She who laughs last laughs the laughingest

sunday november 21st

my bedroom
4: 05 p.m.

I’ve just seen a sparrow be quite literally washed off its perch on a tree. It should have had its umbrella up. But even if it had had its umbrella up it might have slipped on a bit of wet leaf and crashed into a passing squirrel. That is what life is like. Well, it’s what my life is like.

Once more I am beyond the Valley of the Confused and treading lightly in the Universe of the Huge Red Bottom. What is the matter with me? I love the Sex God and he is my only one and only, but try telling that to my lips. Dave the Laugh only has to say, “You owe me a snog, ” and they start puckering up. Well, they can go out on their own in the future.

4: 30 p.m.

I wonder why the Sex God hasn’t phoned me? The Stiff Dylans got back yesterday from their recording shenanigan. Maybe he got van lag from traveling from London? Or maybe he has spoken to Tom and Tom has just happened to say, “Oh Robbie, we all went to a fish party last night and when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise your new girlfriend Georgia accidentally snogged Dave the Laugh. You should have been there, it was a brilliant display of red-bottomosity. You would have loved it! ”

Oh God. Oh Goddy God God. I am a red-bottomed minx.

4: 35 p.m.

On the other foot, no one saw me accidentally snog Dave the Laugh, so maybe it can be a secret that I will never tell. Even in my grave.

4: 45 p.m.

But what if Jas has accidentally thought about something else besides her fringe and put two and two together vis-à -vis Dave the Laugh, and blabbed to her so-called boyfriend Tom.

She is, after all, Radio Jas.

4: 50 p.m.

I would phone Jas but I am avoiding going downstairs because it’s sheer bonkerosity down there. Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road have been over at least a trillion times saying, “Why? Oh why??? ” and, “How? ” and occasionally, “I ask you, why? And how? ”

At least I am not the only red-bottomed minx in the universe, or even in our street, actually. Naomi, the Across the Road’s pedigreed sex kitten is pregnant, even though she has been under house arrest for ages. Well, as I have pointed out to anyone who can understand the simplest thing (i.e., me and…er…that’s it), Angus cannot be blamed this time. He is merely an innocent stander-by in furry trousers.

5: 05 p.m.

I was forced to go downstairs in the end to see if I could find a bit of old Weetabix to eat. Fortunately Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road had gone home. However, the Loonleader (Dad) was huffing and puffing about trying to be grown-up, twirling his ridiculous beard and adjusting his trousers and so on.

I said, “Vati, people might take you more seriously if you didn’t have a tiny badger living on the end of your chin.”

I said it in a light-hearted and trè s amusant way, but as usual he went sensationally ballistic. He shouted, “If you can’t be sensible, BE QUIET! ”

Honestly, the amount of times I am told to be quiet I might as well have not wasted my time learning to speak.

I could have been a mime artist.

5: 15 p.m.

I mimed wanting to borrow a fiver but Mutti pretended she didn’t know what I wanted.

5: 30 p.m.

Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road came around again with the backup loons (Mr. and Mrs. Next Door). I thought I had better sneak down and see what was going on. No sign of Angus, thank the Lord. I don’t think this is his sort of party (this being a cat-lynching party).

Mr. Across the Road is a bit like Vati, all shouty and trousery and unreasonable. He said, “Look, she’s definitely, you know, in the…er, family way. The question is, who is the father? ”

Dad (the well-known cat molester) said, “Well, as you know, we took Angus to the vet and had him…er, seen to. So there is no question in that department.”

Mr. Across the Road said, “And they were…dealt with, were they? His…well…I mean they were quite clearly…er, snipped? ”

This was disgusting! They were talking about Angus’s trouser snake addendums, which should have remained in the privacy of his trousers. They rambled on for ages, but as Gorgey Henri, our French student teacher, would say, it is “le grand mystè re de les pantaloons.”

Which reminds me, I should do some French homework so that I stay top girl in French.

5: 35 p.m.

This is my froggy homework: “Unfortunately whilst staying in a gî te, you discover that your bicycle has been stolen. You decide to put an advert in the local paper. In French, write what your advert would say.”

My advert reads, “Merci beaucoup.”

5: 45 p.m.

Still no call from SG. I am once more on the rack of love.

Phoned Jas.

“Jas.”

“What? ”

“Why did you say ‘what’ like that? ”

“Like what? ”

“You know, sort of…funny.”

