculous bloody three-wheeled clown car.”

Mum had called his car a clown car. Tee-hee.

Dad had really lost it. “That car is an antique.”

I shouted, “It’s not the only one.”

Mum laughed, but Dad said, “Right, that’s it, I’m off. Don’t wait up.”

Mum shouted, “Don’t worry, I won’t.” The door slammed and there was silence.

Then there was the sound of the clown car being driven off at high speed (two miles an hour) down the driveway.

And silence again as it whirred away into the distance.

Then a little voice said, “Mummy, my bottom is stuck in the bucket.”




9:30 p.m.


Dear God, what a nightmare. This has taken my mind off the oven of luuurve situation.

Libby has wedged herself into the outdoor metal bucket. We pulled her and wiggled her about but we can’t get it off.

Mum said, “Go and get me some butter from the fridge. We can smear it on her and sort of slide her out.”

Of course, we didn’t have any butter; we had about a teaspoon of cottage cheese but Mum said it wasn’t the same.




Twenty-five minutes later


In the end Mum made me go across the road and ask Mr Across the Road if we could borrow some butter. She said I could lie better.

Mr Across the Road was wearing a short nightshirt and I kept not looking anywhere below his chin. He was all nosey about the late-night butter scenario though.

“Doing a bit of baking, are you?”

I said, “Er… yes.”

“It’s a bit late to start, isn’t it?”

I said, “Er, well, it’s emergency baking. It has to be done by tomorrow.”

He said, “Oh, what are you making?”

How the hell did I know? I was lying. And also the only kind of confectionery I knew were the cakes I had got from the bakery of love. The Robbie éclair, the Masimo cream horn and then I remembered the Dave the Tart scenario and quickly said, “Erm, we’re making tarts. For the deaf. It’s for charity.”

He said, “Tarts for the deaf? That’s a new one on me. I’ll have to go down to the storeroom for some packets.” And he ambled off.

And that is when Junior Blunder Boy and full-time twit came in. Oscar.

He looked at me and said, “Yo, wa’appen, bitch?”

What was he talking about and also what was he wearing? He had massive jeans on about fifty sizes too big for him. He had to sort of waddle about like a useless duck to keep them from falling down. And pull them up every five seconds. How spectacularly naff and sad he was. I just looked at him as he waddled over to the kitchen counter. He reached up to get a can of Coca-Cola from a shelf and momentarily forgot about his elephant jeans. They fell to his ankles. Leaving him standing there in his Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers.

I said to him, “Oscar, you are wearing Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers. I know this because, believe it or not, your trousers have fallen off.”

He said, “Yes man, me mean to do that. Be cool, it is righteous.” And he shuffled off, still with the trousers round his ankles.

I will never, ever tire of the sheer bonkerosity of boydom.




11:00 p.m.


It took us nearly half an hour to get Mr Bucket off Libby. We greased as much of her bottom as we could reach, like a little suckling pig. Eventually we cut through the top of her panties and managed to make a bit of leeway and free the bum-oley.

For some toddlers, being greased up and pulled by brute force out of a metal bucket might have been a traumatic experience. But then not all toddlers are insane. Libby laughed and sang through the whole episode, amusing herself by gobbling stray bits of butter and smearing other bits on my head. Oh, how I joined in the merry times. Not.

In addition, Gordy and Angus lolloped in to lick at the leftover butter on her botty. Soooo disgusting. Libby was shouting, “They is ticklin me!!! Heggy heggy ho!!!”




Back in bed


It is like the botty casualty department in here. My bottom, which I have had no time to attend to, is being supported by Libby’s swimming ring and I have a buttered-up child rammed in next to me.

Also, have I got a boyfriend or not?




Midnight


And I am still thinking about the Dave the Laugh accidental snogging in the forest incident.




12:10 a.m.


Perhaps this is God’s little way of saying, “She who lives by the red bottom gets to lie in a rubber ring.”











Once more into the huffmobile (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Monday August 1st

8:00 a.m.


Oww oww and double owww!! I think my botty has taken a turn for the worse. I wonder if it is swollen up?




