furry baby jesuses

wednesday december 22nd

11: 00 a.m.

The Sex God has gone off to the Isle of Man with Tom and the rest of his family. Then he goes straight off on tour of Och Aye land and Prestan-a-gogogogogo land (Wales).

We spent our last night together at his house because his parents were away. It was really groovy with mucho ear nibbling and snogging extraordinaire. I’m getting the hang of hands now (mine, I mean). I don’t just let them dangle about, I give them lots to do. Hair stroking and back stroking and so on. (His hair and his back, not mine.) I think that snogging keeps me in tip-top physical condition. I may suggest to Ms. Stamp that she put it into the training schedule for games. Hang on a minute, though. She might want to join in.

When the Sex God and I had to part (which took about an hour and a half because I kept coming out of my door after he had said good-bye and we would do all the good-bye stuff again), he handed me a small package and said, “Don’t do anything too loony while I am away, gorgeous. Here is something for you for Christmas. I’ll get you something else from Scotland or Wales.” Which is nice.

Unless he gets me a sporran. Or a tartan bikini. Shut up, shut up, brain. It’s only because I am full of sadnosity, probably.

I told Jas and she said, “Tom gave me a locket that has a photo of me and him in it that we took at a booth in Seaworld. It’s got a backdrop of sea creatures and so on.”

I said, “I hope you didn’t make any dolphins be in it, because they have hard enough lives as it is, without being made to get into photo booths with you and Tom.”

I was quite tearful after SG left. I hope he will like the identity bracelet I got him with my name on it. Jas said I should have had his name engraved on it, which is what she did with Tom’s.

Phoned Jas again. “Jas, why have you put Tom’s name on his identity bracelet? Doesn’t he already know who he is? ”

She sighed like someone who is incredibly full of wisdomosity, which is ironic, and said, “What if he was unconscious or something and no one knew who he was? ”

“And you think ‘Tom’ would do the trick, then? ”

She said, “I have to go now.” But I don’t think she really did have to go.

I will put the little package that SG gave me for a Chrimboli gift under my bed.

12: 30 p.m.

Poo. I suppose I will have to get used to being a pop widow. I have to develop my own interests. I must use the time he is away wisely. I hope it snows early next term and then I can try out the hilariosity of my new idea vis-à -vis glove animal and snow blindness.

1: 00 p.m.

I wonder how much money I will need to go to America? I’ve got some money saved up, if I can find my bank book.

1: 20 p.m.

Hmm. £ 15.50.

1: 30 p.m.

If I am saving up for Hamburger-a-gogo I can’t use money to buy any more Chrimboli prezzies. I will have to be creative.

Luckily I’m very artistic, as everyone knows. Miss Berry, the Art teacher, thinks I have a special talent. Not for art, though, sadly. She said I had a special talent for wasting everyone’s time. Which is a bit harsh.

I am going to start making my Christmas gifts out of colorful materials and a needle and cotton.

10: 00 p.m.

I made some carrot twins for Libby. Two nicely carved carrots with rather attractive gingham headscarves and cloaks on. And for Mutti, a pair of sleep glasses. I cut the spectacle shape out of some fun fur fabric and attached an elastic band. I think she will love and appreciate them, but you can never tell.

As a thoughtful and forgiving gift at this special time of year, I took Naomi’s pregnancy smock, which I had spent many, many minutes making, over to Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road’s house. It has got tiny bows on it and four leg holes, which is unusual in a pregnancy smock. I left it on the doorstep with a note saying, “Best wishes from one who only hopes there to be love and peace in the world.”

saturday december 25th

christmas day

Woke up to quite a few prezzies. Libbs climbed in my bed and we opened things together. I am very nearly quite fond of my mutti and vati. Vati gave me some CDs I actually wanted! Libby LOBED her carrot twins and dumped Mr. Potato into the dustbin of life. (Which is just as well, as he was all crinkled and green.)

Mum, in a rare moment of sanity, has bought me a really good bra…which fits and is actually quite nice. Not too thrusting and not too baggy. Even when I jump up and down, there is very little ad hoc jiggling. Perhaps now I will be able to dance free and wild, with no danger of knocking anyone out with my nunga-nungas.

No sign of snow yet, although it is very very nippy noodles.

1: 00 p.m.

M and D and Libbs have gone to visit miscellaneous loons, so I have a private moment to open SG’s gift.