“I always say ‘what’ like that, unless I’m speaking French; then I say ‘quoi? ’ or if it’s German I say—”

“Jas, be quiet.”

“What? ”

“Don’t start again, let me get to my nub.”

“Sorry, go on then, get to your nub.”

“Well, you know when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise…”

She started laughing in an unusually annoying way, even for her—sort of snorting. Eventually she said, “It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well, apart from when you made me put all those vegetables down my knickers. There’s still some soil in them.”

“Jas, now or any other time is not the time to discuss your knickers. This is a situation of sheer desperadoes, possibly.”

“Why? ”

“Well, I haven’t heard from the Sex God and I thought maybe…”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you last night? He told me to tell you to meet him by the clock tower. He has to help his olds unpack some stuff for the shop this afternoon. Apparently they are going to sell an exciting new range of Mediterranean vine tomatoes that—”

“Jas, Jas. You are obsessed by tomatoes, that is the sadnosity of your life, but what I want to know is this: WHAT TIME did Robbie say to meet him at the clock tower? ”

She was a bit huffy with me but said, “Seven thirty.”

Oh, thank you, thank you. “Jas, you know I have always loved you.”

She got a bit nervous then. “What do you want now? I’ve got my homework to do and—”

“My petite amie, do not avez-vous une spaz attack, I’m just saying that you are my number-one and tip-top pal of all time.”

“Am I? ”

“Mais oui.”

“Thanks.”

“And what do you want to say to me? ”

“Er…good-bye? ”

“No, you want to say how much you love me aussi.”

“Er…yes.”

“Yes, what? ”

“Er…I do.”

“Say it, then.”

There was a really long silence.

“Jas, are you there? ”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, ours is the love that dares speak its name.”

“Do I have to say it? ”

“Oui.”

“I…love you.”

“Thanks. See you later, lezzie.” And I put down the phone. I am without a shadow of doubtosity VAIR amusant!

6: 05 p.m.

Just enough time for a beauty mask to discourage any lurking lurkers from rearing their ugly heads, then in with the heated rollers for maximum bounceability hairwise. And finally, a body inspection for any sign of orangutanness.

6: 20 p.m.

Now, a few soothing yoga postures to put me in the right frame of mind for snogging. (Although I bet Mr. Yoga says, “Avoid headstands whilst using hair rollers, as this causes pain and crashing into the wardrobe.” Only he would say it in Yogese, obviously.)

Uh-oh, I feel a bit of stupid brain coming on. Think calmosity.

6: 25 p.m.

Fat chance. I was just doing “down dog” when Libby burst in and started playing the drums on my bottom, singing her latest favorite, “Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet, ” that well-known nursery rhyme. About a bag sheet that baas. “Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet” has replaced “Mary Had a Little Lard, Its Teats Was White Azno, ” which she used to love best.

6: 30 p.m.

No sign of Angus. The loons are still having a world summit cat meeting downstairs. I heard clinking from the kitchen, which means that the vino tinto is coming out.

Usual dithering attack about what to wear. It’s officially dark so I need to go from day to evening wear. Also it’s a bit nippy noodles.

6: 40 p.m.

So I think black polo neck and leather boots…(and trousers of course). And for that essential hint of sophisticosity I might just have to borrow Mum’s Paloma perfume. She won’t mind. Unless she finds out, of course, in which case she will kill me.

6: 45 p.m.

Mum has got a plastic rain hat in her bag! How sad it would be to see her in it.

Still, on the plus side it means that she is taking a more reasonable attitude towards her age. Hopefully it means that she will be throwing away her short skirts and getting sensible underwear.

Oh, hang on, it’s not a rain hat; it’s a pair of emergency plastic knickknacks for Libbs. Fair enough, you can never be too careful vis-à -vis emergency botty trouble and my darling sister.

7: 00 p.m.

Sex God, here I come!!!

I didn’t bother to interrupt the loon party; I just left a note on the telephone table:

Dear M and V,

I hope the cat-lynching party is going well. I have found a bit of old toast for my tea and a Jammy Dodger to avert scurvy and gone out. Remember me when you get a moment.

Your daughter,
Georgia

P.S. Gone to meet Jas. Be back about 9 P.M. Hahahaha, trè s amusant(ish).

7: 30 p.m.