Looking in the mirror


It does look a bit on the swollen side. Oh marvellous. I will have to ask Jas if I can borrow some of her enormous winter pants. She will have got them out of her winter store by now. She starts ironing her school pants about a month before we are forced back to Stalag 14. Which reminds me, we only have about four weeks of holiday left. Sacré bleu and merde.

Libby has already scarpered off to get ready for nursery, so I can just have a little dolly daydream about snogging the Luuurve God. If I make a mental picture of us snogging, I might attract him to me through the psychic ethery stuff.




Ten minutes later


I can hear the postman coming up the drive. Ah, the postie. It’s a lovely job being a postie; you see it in all ye olde films that ye olde parents watch. Mr Postie coming up the drive with a cheery whistle and a handful of exciting letters for the family. A “Good morning, ma’am” to the mistress of the house and then—

“I’ve got a bloody stick, you furry freak, and I’m not afraid to use it!!!”

Charming. Utterly, utterly charming.

I looked out of the window. Angus was sitting on the dustbin showing off to Naomi, his mad Burmese girlfriend and slag, by taunting the postie – hissing and doing pretend biffing, sticking his claws in and out. The postie had to get by the dustbin to get to the door and he was waving a big stick about in Angus’s direction. Angus loves a stick. The larger the better. He lay down and started purring so loudly I could hear it in my bedroom. I don’t know why he loves sticks so much, but he does. Almost as much as he loves cars.

He thinks cars are like giant stupid mice on wheels. That he can chase after.

He brought a stick home the other day that was so big, it took him half an hour to figure out how to get it through the cat flap. He did it, though, because he is top cat.




Two minutes later


It was the same with the ginormous dead pigeon. Angus backed his way through the cat flap dragging the feet first, and then Gordy heave-hoed the head bit through.

It was an amazing double act. Father and son were very impressed with themselves. Although slightly covered in feathers. They even arranged the pigeon so that it was looking towards the door and propped up so Mum could get the full benefit when she came in.

She did get the full benefit and went ballistic, jumping on a chair and screaming etc. Angus and Gordy and the dead pigeon all looked at her.

“Bloody murdering furry thugs!!!” she yelled.

I said, “Look, you are really hurting their feelings.”

And then she threw the washing-up bowl at me. That is the kind of mothering I have to put up with.




One minute later


The postie has bravely got past Angus and disappeared from view as he posts our letters through the letter box. Angus has disappeared as well. Oh, I know what he is doing!

He is doing his vair vair amusing trick of lurking in the top of the hedge to leap down on the postie’s head as he passes by. Tee-hee. Happy days. I wish I was a cat. At least I would get fed now and again.

I wouldn’t be quite so keen on all the bum-oley licking. Although as mine is so swollen now, it would probably be easier to reach.

Mum yelled up, “Gee, come down and have brekkie and say goodbye to your family.”

I said, “Have I still got one? I thought that Father had left us and would never be back. That is what he promised.”

Dad yelled up, “You think you are so bloody funny, but you won’t when I don’t give you your ten-quid pocket money. Nothing to spend on your eyeliner or nit cream or whatever else it is that you plaster yourself with.”

Nit cream? Has he finally snapped?

Mum said, “Stop it, you two. Oooh look, here is a foreign postcard addressed to Georgia – I wonder who it’s from?”

Oh my giddy god’s pyjamas!!! I leaped downstairs, putting the pain of my bottom behind me. Tee-hee. Oh brilliant, my brain has gone into hysterical clown mode.




Thirty seconds later


Dad had the postcard in his hand and was reading it!!! Noooooo!

He was saying in a really crap Pizza-a-gogo accent, “Ciao, Georgia, it is smee.”

I tried to get the postcard from him. “Dad, that is private property addressed to me. If it doesn’t say ‘to some mad fat bloke’, it isn’t yours.”

Dad just went on reading it. “I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family.”

Finally I ripped it out of his hand and took it upstairs.

Mum said, “You are mean, Bob. You know what she is like.”