It’s a compilation tape of songs that he has recorded solo, and it’s got “For Georgia, with love, Robbie” written on the little cover thing. In years to come I will be on TV saying, “Yes, Robbie did write the track ‘O Gorgeous One’ for me. Likewise ‘Cor, What a Smasher’ and ‘Phwoar.’”

1: 30 p.m.

Hmm. There isn’t a track called “O Gorgeous One” or “Cor, What a Smasher.” There are tracks about endangered species and one about Vincent van Gogh. Not exactly dance extravaganza music; more, it has to be said, music for slitting your wrists to.

2: 00 p.m.

I love him for his seriosity.

3: 30 p.m.

Big, big news breaking. And no, it is not that Father Christmas is just Dad in a crap white beard (even though that bit is true too). After Christmas lunch, Mr. Across the Road dashed over and had a brandy with Dad because…Naomi is in labor!

I said, “Quickly, we must get her on a donkey and head for Bethlehem! ” But they all looked at me in that looking-at way that adults have when they do not comprehend the enormity of my hilariosity.

I phoned Jas to let her know the joyful good news. “Naomi is having some furry Baby Jesuses.”

“Non.”

“Mais oui.”

“What shall we do? ”

I said, “You get the donkey and I’ll sort out the snacks.”

4: 00 p.m.

Angus is in (even for him) a very bad mood. He’s been doing slam dancing in the kitchen to Christmas carols playing on the radio (i.e., he just throws himself against things for no reason). When “Away in a Manger” came on he leapt out of the sink and up onto the plate rack, and then just sort of tap-danced his way along. Four plates and a soup tureen bit the dust.

4: 30 p.m.

Decided to take Angus out for a Christmas walk to help him work off his frustration and also ensure that we have something to eat our dinner from. I’m under orders to keep him on his lead in case his inner cat pain drives him to beat up little dogs.

4: 35 p.m.

As I was leaving Libby said, “I want to come.”

Auntie Kath in Blackpool sent her an all-in-one leopard costume jumpsuit. It’s got a tail and ears and whiskers and so on. Libby has had it on all day. Cute.

5: 00 p.m.

We had to turn back and get Angus’s spare lead because Libby is a cat as well. I hope I don’t bump into anyone I know.

5: 30 p.m.

It’s taken over half an hour to get out of the garden. Libby goes so slowly on her hands and knees.

Once I got her to move on, Angus found something disgusting to dig up. What sort of people bury manky old bits of clothing in other people’s gardens?

5: 45 p.m.

So that is where Dad’s fishing socks went. I remember Dad saying to Mum, “Have you seen my fishing socks? ” and Mum saying, “They’ve probably gone out for a bit of a walk.” Because they were so pingy pongoes, even Angus has reburied them.

6: 00 p.m.

Angus managed to shake me off the end of his lead by heading straight for a lamppost at eighty miles an hour and swerving at the last minute. Now he is prancing around on Mr. Next Door’s wall. The Prat Poodles are going berserk trying to leap up at him. Now and again he lies down and dangles a paw near them.

Snowy and Whitey have gone completely loopy now. Whitey leapt up and missed Angus’s paw and crashed into the wall, but Snowy kept leaping and leaping and Angus was raising his paw slightly higher and higher.

In the end, Angus biffed Snowy midleap, right over on to his back. You’d think that Angus would be a bit miserable, or quiet even, as his beloved sex kitten gives birth to another man’s kittens. But no, he is an example to us all. I don’t know what of.

6: 05 p.m.

Sheer stupidity leaps to mind.

in my bedroom
7: 00 p.m.

Uh-oh, Mr. Across the Road came and banged on our door. I looked down the stairs as Vati answered. It was weird, actually, because usually Mr. Across the Road can rave on for England but he didn’t seem to be able to speak. He just gestured with his hand for us to follow him. Perhaps he has taken up mime as a Christmas hobby.

We all trailed over to his house. I don’t know why I am supposed to be interested. In fact, I thought as a mark of solidarity with Angus I would refuse to go. But I quite wanted to see the kittens.

Angus was on the wall and tapped my head with a paw as I went by. I said, “I’m sorry about this, Angus.”

He just yawned and lay on his back chewing his lead.

7: 10 p.m.