As I came into the main street I could see the Sex God was waiting for me by the clock tower. I ducked into a shop doorway for a bit of basooma adjusting and lip gloss application. Also, I thought I should practice saying something normal so that even if my brain fell out (as it normally does when I see him) my mouth could carry on regardless. I thought a simple approach was best. Something like, “Hi” (pause, and a bit of a sexy smile, lips parted, nostrils not flaring wildly), and then, “Long time no dig.”

Cool—a bit on the eccentric side, but with no hint of brain gone on holiday to Cyprus.

I came out of my shop doorway and walked towards him. Then he saw me. Oh heavens to Betsy, Mr. Gorgeous has landed.

He said, “Hi, Georgia” in his Sex-Goddy voice and I said, “Hi, Dig.”

Dig???

He laughed. “Always a bit of a tricky thing knowing what you are talking about at first, Georgia. This usually makes it better….” And he got hold of my hand and pulled me towards him. Quick visit to number four on the snogging scale (kiss lasting three minutes without a breath). Yummy scrumboes and marveloso. If I could just stay attached to his mouth forever I would be happy. Dead, obviously, from starvation, but happy. Dead happy. Shut up, brain, shut up! Brain to mouth, brain to mouth: Do not under any circumstances mention being attached to his mouth forever.

The Sex God looked at me when he stopped his excellent snogging. “Did you miss me? ”

“Is the Pope a vicar? ” I laughed like a loon at a loon party (i.e., A LOT).

He said, “Er no, he’s not.”

What are we talking about? I’ve lost my grip already.

Luckily SG wanted to tell me all about London and The Stiff Dylans. We went and had a cappuccino at Luigi’s. As I have said many times, I don’t really get cappuccinos. It’s the Santa Claus mustache effect I particularly want to avoid. Actually, I have perfected a way of avoiding the foam mustache: what you do is drink the coffee like a hamster. You purse your lips really tightly and then only suck through the middle bit. Imagine you are a hamster having a cup of coffee at Hammy’s, the famous hamster coffee shop. Shut up, brain, shut up!!!

The Sex God told me all about an agent-type person offering them a record deal and them staying in this groovy hotel with room service and looking around London.

I said, in between sips of hamster coffee, “Did you see the Changing of the Gourds? ”

He said, “Changing of the Gourds? ”

Oh no…I had forgotten to unpurse my hamster lips.

“Guards. The Changing of the Guards.”

He really didn’t seem to mind that he had a complete idiot for a girlfriend because he leaned over the table and kissed me. In public! In the café! Like in a French film. Everyone was looking. Of course then it meant that I had to nip off to the loos for emergency lip gloss application. It’s very hard work being the girlfriend of a Sex God.

We left Luigi’s and walked towards my house hand in hand. Thank goodness Robbie is tall enough for me. I don’t have to do the orangutan lolloping along that I had to do with Mark Big Gob. I think that must mean that we are perfect partners, because our arms are the same length.

10: 05 p.m.

When we reached the bottom of my street I said to the Sex God that it would be better if he wasn’t exposed to my parents because of the Angus fandango.

He asked me what had happened and I said, “Well, in a nutshell, Naomi is pregnant and the finger of shame is pointing towards Angus, even though he is, well, you know…not as other men in the trouser snake addendum department.”

When I eventually managed to tear myself away, SG gave me a really amazing number six with a dash of six and a quarter (tongues with lip nibbling). I managed to not fall over and I waved at him very nearly like a normal person when he went home. I like to think I handled the whole incident with sophisticosity.

That is what I like to think.

SG is meeting me on Tuesday after Stalag 14. Hurrah!

Everything is going to be fabbity fab fab and also possibly bon. Forevermore.

10: 32 p.m.

Wrong. Vati had his usual outburst of insanity when I let myself in.

“You treat this house like a bloody hotel! ”

As if. The sanitary inspectors would close the place down if they saw the state of my room. What decent hotel has a toddler pooing in its closets?

kitchen

Mutti was wearing what I think she imagines is a sexy negligee. I tried to ignore it and said, “What happened at the cat-lynching party? ”

“Well, even though Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road think in principle Angus should be made into a fur handbag, they had to admit that he must be innocent of Naomi’s pregnancy.”

She seems to think it is all quite funny. But then this is the same woman who, when I asked if she had ever two-timed anyone, said, “Yes, it was great.”

Poor Angus is an innocent victim of Naomi’s red-bottomosity. This is a lesson for me about where blatant and rampant red-bottomosity can lead. I have had a lucky escape.