Dad said, “Yes, I do. She’s insane like all the other bloody women in this family. Hang on a minute… what the hell happened to my car-washing bucket?”

Mum said, “We had to hit it with a hammer in the end. Libby got her bottom stuck in it.”

Dad said, “I rest my case.”




In my room


Oh God, I am sooooo excited, my eyes have gone cross-eyed. What does it say?




Twenty seconds later


Ciao, Georgia,

It is smee. I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family. I am hot. (You don’t have to tell me that, mate.) I am playing fun. Are you playing fun? I miss I you me.

I call on the telefono on Tuesday for you. Ciao, bellissima, Masimo xxx




An hour later


After about three thousand years and a half, the Swiss Family Mad all crashed off to ruin other people’s lives and I could get on the old blower.

I nearly dialled Wise Woman of the Forest before I remembered that she had practically called me the Whore of Babylon. She is so full of suspicionosity. And annoyingnosity. How dare she suggest in front of everyone that I had been up to hanky-panky and rudey-dudeys with Dave the Laugh? She knows very well that I am going out with a Luuurve God. Who is a) hot and b) playing fun.

What in the name of arse does “playing fun” mean?

I must consult with my gang.

But not her.

I am ignorez-vousing her with a firm hand and it serves her right. I hope she realises that I am ignorez-vousing her, otherwise it’s all a bit pointless.




Two minutes later


I may have to call her and let her know I am ignorez-vousing her, as she can be a bit on the dense side.

Phoned Jas.

Her mum answered. “Hello, Georgia. Gosh, you had a fabulous time camping, didn’t you? Jas said you sang and played games till all hours.”

I said, “Er yes…”

“You had a great time, I bet.”

“Er yes, it was very, erm, campey.”

“Good. I’ll just call Jas, dear. I think she’s in her bedroom dusting and rearranging her owls and so on.”

You couldn’t really write it, could you? If I wrote a book and I said: “I’ve got a mate who dusts her collection of stuffed owls and follows greater toasted newts about,” people would say: “I’m not reading that sort of stupid exaggeration. Next thing you know, someone will say they went to a party dressed as a stuffed olive. Or accidentally snogged three boyfriends at once.” Hang on a minute, everything has gone a bit déjà vu-ish.

Jas came on the phone. “Yes.”

“Jas, it is me, the Whore of Babylon, but I am preparing myself to forgive you.”

“What are you forgiving me for?”

“Because you are a naughty pally saying things about me being selfish and lax and having a million boyfriends.”

Jas said, “It’s up to you how many boyfriends you have. I am not my brother’s keeper.”

“Jas, I know you aren’t. You haven’t got a brother.”

“I mean you.”

“I haven’t got a brother either, thank the Lord. I do, however, have an insane sister, who by the way is now probably going to be done for TBH.”

“You mean GBH – grievous bodily harm.”

“No, I mean TBH. Toddler bodily harm. Josh’s mum has complained about her and she is suspended from nursery school. She is staying with Grandfarty and he is looking after her. She is the first person in our family to get a restraining order besides Grandad.”

Jas was not what you would call full of sympatheticnosity.

“I don’t think she will be the last person in your family to get a restraining order, Georgia. I am a bit busy actually.”

“Jas, please don’t have Mrs Hump with me. I need you, my dearest little pally wally. Pleasey please, be frendy wendys. Double please with knobs. And a tiny little knoblet. And—”

“All right, all right, stop going on.”

She deffo had the minor hump, but it was only four on the having-the-hump scale. (cold-shoulderosity work).

“Jas, come on. Remember the laugh we had when we all snuck off to the boys’ tent? And I came and told you that Tom was there, didn’t I? Even though you were singing ‘Ging Gang Gooly’.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I displayed magnanimosity, which isn’t something everyone can say. But I did it because I luuurve you. A LOT.”

“OK, don’t go on.”

“You are not ashamed of our luuurve, are you, Jas?”

“Look, shut up. People might hear.”

“What do you mean, the people who live in the telephone?”

“NO, I mean, anyway, what’s happened?”