When we got into his kitchen, Mr. Across the Road took us to Naomi. He didn’t say a word. And Mrs. Across the Road was just staring down at the cat basket as if there was something horrible in it.

Naomi was lying in the basket like the Queen of Sheba, surrounded by kittens. Seven of them…

All of them look like miniature Anguses!!!! Honestly! They all have his markings and everything. This is quite literally a bloody miracle!

10: 00 p.m.

Another long, long night of Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road coming across and saying, “Why? Oh why?? ” and “How? ” and occasionally, “Why? And how? ”

In the end they worked out that Angus must have sneaked into Naomi’s love parlor before his trouser snake addendums were, you know…adjusted. Super-Cat!!! He is without doubt the 007 of the cat world.

sunday december 26th

boxing day

The tiny(ish) kittykats are so gorgey. Jas came over and Libby and Jas and I went to visit. Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road let us in but were very grumpy about it and were tutting and carrying on. Mr. Across the Road kept calling Angus “that thing.” Which was a bit uncalled for.

And Mrs. Across the Road said, “Two hundred guineas, she cost us, and for this to happen with a…with a…”

“Proud, heroic Scottish wildcat? ” I asked.

“No, with an out-of-control…beast! ”

They’re just a bit overcome with joy at the moment, but I am sure they will come round in a few thousand years.

Even though they are only a few hours old Angus and Naomi’s kittykats are not what you would call the usual sort of kittykat. They haven’t even opened their eyes yet, but they are already biting each other and spitting.

I used my womanly charms (which Jas rather meanly said made me look like an ax murderer) and begged Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road to let Angus at least lick his offspring.

3: 00 p.m.

Eventually they said he could if he was kept on his lead at all times.

He strutted around purring like a tank (two tanks), biffing the kittykats with his head and licking Naomi. Awww.

That is what I want me and the Sex God to be like. Not necessarily including the bottom-exposing thing that Angus and Naomi go in for A LOT.

tuesday december 28th

Robbie has phoned me eight times!!!

It’s a bit weird because there is always someone around earwigging. Dad’s got ears like a bat. (I’ll surprise him one day by walking into the front room whilst he is hanging upside down from the light fixture.) When I was talking to Rosie about how to put your tongue behind your back teeth when you smile because it makes you look sexier he came bursting out of the kitchen and said, “Are you going to be talking rubbish on the phone for much longer? I want to make a call myself this century.”

I said patiently, “Vati, as I have pointed out many, many times, if you would have the decency to buy me my own mobile phone in keeping with the rest of the universe, then I wouldn’t have to use this prehistoric one in the hall.” But he just ignored me as usual.

wednesday december 29th

I arranged with Robbie that he would call me at four o’clock today (as opposed to Isle of Man time, which is about 1948, according to Robbie. I think they still have steam trains). This is the cunning plan we made, in order to be able to say what we like to each other (for example, “You are the most Sex-Goddy thing on legs, I want to suck your shirt, etc., etc.”). I told Robbie the telephone number of the phone box down the road and he is going to ring me there.

in the phone box
4: 00 p.m.

Mark Big Gob went by with his midget girlfriend. Rosie didn’t believe me when I told her how very very tiny Mark’s girlfriend is, but she is. You could quite easily strap a bowl of peanuts to her tiny head and use her as a sort of snacks table at parties. That is how small she is.

Mark Big Gob gave me a hideous wink as he went by. It’s hard to believe that he actually dumped me before I was going to dump him for being so thick. How annoying is that? Vair vair annoying, but…then the phone rang and my beloved Sex God of the Universe and Beyond spoke to me.

at jas’s
5: 00 p.m.

Jas’s mutti and vati are out and we are practicing for our trip to Froggyland by eating a typico French peasant meal: pomme de terre and les baked beans avec le sauce de tomato. Oh, and of course, de rigueur…we wore our berets and stripey T-shirts.

I said, “I ’ope that Gorgey Henri can control his passion for me when we reach Paree.”

Jas was also wearing what she imagines are sexy shades. She’s wrong, though—they don’t make her look French, they make her look blind.

She said, “Gorgey Henri does not have la passion for you, he thinks you are la stupid schoolgirl.”

“Oh, mais non, ma idiot, au contraire he thinks I am la genius.”