10: 45 p.m.

I’m so exhausted by the tension of life that I barely have the energy to cleanse, tone and moisturize, let alone tape down my fringe. I am so looking forward to lying down to rest in my boudoir of love.

11: 00 p.m.

Libby has got all her toys in my bed AGAIN! All their heads are lined up on my pillow. And some of her toys are quite literally just heads. I don’t know exactly how beheading is going to be useful in her future career, but she is bloody good at it.

Libbs popped out from my wardrobe in the nuddy-pants, but wearing A LOT of Mum’s eye shadow, and not on her eyes.

“Heggo, Ginger, it’s me! ”

“I know it’s you, Libbs—look, sweetheart, wouldn’t you like to go in your own snuggly, cozy bed and—”

“Shut up, bad boy. Snuggle.”

“Libby, I can’t snuggle; you’ve got too many things in my bed.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Get in.”

“Look, let me just take something out to make a bit of room…. Look, I’ll just take this old potato…”

“Grrr…”

“Don’t bite! ”

midnight

If I have to sing “Winnie Bag Pool” to Mr. Potato one more time I may have to kill myself.

Knocked on my so-called parents’ bedroom door and talked to them from outside in the hall.

I’ve seen Dad in his pajamas before and it’s not a sight for someone as artistic and sensitive as moi.

“Hello…it’s me. Georgia. Remember me? Your daughter. And your other daughter, Libby, do you remember her? Two-foot-six, blond, senselessly violent? Ring any bells? ”

Vati yelled, “Georgia, what is it now? Why aren’t you in bed? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Hello, Father, how marvelous to speak with you once again.”

“Georgia, if I have to get out of bed and listen to more rubbish from you…well, you’re not too old to smack, you know! ”

Smack? Has he finally snapped? He’s never smacked anyone in his life.

Mutti opened the bedroom door unexpectedly as I was leaning against it and I nearly fell into her basoomas.

She finally persuaded Libby to go into her and Dad’s bed. So thankfully Libbs clanked off with Mr. Potato, Pantalitzer, Charlie Horse, scuba-diving Barbie and the rest of her “fwends.”

I was just snuggling down to go off into Boboland when I heard her pitter-pattering back into my room. Oh dear God, she hadn’t left something disgusting lurking in the bottom of my bed, had she?

She came right up to me and whispered in my ear, “I lobe you, Ginger. You are my very own big sister.”

Awww. I put my hand on her little head. Sometimes I love her so much I feel like I would plunge into a vat of eels to save her. If she fell in one, which in her case is not as unlikely as you might think.

As a lovely good-night treat, she sucked my ear, which was not pleasant, especially as she was breathing very heavily. It was like a big slug snoring in your ear. Still, very sweet.

Ish.

12: 10 a.m.

I’ve accidentally got to six and a half on the snogging scale with my little sister.

12: 12 a.m.

The Sex God does varying pressure, like Rosie says foreign boys do. Soft, then hard, then soft. Yummy scrumboes.

Oh Robbie, how could I ever have doubted our love?

12: 15 a.m.

Dave the Laugh is a bit full of himself, anyway. At the fish party he said, “You have to choose: a Sex God or me, who you can really have a laugh with.”

Yes, well, I have chosen. And I have not chosen you, Mr. Dave the Laughylaugh. She who laughs last laughs the laughingest.

12: 20 a.m.

He has got fantastic lip nibbling technique, though.

12: 25 a.m.

I have gone all feverish now. I wonder where Angus is? I’ve not heard any wildlife being slaughtered for ages. Or the Next Doors’ poodles Snowy and Whitey (also known as the Prat Poodles) yapping. He must be feeling really depressed. In a cat way.

Haunted by his lost love.

Half the cat he was, and only fading memories of his trouser snake days.

12: 29 a.m.

What is it with my bed? Angus has got a perfectly cozy cat basket, but oh no, he has to come in with me.

12: 37 a.m.

And why does he like my head so much? It’s like having a huge fur hat on.

monday november 22nd
8: 25 a.m.

Everyone late for everything. When Mutti took Libby to kindy, both had hair sticking on end as if they’d been electrocuted. They should try the cat hat method—it keeps your hair very flat.

Run, run, pant, pant.