“I’ve got a postcard from Masimo and we have to call an extraordinary general meeting of the Ace Gang.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”




In the park

2:00 p.m.


Naaaice and sunny. I wore my denim miniskirt and halter neck and some groovy sandals. I will have to do something with my legs, though, because they give me the droop, they are so pale. Rosie had some eye-catching shorts on; they had pictures of Viking helmets all over them. She said, “Sven had them specially printed in my honour. Groovy, aren’t they?”

I said, “That is one word for them.”

Rosie said, “Sven has got his first dj-ing job next weekend and I am going to be his groupie. You all have to come.”




Ten minutes later


We settled down in the shade underneath the big chestnut tree by the swings. The bees were singing and the birds a-buzzing, dogs scampering around, people eating ice creams, toddlers sticking ice creams in their eyes by mistake etc. A lovely, lovely summer afternoon, ideal to sort out the game of luuurve.

We had just passed round the chuddie and decided for Ellen where she should sit after about eight minutes of: “Well, erm, I should sit in the shade really, don’t you think, because of the ultraviolet, but, erm, what about, erm, not like getting the sun and then like maybe not getting enough vitamin D because that would be, like, not great. Or something.”

Finally she sat with her top part in the shade and her legs sticking in the sun because we told her no one had ever got cancer of the knees. Which might or might not be true, but sometimes (in fact, very often, in my experience) lying is the best policy. Especially if you can’t be arsed talking about something boring any more.




One minute later


I don’t know why I bother lying because Ellen has gone off to the loos to run her wrists under cold water so she doesn’t get sunstroke of the arms.

Jas still hasn’t turned up. I wonder if she has progressed to number six on the hump scale and is doing pretend deafnosity?




Thirty seconds later


The Ace Gang started talking about the camping trip and sneaking out to see the lads at night.

Mabs said, “I had a go at snogging with Edward.”

Jools said, “What was it like?”

Mabs chewed and popped and said, “Quite groovy. We did four and then a spot of five.”

I said, “Oh, so you missed out four and a half as well. I said I thought it was a WUBBISH idea that Mrs Newt Knickers came up with. Who apart from her and Tom would do hand snogging?”

Mabs said, “What do you mean ‘as well’?”

I said, “What do you mean ‘What do you mean as well?’”

Mabs put her face really close to mine. “Georgia, you said, and forgive me if I’m right, ‘Oh, so you missed out four and a half as well.’ Which means, ‘Oh, so you missed out four and a half as well AS ME.’ Meaning you must have missed out four and a half with someone. The only someone around was Dave the Laugh.”

Uh-oh, my red-herringnosity skills were letting me down.

Mabs was going on and on like Jas’s little helper. “So what did you get up to with Dave the Laugh by the river?”

I said in a casualosity-at-all-times sort of way, “Ah well, I’m glad you asked me that. Because suspicionosity is the enemy of friendshipnosity. The simple truth is that Dave and I were playing, erm, tig. Yes, and I accidentally fell in a stream and then I went back to my tent because I was, er, wet.”

Rosie said, “You and Dave were playing tig. I see. One moment. I must give this some serious thought. Luckily I have my pipe.”

Oh no.




Two minutes later


Good Lord, I am being interrogated by Inspector Bonkers of the Yard.

The inspector (i.e. Rosie with her pipe and beard on) continued, “You expect us to believe that you and Dave the Laugh gambolled around the woods playing a little game of tig?”

I said, “Yes.”

Rosie said, “You are, it has to be said, my little chumlet, even dimmer than you look.”

Ellen came back then, just in the knickers of time. I smiled at her and said in a lighthearted but menacing way, “You haven’t told us about Declan. It is Ace Gang rules that we do sharesies about snogging.”

Rosie and Mabs raised their eyebrows at me, but I ignorez-voused them.

Ellen heaved herself into her Dithermobile and said, “Well, Declan showed, well, he showed me something and—”

Inspector Bonkers of the Yard winked, sucked on her pipe and went, “Ay ay.”

Ellen went even redder and more dithery.