We both had a lot of frustrated snogging energy so we had to do “Let’s go down the disco” dancing on Jas’s bed for about an hour. We were pretending we were in a French disco inferno, which means we yelled, “Mon Dieu! ” “Zut alors! ” and “Merde! ” A LOT.

midnight

I think I may actually have broken my neck from doing too much head banging.

thursday december 30th

Woke up this morning and there was a sort of weird light in the bedroom. When I opened the curtains I discovered that it had snowed overnight!!!

Mr. Next Door was already up wearing ludicrous snow wear—bobble hat, duffle coat and rubber trousers, clearing his path with a shovel. He got to the end of the path near the gate and then had a breather to survey his handiwork. He probably imagines he is like Nanook of the North.

It’s a shame if he does, because as he walked back up his newly cleared path, he went flying on a slippy bit and ended up skidding along on his rubber trousers.

Happy days!

11: 45 a.m.

Oh, trè s sportif. We are going to have the Winter Olympics! All the gang are going to meet up on the back fields for snow fun and frolics.

“What are you going to wear? ” I asked Rosie.

“Short black leather skirt, new knee boots and a LOT of lip gloss.”

“That is not exactly sensible winter wear.”

“I know, ” she said. “I may freeze to death, but I will look fabbity fab fab.”

She is not wrong. I may have to rifle through my wardrobe for glamorous aprè s-ski wear.

I don’t know why I am bothering, really, as the Sex God is not here, but you have to keep up appearances for good humorosity and fashionosability’s sake.

Phoned Jas. “Jas, what are you wearing for the sledging and snow sports extravaganza? ”

“Well, I was thinking snug and warm.”

“Well, you can’t just wear your huge winter knickers, Jas.”

“Hahahaha-di-haha. What are you wearing? ”

“Hmmm…ski pants, ankle boots and I think roll-neck top and leather jacket. Oh, and waterproof eye makeup in case of a sudden snowstorm.”

12: 00 p.m.

I think snow wear quite suits me. My hat deemphasizes on the conk front which is always a good thing. Lashings and lashings of mascara and lip gloss for extra warmth and I am just about ready.

I managed to sneak out of the house without Libby hearing me. I love her, but she is being a pain about this cat costume thing—she won’t take it off and it is beginning to be a bit on the pingy pongo side.

1: 00 p.m.

I was a bit late because Angus kept following me and I had to chuck snowballs at him to dodge him.

Dave the Laugh, Ellen, Jools, Rollo, Mabs, Sam, Rosie, Sven, Jas and some lads I didn’t know were sledging down a hill on the back fields. Well, apart from Ellen, who was in a ditherama at the top of the hill. She was not exactly dressed for downhill sledging (her skirt was about half an inch long and she was wearing false eyelashes). But neither was anybody else exactly dressed for downhill sledging, and that wasn’t stopping them. As the rest of them whizzed down the hill in a sledge sandwich—boy-girl-boy-girl sledge—Ellen was fiddling with her hair and gazing down the hillside.

She said, “I’ve been going out with him for nearly three weeks now. In hours, that is…er…a lot.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you think he likes me as much as I like him? ”

I didn’t say anything. I am keeping my wisdomosity to myself.

“Do you think I should ask him? ”

“What? ”

“Ask him how much he likes me? ”

“Er…I don’t know…I mean, boys are, you know, not girls with trousers on, are they? ” I astonished even myself with my outburst of extreme wisdomosity. Ellen looked at me all blinky and expectant, like I was a fortune-teller or something. I felt a bit like that bloke in Julius Caesar, the one who says, “Beware the idle of March.”

Ellen asked me why she shouldn’t ask him. Good question. Good. “Er…because Dave might feel like you are putting pressure on his individualosity.”

“His individualosity? ”

“Yes.”

“What, by asking him if he likes me as much as I like him? ”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, what should I do instead, then? ”

“Be cool, and, you know…er, funny and relaxed…and fun and happening and…er…so on.” What am I talking about? Alarmingly, Ellen seemed to think I made sense.

By this time, Dave and the gang had struggled back up the hill with the sledge. Dave said, “Nippy noodles, isn’t it? ” He was smiling at me. He’s got a really cool, sort of naughty, smile. It makes you think of lip nibbling. “Look, girls, I couldn’t put my hands down the front of your jumpers, could I? To warm them up? There would be nothing rudey-dudey in it, you understand. To me your nunga-nungas are just a pair of giant mittens.”