Jas and I panted up the hill to Stalag 14, past the usual assortment of Foxwood lads. They are so weird. Two passed us and started doing impressions of gorillas. Why? Then another group went by, and the biggest one, no stranger to all-over-head acne, said, “Have you got a light? ”

Jas said, “No, I don’t smoke, ” and he said, “No chance of a shag, then, I suppose? ” And he and his mates went off slapping and shoving each other.

I said to Jas, “They show a distinct lack of maturiosity, but never fear, that is where I come in. I have thought of something trè s trè s amusant to do with glove animal if it snows this winter.”

Jas didn’t say anything.

“Jas.”

“What? ”

“I said something trè s amusant and you ignorez-voused me. You do remember good old glove animal, don’t you? ”

“I know I got three bad conduct marks because you made me wear my gloves pinned over my ears like a big doggy with a beret on top.”

“Voilà, glove animal. Anyway, I think he should make a comeback this term and liven up the stiffs.”

She was pretending not to listen to me, but I knew she wanted to really. She was doing fringe fiddling. However, I resisted the temptation to slap her hand, and said, slowly so that she could understand me, “Glove animals have to wear sunglasses when it snows.”

“What? ”

“Is that all you can say? ”

“What? ”

“You are doing it to annoy me, mon petit pal, but I Iove you.”

“Don’t start.”

“Anyway, we will have to wear sunglasses with glove animal if it snows, to prevent…snow blindness!! ”

She didn’t get it, though. I have to keep the comedy levels up at school all by myself.

assembly
9: 20 a.m.

I told the rest of the ace gang about the glove animal and snow blindness hilariosity and they gave me the special Klingon salute. Then I got the ferret-eye from Hawkeye and had to pretend to listen to our large and glorious leader, Slim. Her feet are so fat that you can’t actually see any shoe at all. It is only a question of time before she explodes.

Slim was rambling on about the splendor of Shakespeare’s Hamlet as an allegory for modern times.

For once she is right. Shakespeare is not just some really old boring bloke in tights, because after all it was he who said, “To snog or not to snog, that is the question.”

How true, Bill.

break

Our new pastime to fill in the long hours before we are allowed to go home is called “Let’s go down the disco.” Anytime any one of the ace gang says it, we all have to do manic disco dancing from the seventies (excess head shaking and arm waggling). Even if I do say it myself, it is a piece of resistance.

german

We disco danced at our desks pretty much all the way through German whilst Herr Kamyer wrote ludicrous things on the board about Herr Koch. I said to him when we were leaving class, “Vas is der point? ”

lunchtime

Very nippy noodles shivering around outside.

I said to the gang, “What harm have we ever done to anyone that we are made to go outside in Antarctic conditions? ”

Rosie, Ellen, Jools and Mabs all said, “None, we have never done anything.”

But Jas, who seems to have turned into the Wise Woman of the Forest, said, “Well, there was the locust thing, and the dropping of the blodge lab skeleton onto Mr. Attwood’s head and…”

Honestly, if I wasn’t the girlfriend of a Sex God I would have had to duff Jas up, she is so ludicrously “thoughtful” these days. I think I liked her better when she was all depressed and didn’t have a boyfriend. Regular snogging has brought out the worst in her.

The Bummers came by all tarted up. Jackie wears even more makeup than those scary circus people. You know, when you go to the circus and you accidentally see a trapeze artist close-up and they are orange.

Alison Bummer, unusually spot free, with just the one gigantic boil on her neck, shouted over to us as they headed for the back fields and town. “Bye-bye, little girls, have a nice time doing your lessons.”

I said, “Honestly, I don’t know how they get away with it. They turn up for register, hang around torturing P. Green for a bit, have fifty fags in the loos and then bog off to town at lunchtime, to see their lardy boyfriends.”

We had a tutting outbreak as we shared our last snacks.

Rosie was shivering. “It is vair vair nippy noodles. I think I have got frostbite of the bum-oley.”

Eventually, in between Nazi patrols led by Wet Lindsay—who may be head girl, but is still: a) wet and b) boyfriendless—we managed to sneak into the Science block.

science block
on our usual radiator

Ellen said, “It was a groovy fish party, wasn’t it? ”

Rosie said, “Magnifique. I found bits of fish-finger everywhere, though. Sven got a bit carried away.”

I said, “He should be.”

Jas said to Ellen, “What happened at the end? With you and Dave the Laugh, you know, when he walked you home? ”

Ellen went all red and girlish. “Oh, you know.”