“No, I mean, it was his Swiss Army knife.”

Inspector Bonkers got out a pretend notebook. “All right. So you looked at his knife and then did you snog?”

Ellen said, “Well, when we were, like, leaving to go back to camp – he gave me a number three and then—”

“Then quickly went on to number four.”

“Well, no, he…”

“He missed out number four and went straight for the nungas?”

“No, well, he – he, like, he said, he said, ‘See you later.’”

Oh dear God, we were once more in the land of S’later. Will we never be free?




One minute later


But at least it stopped anyone going on about the Dave the Laugh fiasco.




One minute later


Jas turned up. She looked quite nice actually, if you like that mad fringey look. She said, “I was just talking to Tom on the phone. He’s playing footie this arvie with the lads. He’s got some new boots.”

I said, “No!! Honestly!”

And she gave me a huffty look. I don’t want to have more rambling lectures from her, so I went and gave her a hug and a piece of chuddie.

Anyway, we had just settled down and I’d got out my postcard from Masimo to show the gang, when Jools said, “Oh God, Blunder Boys alert!”

They were shuffling about by the bushes at the far end of the swing park. Mark Big Gob was absent, probably carrying his tiny girlfriend around somewhere. Junior Blunder Boy was with them though. I noticed he had a belt round his elephant jeans. So now he didn’t look like a twit any more. He looked like a twit with a belt on.

Mabs said, “Don’t look at them and they’ll get bored.”

I said, “Can we get back to the matter I hold in my hand?”

Rosie went, “Oo-er.”

I gave her my worst look and went on, “What do you think ‘I am playing fun’ means?”

Ellen said, “Well, erm, I don’t know but you know, well – well, you know when a boy says ‘See you later’, well, like when Declan said ‘See you later’ and that was, like, three days ago now. So, er, this is, like, later, isn’t it? Or something. And he hasn’t, like, seen me.”

Even though we were actually officially having the official Ace Gang meeting officially for me (as I had officially called it), I did feel quite sorry for Ellen. And also it has to be said it would be a bloody relief if she did get off with Declan.

Then she would leave Dave the Laugh alone.

Not that it is any of my business whether she leaves Dave the Laugh alone or not.

I mean, he has a girlfriend anyway.

Probably.

Unless he has told her about the accidental snogging and she is even now taking kickboxing lessons for when she next sees me.

Anyway, shut up, brain. He has got a girlfriend, which is good because so have I.

Well, not a girlfriend exactly, but an Italian person.

Who incidentally does not have a handbag.

Or a sports bra.

Whatever Dave the so-called Laugh might say. Why is Dave the Laugh sneaking about in my brain???

Jools said to Ellen, “Maybe he’s a bit shy.”

Ellen said, “Yes, but he, I mean, he showed me his Swiss Army knife.”

I looked at her. What is the right response to that? I said, “Well, maybe he is a bit backward then?”

Ellen looked like she was going to cry. Oh Blimey O’Reilly’s Y-fronts, if she starts blubbing, I’ll never get round to talking about the Italian Stallion.

I said quickly, “I know… Jas can ask Tom to get Declan and the lads to come along to Sven’s gig, and hopefully that will be a good excuse for him to get his knife out again (oo-er) and everything will be tickety-boo and so on.”

Ellen looked a bit cheered up.

I said, “Now, shall we get back to the official meeting? What do you think ‘I am playing fun’ means?” And that is when an elastic band hit me on the cheek.

“Owww, bloody owww!!!”

Amazingly, not content with being complete losers, tossers and spoons, the Blunder Boys were flicking rubber bands at us from behind our tree. And then hiding behind it as if we wouldn’t know where they were. Like the Invisible Twits. Not.

I got up and went behind the tree where they were all larding about, puffing smoke from fags and hitching their trousers up. Dear God. I said to one of the speccy genks, “What is it you want?”

And he said, “Show us your nungas.”

They all started snorting and saying, “Yeah, get them out for the lads.”