Ellen looked a bit puzzled. As I have said many times, I wonder if Ellen is quite a good enough laugh for Dave the Laugh.

friday december 31st

new year’s eve
2: 00 p.m.

The ace gang are going to SEVEN parties, but as a mark of respect Jas and I have decided not to go with them. We are having our own widows’ celebration.

Actually, I would rather go out than be cooped up with Jas, but I know that Dave the Laugh will be there and I don’t want to entice my bottom into another display of redness. Especially as I have got snogging withdrawal VERY badly.

11: 00 p.m.

This is the glorious start to my New Year…

Jas and I stayed in and watched people on television kissing each other and waving their kilts around. Jas is staying over and my so-called parents and Libby have gone out to some sad party. They actually asked if I would like to go with them. When I indicated that I would rather set fire to myself they left me alone. However, as a special treat Mum got us some food. I said to Dad, “Jas is more of a champagne girl, really, so if you could just get a few bottles. I think that would make our fabulous evening go with a swing.”

He didn’t even bother to reply.

On the stroke of midnight, Jas said, “Shall we? ”

And I said, “Jas, don’t even think about asking me to snog you.”

She got all huffy. “No, I wasn’t going to. I was going to say, shall we have a celebratory disco inferno dancing experience with the aid of soft toys? ”

12: 30 a.m.

And a happy New Year to one and all!!!

Our New Year “Let’s go down the disco” experience, with the aid of Charlie Horse and Teddy as partners, was actually quite good fun on the funosity scale. Although I was slightly worried about Jas because she did actually snog Teddy.

She said, “I’m pretending it’s Tom.”

I said, “Teddy is very very like Tom in many ways—his furry ears, for instance.”

We were just biffing each other with Charlie and Teddy when the phone rang.

It was SG and Tom phoning from the Isle of Man. Yeahhhhhhh!!!

The Sex God said, “Happy New Year, gorgeous, see you soon.” Then he had to go and toss dwarfs or whatever it is they do in the Isle of Man to celebrate. I read that they still beat criminals with bits of old twigs there, so anything could happen.

Jas was Mrs. Moony Knickers after talking to Hunky, and we just went back to watching people snogging and singing on TV.

1: 15 a.m.

Ho hum pig’s bum.

When my “family” got home, as a hilarious treat, Dad had brought home a bit of coal. He said, “It’s called ‘first footing.’” It should be called “first loon in.” He burst in like the original red-faced loon and said, “Happy New Year.” Then he tried to hug me and Jas. We beat him off with Teddy and Charlie Horse and then Libby joined in and hung on to his beard, as Jas and I made a bid for freedom to my room.

sunday january 2nd

11: 30 a.m.

To keep our spirits up, Jas and I made a list of things to take to Froggyland with us.

“We are going to have to hire an extra ferry to take our hair products over, ” I told her.

monday january 3rd

2: 00 p.m.

Moped around at Jas’s. We are united in widow sadness. We listened to sad songs and practiced being interviewed on Michael Parkinson. Jas is hopeless at it. When I (as Parky) asked her what her hopes for the future were, she said, “World peace and more freely available organic vegetables.” How interesting is that?

Not, is the correct answer.

Ooooh, I am soooo bored and lonely. NOTHING happens around here.

I lolloped home up our street. At least Angus is happy, though. He is lolling around on the wall overlooking Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road. He is a very proud dad. I wonder how long it will be before we are allowed to name the kittykats? Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road are being very unreasonable about it all and won’t discuss it.

When I got back to the house Mum said, “Robbie rang you. The number’s beside the phone.”

I got the usual jelloid knickers (and added leg tremblers and a quick spasm of quivering-a-gogo).

Should I phone him back or just wait for him to phone again? I must think.

Perhaps if I ate some chocolate orange egg it would calm me down. There was one left under the tree.

The front room was a nightmare of beardosity. Vati had some of his mates from work and Uncle Eddie round watching the football. He was slurping beer and being all jolly. “Georgia, this is Mike, Nick, Paul and Bingo…the lads! ”

Lads? Since when were lads eighty-five? And a half.

The great tragedy is that the “lads” are going to be forming a football team. I was about to say, “Should men in your physical condition hurl themselves around a football pitch? ” But then Dad dropped his bombshell.

“Georgia, what is this with Robbie? Why is he phoning you all the time and coming round? How old is he? ”

I said with great dignosity, “Father, I am afraid I can’t discuss my private life with you as I have a date with Lord of the Flies.”