I was prepared to leave it at that, but not old Nosey Knickers. She rambled on. “Did you and Dave the Laugh…do anything? ”

Ellen shifted around on the knicker toasting-rack (radiator) and said, “Well…”

I said, “Look, if Ellen wants to have some personal space, well…”

But Ellen was keen as le moutarde (keener) to talk about my dumpee. “He did, er, walk me home and…”

The ace gang were all agog as two gogs, apart from me. I was ungogged. In fact, I was doing my impression of a cucumber (and no, I do not mean I was lying on some salad…I mean I was being cool).

They all said, “Yes…AND??? ”

“Well, he, you know, well, he, well…”

God’s shortie pajamas, I was going to be a hundred and fifty years old at this rate.

Ellen went red and started playing with her piggies (very annoying) and went on. “It was cool, actually. We got, well, we sort of got to number three and a bit.”

What is “sort of number three and a bit” on the snogging scale? Perhaps I should “sort of” give her a good slapping to make her talk some sense. But no, no, no, why did I care? I was a mirage of glaciosity.

As the bell went for resumption of abnormal cruelty (Maths), Ellen said to me, “Dave does this really groovy thing, it’s like, er…lip nibbling.”

He had nip libbled with her!! The bloody snake in the tight blue jeans had nip libbled her. How dare he??

Ellen was rambling on. “We should add lip nibbling to our snogging scale.”

Jas said, “We already have, it’s six and a quarter.”

Ellen said to Jas, “Oh, have you done lip nibbling, then? With Tom? ”

Jas went off into the dreamworld that she calls her brain. “No, because Tom really respects me, and knows that I want to be a prefect, but Georgia has done it. And she’s done ear snogging.”

Then they all started. “Is that what the Sex God does? ” “Does it make you go deaf? ” and so on. Triple merde.

As we went into Maths, Ellen said, “You know when we played that game and you were supposed to snog Dave, well…did you? ”

I went, “Hahahahahahahahahahaha.” Like a hyena in a skirt. And that seemed to satisfy her.

Once again I am in a state of confusiosity. In fact, I can feel my bottom throbbing again when I get a picture of Dave the Laugh nibbling my lips.

And now Ellen’s.

He is a serial nip libbler. I am better off without him.

french

Mon Dieu. Fabulosity all round. We are going on a school trip to le gay Paree next term. We were yelling, “Zut alors! ” and “Mon Dieu! ” and “Magnifique! ” until Madame Slack threw a complete nervy strop. The fabby news is that Gorgey Henri is going to take us. The unfabby news is that Madame Slack and Herr Kamyer, dithering champion for the German nation, are also going. Still, that will be a bit of light relief. Herr Kamyer is almost bound to fall in the Seine at some time over the weekend.

I wrote a note to Rosie: “How much do you bet we can do the famous ‘Taking a souvenir photograph’ of Herr Kamyer on the banks of the Seine and he falls in when we say, ‘Just step back a bit, Herr Kamyer, I haven’t quite got your lederhosen in yet’? ”

4: 20 p.m.

Walking home with Jas. I was trying to use her as a windbreak, but she kept dodging away from me. She is unusually full of selfishosity for someone who loves me.

I said, “Thank Cliff Richard’s Y-fronts that nobody knows about my accidental snogging incident.”

“What snogging incident? ”

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret I’m taking to my grave.”

Oh sacré bleu. What is the matter with Jas (besides the obvious)?

When I accidentally told her my secret that I will never tell, even in my grave, she went on and on about how I should be ashamed. She is so annoyingly good, like Mother Teresa with a crap fringe.

home

Mutti in an unusually good mood. She had even bought a pie for us on the way home. Scarily like a real mum—apart from the ludicrously short skirt. She’s not going to tell me that I’m going to have another little brother or sister, is she?

Still, I can’t think of everyone else. I am not God. I have enough to worry about thinking about myself.

8: 00 p.m.

I am so worried about school tomorrow. I have so much to do.

8: 10 p.m.