Rosie came up behind me and loomed over them. She is not small. She said, “OK, that’s a good plan. We’ll show you our nungas, but first of all we need to see your trouser snakes, to check that all is in order.”

Ellen and Jools and Mabs and even Woodland Jas came and ganged up in front of them.

I said, “Come on, lads, drop the old trouser-snake holders.”

They started backing off, holding on to their trousers.

Jools said, “Are you a bit shy? Shall we help you?”

They started walking really quickly backwards as we kept walking. Then they just took off and got over the fence at the back of the park.




Twelve minutes later


The Ace Gang wisdomosity is that “I am playing fun” and “Are you playing fun?” roughly translated into Billy Shakespeare language is “I am having a nice time but am missing you. Are you having a nice time but missing me?”

Which is nice.

So all should be smoothy friendly friendly, except that there is always a Jas in the manger.

After about two hours of talking about it, we were all going home and I just innocently said, “So what do you think I should wear when he phones up?”

And Jas immediately climbed into the huffmobile for no apparent reason. She was all red and flicking her fringe around like it was a fringe-ometer.

“Why is it always like this with you, Georgia? Why don’t you just say and do normal stuff? For instance, if Tom wanted me to go to the nature reserve with him he would say, ‘Jas, do you want to go to the nature reserve with me? There is a conservation day and we could clear some of the canalside of weeds.’

“And I would say, ‘Yes, that would be fab, Tom.’ Simple pimple, not stupidity and guessing what ‘playing fun’ means and what to wear on the phone.”

What was she rambling on about now?

I said, “Jas are the painters in, because I think you are being just a tad more mentally unstable than normal.”

She really had lost her cheese now, because she shouted at me, “Look, I haven’t got any sun protector on and I am almost bound to get peely peely now thanks to you going on. And the short and short of it is that HE IS CALLING YOU TOMORROW AND YOU CAN ASK HIM WHAT HE MEANS!!!” And she stormed off.

Blimey. We all looked at one another.

I said, “I think it’s owl trouble.”




In bed


What am I going to wear for the phone call though? I wish I wasn’t so pale; I think people can tell if you are a bit tanned. Even down the phone. I bet I can tell immediately if he has a nice tan.




Two minutes later


Actually, if he is tanned I think I might faint. I can’t stand him being much more gorgey than he already is.




Five minutes later


Should I prepare a speech? Or at least a normal conversation. With some handy topics in case I mislay my brain or it decides to go on an expedition to Outer Loonolia.




One minute later


So let’s see, what have I done lately?

Loads of stuff.




Five minutes later


I don’t think I will mention Miss Wilson exposing herself to Herr Kamyer.




Two minutes later


Or breaking my bum-oley in the river.




Four minutes later


In fact, perhaps it’s better to leave the whole camping fiasco to one side. I will only have Dave the Laugh popping into my brain. I will stick to lighthearted banter.

Should I tell him about the tarts for the deaf episode?




Three minutes later


Or Junior Blunder Boy’s Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers?




Two minutes later


None of it sounds that normal, to be frank. I will stick to world affairs and art.




Two minutes later


I could ask him what he thinks about the foreign exchange rate. Well, I could if I knew what it meant.




One minute later


Where is Rome anyway? Is it in the boot bit of Italy? Or is Spain the booty bit?

I’m really worried about tomorrow now. I will never sleep and then I will have big dark rings under my eyes and…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.




Tuesday August 2nd

9:30 a.m.


I was just having a dream about being in Rome with the Luuurve God. I had a cloak on and Masimo said, “So, cara, what have you come to the fancy-dress party as?” And I dropped the cloak and said, “A fried egg.”

The phone rang and I practically broke my neck tripping over Angus and Gordy, who just emerged from the shadows.

I couldn’t say anything because I was so nervous.

Then I heard Grandad say, “Hello, hello, speak up.”

I said, “Grandad, I haven’t said anything yet.”

He was in full-Grandad mode. “You’ll like this: what do pigs use if they hurt themselves? Ay ay??? Oinkment. Do you get it, do you see??? Oinkment!!! Oh, I make myself laugh. Are you courting yet? You should be – there’s nothing like a bit of snogging to perk you up.”