He said, “Who’s he, then? ” And the “lads” all laughed.

I said, again with great dignosity, “It is a book by William Golding that I have to study for my homework.”

10: 30 p.m.

I can’t phone Robbie because then Dad will know that I am phoning him and that will make him even more full of suspiciosity.

11: 00 p.m.

Lord of the Flies is so boring…and so weird. I always thought boys were very very strange, but I didn’t think they would start eating each other. Bloody hell, I must make sure I never end up on an island with a bunch of boys!

wednesday january 5th

Tom arrived back from the family Chrimboli. Jas was ridiculously excited. She is a fair-weather pal, because I know I will be dumped now that her so-called boyfriend is back. And SG isn’t back until next Tuesday.

friday january 7th

Snowed like billio overnight. Angus leapt out of the front door like he normally does and completely disappeared from view, the snow was so deep. He loves it and is leaping and sneezing about in the back garden.

Rosie and the gang are going sledging down the back fields. But I am not in the mood for winter sports until my beloved returns. I explained this to Rosie and she said, “Make love, not war.” What is she talking about?

Besides, I saw Ellen and Dave the Laugh holding hands down at Churchill Square yesterday and it made me feel a bit funny. I don’t know why.

saturday january 8th

10: 00 a.m.

Robbie phoned from East Jesus (or Prestan-a-gogogogoch…anyway, somewhere in Welsh country). The gigs are going really well, but he is shattered and can’t talk much because his throat is sore from singing. He said, “I miss you, gorgeous.”

Boo hoo, this is so sad.

Still, he is back on Tuesday. I may distract myself by doing snogging exercises to limber up.

sunday january 9th

3: 00 p.m.

My exercise regime: doing my yoga sun salute ten times and then pucker-ups (like Mick Jagger) forty times.

6: 00 p.m.

Stalag 14 starts again tomorrow. Shall we never be free? On the bright side, the snow gives a very good comedy opportunity for an outing of glove animal.

8: 00 p.m.

Rang around the ace gang.

“Rosie.”

“

D’accord. It’s me.”

“Is it you? ”

“Yes.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Rang back. “I’ll just say this: Operation Glove Animal and Snow Blindness.”

“Pip, pip.”

Phoned Jools and Mabs and Ellen, who are all prepared. Then I phoned Mrs. Useless Knickers. “Jas, it’s snowing. Prepare glove animal.”

“Oh no, we’ll only get bad conduct marks immediately.”

“Yes, but think of the hilariosity of it.”

“But…”

“Jas, if you can’t think of the hilariosity, think of the severe duffing you will get if you don’t do it.”

monday january 10th

8: 30 a.m.

Rendez-voused at the bottom of the hill, where we all clipped on our glove ears under our berets and put on sunglasses. As we bobbled up the hill, Rosie was nearly going to the piddly-diddly department on the spot as she was laughing so much.

8: 55 a.m.

Mabs did actually walk into a tree because she couldn’t see through her sunglasses. Oh, how we laughed.

As we approached the school gate, we could see Hawkeye lurking. We tucked our ears up under our berets but kept our sunglasses on.

Hawkeye tutted and ferreted at us as we walked by. She said, “What is this nonsense? ”

I said, “It’s to prevent snow blindness, Mrs. Heaton.”

She said, “It’s a pity there’s no way to prevent stupidity.” Which I think is quite bad manners for someone who is teaching the youth of today, but I didn’t say so.

tuesday january 11th

8: 25 a.m.

Sex God back today AND the kittykats have opened their eyes!!! They are soooooo sweet and, as I explained to Jas, “Now they can see to fight properly.”

9: 00 p.m.

Robbie came round to see me as soon as he got back. How cool is that?

When he arrived at the door, Dad called me and then he and Mum spent about a million years raising their eyebrows and looking “wise.” And trying to be modern and to get on with the youth, which is ludicrous.

Vati started to talk about Kiwi-a-gogo land. I said, “Fancy going for a walk, Robbie? I’m a bit…er…hot.”

And Dad said, “It’s pitch-black and about minus seven outside.” He was going to go on and on, but then I saw Mutti give him a look, a “modern, understanding mum look, ” that said, Come on, Bob, remember when you were that age? Which is a physical impossibility for my dad. How very very embarrassing. Shut up, stop looking, shut up, shut up.