I can do my nails and foundation and eye stuff during R.E.—Miss Wilson won’t notice, as she will be sadly rambling on about the Dalai Lama or yaks or whatever it is she does talk about. But I suppose even she might notice if I took my curling tongs into class. I’ll have to do my hair at lunchtime and hope the Bummers don’t decide to put their chewing gum in it for a laugh.

looking out of my bedroom window

I’m amazed to see Naomi the sex kitten lounging around on the roof of our shed, showing off her fat tummy. She has got very little shame for an illegitimate bride. Angus is in the garden below her, blinded by his love. Well, actually he’s mostly blinded by the dirt he’s digging up. He’s got a huge bone from somewhere and he’s burying it. Maybe for a midnight snack. He doesn’t really seem to understand that he is not a dog. I may have to do some diagrams of mice for him to explain it.

I went downstairs to the kitchen to find M and V absolutely all over each other. It’s like living in a porn movie to be in our house. Honestly, isn’t she sick of him yet? (I am.) He’s been back about a month; surely by now they must be discussing divorce.

I said, “Erlack, ” in a caring way to let them know I was there. But my finer feelings make no difference to the elderly snoggers. They just started giggling, like…giggling elderly snoggers.

I said, “Vati, I don’t want to be the person responsible for one of your unreasonable outbursts of rage, but—”

He said, “OK, as I am in a good mood you can have a fiver, because you did so well on your French test.”

I was quite literally gobsmacked. For a second. Then I grabbed the fiver.

“Er, thanks…but, erm, I feel, in all fairness to you, I should let you know that Naomi is on our shed roof and that Angus is not a million miles away from her. In fact, as I left my room, he was licking her bottom.”

No one went ballisticisimus, because apparently Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road have worked out that the pedigreed boy cat they had over to visit with Naomi must have had more than a few fishy snacks with her.

Vati said, “Either that or she is having a virgin birth.”

Hey, she might be! She might be having a little furry Baby Jesus (lots of them, in fact). She is due to give birth at Christmas, after all. And God works in mysterious ways, as everyone knows.

I said to Jas on the phone, “It makes you think, doesn’t it? ”

She was all weird and huffy. “No, what makes me think is this: How come some people, naming no names, but you, Georgia, can tell such porkies to their so-called friends? ”

She was rambling on about Ellen and Dave the Laugh, of course.

I said with deep meaningosity, “Jas, she who casts the first stone has to cast the logs out of her own knickers first.”

That made her think. Then she said, “What in the name of frankincense are you talking about? ”

I had to admit she had me there.

Her trouble is that she has never done anything adventurous, her bottom has never glowed with the red light of…er…red-bottomosity.

I said to her, “Jas, Jas, my little nincompoop, I didn’t MEAN to snog Dave the Laugh. It was an accident. I am a teenager and I can’t always control my bits and pieces.”

“What bits and pieces? ”

“Well, you know, I have very little control over my nunga-nungas, for instance…and at the fish party with Dave my lips just sort of puckered up.”

“I’m a teenager and I can control my bits and pieces.”

“What about your fringe? ”

“That is not the same as snogging someone else’s boyfriend.”

“You are getting very set in your ways, Jas.”

“I am not.”

“Well, name an interesting thing that you and Tom have done lately.”

“We’ve done loads of really interesting, crazy things.”

“Like what? And don’t tell me about collecting frog spawn.”

“Well, Tom is going to do ecology and so on….Do you know we found some badger footprints in the park near—”

“Jas, I said name an interesting thing that you and Tom have done lately, not something about badgers.”

But she had gone off into the twilight world of her brain. “Tom gave me a love bite.”

“Non.”

“Oui.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“I know.”

“Where is it? ”

“On my big toe.”

9: 00 p.m.

I am worried that in my capacity as the Sex God’s girlfriend I may have to give a celebrity interview about my life and Jas will have to come on it. And she will talk rubbish. And perhaps show her love bite. Or knickers.

9: 15 p.m.

Still, it has taken her mind off the Dave the Laugh fiasco.

I will have an early night to prepare myself for heavy snogging duties. I want to look all gorgey and marvy for SG and not have those weird little piggy eyes that I get sometimes when I have been kept awake all night by loons (Angus and Libby). Mutti has let Libbs sleep in the cat basket with Angus tonight, so I am safe.

9: 35 p.m.

Ah…very nice and cozy in bed, although I am having to sleep sitting up because I have rollers in my hair for optimum bounceability.

9: 40 p.m.

Phone rang. Vati yelled, “Georgia, another one of your little mates on the phone. You’d better hurry, I think it’s an emergency. She might have run out of lip gloss.”

Vair vair vair amusant, Vati.