Oh dear God, my grandvati was talking about snogging.

Now I have finally experienced every kind of porn. This is mouldyporn.




Two minutes later


I managed to get him off the phone by saying good morning to Libby (she purred back), and promising to visit and have a game of hide-and-seek with him and the other residents. I don’t mind that so much, as when it is my turn to hide I just go to the shops and then come back half an hour later and get in a cupboard. It keeps them happy for hours.

I do love my grandad though. He is one of the most cheerful people I know and now he is going to have Maisie as his new knitted wife. Aaaahhh.

Mum was wandering around in the kitchen like Madame Zozo of, erm, Zozoland. In a semi-see-through nightie. It’s her day off and she looked like she might settle in for hours. I must get rid of her.

I said in an interested and lighthearted fashion, “What time are you going out? In a minute or two? To make the best of the day?”

She sat down, actually resting her basoomas on the tabletop, presumably because she was already tired of lugging them about. Please save me from the enormous-jug gene.

She said, “I thought you and I could go out and do something groovy together.”

Groovy?

I said, “Mum, are you mad because I tell you this for free a) I am not going out with you and b) the same with knobs on.”

Mum said, “Hahaha, that worried you. Are you having a bit of a nervy spazmarama attack about Masimo ringing you?”

I was truly shocked. “Mum, it is not a nervy spazmarama, it is a spaz attack, which is number six on the losing it scale – hang on a minute. How do you know about a spaz attack anyway? Have you been snooping through my private drawers?”

She didn’t bother to reply because she was too busy eating jam with a spoon out of the jar. She will get so fat that she will get trapped in Dad’s clown car and have to drive endlessly up and down our driveway begging for snacks from passers-by. Good.

When she stopped chomping, she said, “Me and my mates have loads of sayings and stuff. We have a real laugh. It’s not just you and your mates, you know. I have a life.”

I tried not to laugh.

“In aquaerobics the other day Fiona laughed so much at the instructor’s choice of music that she weed herself in the pool. When she told me I nearly drowned. We had to all leave the class and I don’t think we can go back.”

She was hiccuping and giggling like a twerp. Is it any wonder that I find myself in trouble with boys when I have this sort of thing as my example?

I left the kitchen with a dignitosity-at-all-times sort of walk. I have a call from the cakeshop of luuurve to think about.




Back in my bedroom

Ten minutes later


What shall I wear, what shall I wear? I tell you this, I’m not going to wear anything yellow after the fried egg dream.

I could wear my bikini. My red one with the dots on it. They tend to wear red bikinis all the time the Italian girls, probably even if they work in banks and cafes and so on. Maybe not for nursing though; it might not be hygienic. My mum said that when she had an Italian boyfriend she was on the beach and this bloke rode up on a motorbike. And this girl who just had on the bottoms of a bikini and some really high heels came jogging up. She got on the back of the bike, lit a fag and they roared off with her nunga-nungas flying.




Back in the kitchen

9:45 a.m.


Why won’t Mum go out? I have my bikini on underneath my ordinary clothes ready to rip off when the phone rings.




Five minutes later


She is just rambling on and on about herself. I already know more than I want to know about her.




9:55 a.m.


Oh nooooooo. Now she is talking about “feelings” and “relationships” and what is worse is, it’s not even my feelings or relationships, it’s hers!!! How horrific.

She says she feels that she doesn’t share many interests with Dad.

I said, “Well, who does?”

She didn’t even hear me, she just went on and on. “I think when I met him I was a different person and now I’ve changed.”




10:10 a.m.


The Luuurve God is going to phone any minute and she will still be here.

Mum said, “I don’t blame him, but people do change and want different things.”

I said quickly, “Yeah, yeah, you’re so right. I think you need a change – a change of, er, scenery. You need to go out into the sunshine and meet your mates and ask them what they feel. Maybe go for a slap-up meal. You’ve only had a pound or two of jam today, you’ll be peckish. Go for a pizza and maybe have some vino tinto




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