Vati said, “Be back by eleven.”

Oh, how sad and embarrassing.

Robbie took my hand and once we got away from our house into the dark street he snogged me. Yipppppeeeee!

midnight

Cor, bloody nippy noodles out there. But I have my love to keep me warm (that and the extra pair of knickers I put on).

I must say, I think my puckering exercises have paid off, because I haven’t got any aches or pains. Robbie told me about being on tour. He said he wasn’t sure that he really liked it. But I’m sure that is just a phase he is going through. Once we are squillionaires he will change his mind.

1: 00 a.m.

I wonder why he asked me if I liked the countryside? Maybe he wants us to go and snog in the great outdoors?

wednesday january 12th

8: 15 a.m.

Dad brought me a cup of tea in bed this morning! I said, “Vati, why are you waking me up in the middle of the night? Are you on fire? ”

I had to pull the sheets up really quickly in case he could see any bits of my body. He hung around after he had put the cup down. He was sort of all red and beardy.

“Georgia, I’m not trying to…well, I know you have your own mind…and Robbie seems like a really, you know, great bloke…but he’s, you know, a big lad and well…well, it’s just that…well, don’t get too serious too soon.”

What in the name of Buddha’s bra is he going on about now?

Then he ruffled my hair (very very annoying) and went out. Robbie’s a “big lad.” What does that mean?

I really will have to break the news soon that I am going off on tour to Hamburger-a-gogo land with The Stiff Dylans. Vati obviously doesn’t think I am capable of maturiosity. But he is wrong.

Wrongy wrong wrong.

I wonder how much money I will need for

le gay Paree weekend, for essentials and so on? I might test the water vis-à -vis spondulicks for my trip to Hamburger-a-gogo land with a simple enquiry about available finance for Froggyland.

front room
7: 30 p.m.

Vati was actually doing a push-up when I came in. I hope he is insured.

“Vati.”

“Urgh.”

“Can I have two hundred and twenty pounds for my weekend in Paris, please? ”

I thought I was going to have to use my first-aid skills on Vati. Which would have been a shame as I only know how to force a boiled sweet out of someone if they are choking to death.

saturday january 15th

11: 00 a.m.

The snow has melted, thank the Lord. It is so hard on the elderly. However, they can be quite suspicious, the elderly. I offered to go shopping for Mr. and Mrs. Next Door yesterday in case they were frightened of going out. And they were quite surly about it. I said to Mr. Next Door, “I couldn’t help noticing that you are even more unsteady than usual on your feet in this kind of weather.” And he told me to go annoy someone else, which is a bit rude, I think.

2: 00 p.m.

As everyone is out, SG came round. We snogged for thirty-five minutes without stopping (I timed it because I could see the clock over Robbie’s shoulder). Rosie rang whilst he was here and said they were having an indoor (!) barbecue at her house tonight. The theme is “sausages.” Robbie couldn’t make it, though, because he is rehearsing.

Bye-bye, dreamboat.

8: 30 p.m.

I didn’t go to the sausage extravaganza. Heaven only knows what sausages would bring out in me; I was bad enough at the fish party. I will concentrate on my French vocabulary instead so that I can ask for things in Paris.

9: 00 p.m.

Sausage is

saucisson in French. Shut up, brain.

9: 05 p.m.

I am a bit worried because Robbie turned up this afternoon not in his groovy mini, but on a secondhand bike.

11: 30 p.m.

I hope he doesn’t suggest we go for bike rides together. It is minus a hundred and eighty degrees, and the last time I rode a bike my skirt got caught in the back wheel and I had to walk home in my knickers.

frogland extravaganza

monday january 17th

stalag 14

quatre days to our frogland extravaganza french

M’sieur “Call Me Henri” really is sooo cool and gorgey. He told us what we are going to do on our school trip to la belle France and what we should bring. We’re going to stay in Hô tel Gare du Nord and visit the Champs Elysé es and the Pompidou Centre. Loads of trè s bon stuff. Madame Slack came in and took all our forms that we had to take home for signing—the forms saying that even if we were set fire to by raving French people, the staff are not responsible, etc. She also said, “Girls, on Saturday there will be a choice of excursion in the morning. You can go on a grand tour of the sewage system of Paris with me, go up the Eiffel Tower with M’sieur Hilbert or to the Louvre with Herr Kamyer. Please come and sign up for your choice.”