As I came down the stairs, he said, “We mean no harm, take us to your leader, ” because of my hair rollers. He really is in an alarmingly good mood.

It was Ellen. Uh-oh. I hoped she couldn’t detect my red minxiness.

“Georgia, can I ask you something? ”

“Er, like what? ”

“Well, you know Dave the Laugh? ”

DID I KNOW DAVE THE LAUGH???!!!

I sounded a bit vague. “I know Dave the woman, but Dave the Laugh…? Oh er, Dave the Laugh…yes, what about him? ”

“Well, you know I really think he’s groovy and so on and he did the lip nibbling thing, and that was, you know, quite groovy and not, you know, ungroovy…and how I have thought he is quite groovy for a long time and lip nibbling would, like, mean he thought I was groovy as well…”

(It was going to be the twenty-second century at this rate by the time she got round to telling me what she was on about.)

“Well, anyway, it’s nearly Tuesday.”

“Yes, and…? ”

“Well, he hasn’t called me yet, ” she went on. “Well, what should I do? ”

“Did he say he’d call? ” (Not that I am remotely interested in what my ex-snoggees say. I am just being a great pal.)

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say exactly? ”

“He said, ‘I’m away laughing on a fast camel—see you later.’”

“Oh.”

“What? ”

“It’s the old ‘see you later’ thing, isn’t it? ”

“You mean it might be see you later, as in see you later not see you later? ”

“Exactamondo.”

She went on and on about Dave the L and about how surely he wouldn’t nip libble her if he didn’t like her, etc., etc…. I was so tired I tried to lie down on the floor, but couldn’t because of my rollers. Good Lord, what am I? The Oracle of Delphinium?

Eventually she rang off.

10: 00 p.m.

What if Ellen finds out about me and Dave the Laugh? Will she still like me and realize that it is just one of those things? Or will she beat me to within an inch of my life?

How would I feel if the boot was on the other cheek?

I wish I wasn’t so caring and empathetic. As Hawkeye said in English, I have a very vivid imagination.

10: 15 p.m.

Actually what she said was that I had a “hideous” imagination. But she is just jealous because she has no life to speak of (apart from torturing us).

10: 40 p.m.

My nose feels very heavy. I’d better have a look at it in case there is a lurking lurker situation.

10: 47 p.m.

Hmm. I can’t see anything. It doesn’t get any smaller, though. I must make sure I always suck it in when I see the Sex God full on.

10: 55 p.m.

On the plus side, my nungas don’t seem any more sticky-out than they are normally. Perhaps they have stopped growing. Or maybe they are on Christmas vacation, before they burst (quite literally) into life in spring.

11: 00 p.m.

I’ll just give them a quick measure.

11: 05 p.m.

Sacré bloody bleu and also mon Dieu!! They measure thirty-eight inches!! That is more than a yard. There must be something wrong with the tape measure.

11: 10 p.m.

I’ve done it again and it’s still the same. It amazes me that I can lumber around at all. It’s like carrying two small people around with me.

I’m really worried now. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this sort of thing. I know there is an unseen power at work of which we have little comprehension, but I don’t really feel I can consult with Jesus about my basoomas.

Or Buddha.

Anyway, I don’t want to offend Buddha and so on, just in case He exists, which I am sure He does…but…I have seen some statues of Buddha, and frankly his nunga-nungas are not small either.

midnight

When I was in M& S the other Saturday, I saw a sign that said they had a breast measuring service (top job…not). Maybe I should get properly measured by a basooma professional and learn the truth about my condition(s).

1: 00 a.m.

Angus is on the road to recovery. I can hear him serenading the Prat Poodles with a medley of his latest hits: “Yowl! ” and “Yowl 2: The Remix.”

I got up to look. He is so brave in the face of his pain. I really love him, even if he has destroyed half my tights. He could have just given in, but no, there he was, biffing the Prat Poodles like normal. Naomi was parading up and down on the Across the Roads’ windowsill, sticking her bottom in the air and so on. She is an awful minx. She is making a mockery of a sham of her so-called love for Angus. It’s like in that old crap song where the bloke is wounded in the Vietnam War and his wife goes off with other men because he can’t get out of his wheelchair. He sings, “Ru-beeee, don’t take your love to town.”

That is what Angus would sing. “Naom-eeeee, don’t take your love to town.” If he could sing. Or speak. And had a wheelchair.