As we queued up we argued about which trip to go on as a gang. Jas was the only one who wanted to go down into the sewers. I said to Jas, “What is the point of going down the sewers? ”

“Because it is historical and we might learn a lot of stuff we don’t know.”

I said, “

Au contraire, we will learn a lot of things we DO know. We will learn that French sewers are like English sewers, only French.”

Jas looked like a goggle-eyed ferret.

I explained. “It is just tunnels full of French poo—how different can French poo be from English poo? ”

So we are all going up the Eiffel Tower with Gorgey Henri.

Ellen said, “I’m looking forward to going and everything, but I will really miss Dave the Laugh….He’s such a…”

I said, “Laugh? ”

“Yes, ” she said, and went all red. Good Lord.

I am, of course, used to being away from the Sex God. He’s only been back a week and I’m off to Frogland.

I sometimes wish he was more of a laugh, though. There is a slight danger that underneath his Sex God exterior there lurks a sensible person. He has just bought a bike to save the environment. And it might not stop there…he might possibly buy some waterproofs.

thursday january 20th

Slim gave us her world famous (not) “Representatives of Great Britain abroad” speech. Apparently we have the weight of the reputation of the British Isles on our shoulders.

I said to Jools, “I’m already tired, and we haven’t even got on the coach yet.”

midnight

I’ve managed to whittle down my necessities to one haversack full. Jas and I are doing sharesies on some things to save space. For instance, I am supplying our hair gel for the weekend and she is supplying moisturizer. I will not be sharing knickers with her, though.

I said

au revoir to mon amour. He came round on his bike AGAIN, and also (this is the worst bit), he talked to my dad about Kiwi-a-gogo land…and he didn’t shoot himself with boredom. In fact, he even asked questions, which proved he had been listening to Vati raving on about Maoris. Trè s weird.

friday january 21st

aboard l’esprit
midday

On our way to

la belle France at last. If we ever get there it will be le miracle, because: a) it is a French ferry and b) we have a madman at the helm. When we set off from Newhaven we went in and out of the quay three times, because the captain forgot to cast off.

1: 00 p.m.

Zut alors, we are being tossed about like les corks. I may complain to the captain (if he has not been airlifted home to a secure unit) and suggest he stop driving us into eighty-foot waves. Herr Kamyer, dithering champion for the German nation and part-time fool, has just lost his footing and fallen into the ladies’ loos.

1: 15 p.m.

In the restaurant there is a notice that says,

“Soupe du jour, ” so Rosie said to the French waiter, “Can I have le soupe du yesterday, please? ” But no one got it.

1: 30 p.m.

Staggering around on the decks in gale-force winds.

I could see Captain Mad up in his wheelhouse thing.

1: 32 p.m.

The only way to stay upright is to hold the flagpole at the back of the boat.

1: 35 p.m.

Why does he keep staring at me? I’m just clinging on to this French flag because I want to live to see Frogland.

Just then the boat lurched violently, and that’s when it came off in my hand.

2: 30 p.m.

Madame Slack, who until then had been attached to Gorgey Henri for most of the voyage (like a Slack limpet), decided to make a big international thing out of the flag removing incident.

She gibbered in

le Frog to Captain Mad, who had come down to the deck (hopefully leaving someone who could drive in his place). They did a lot of pointing and shouting and shrugging.

Incidentally, why has Madame Slack got two huge handbags? She keeps Sellotape and a ruler in one and a hankie in the other. Should someone like that be in charge of the youth of today? Is France a nation of handbag fetishists, I wonder? As I said to Jas, “Even Henri has got a little handbag.”

Rosie said, “You are definitely going to have to walk the gangplank.

Au revoir, mon amie.”

“What makes you think Captain Mad could find a gangplank? I’ll be amazed if he can find France.” But I said it quietly. I didn’t want to start the shrugging again.

In the end, Madame Slack called me stupid about a zillion times, which could have upset me a lot, but I know I am really full of geniosity.

I had to apologize to Captain Mad. In French.

4: 45 p.m.

Still in this sodding boat, bobbing up and down in the Atlantic or wherever it is we are now.

Suddenly Rosie said, “Land! I can see land, thank the Lord! ” and got down on her knees. Which was quite funny. It could be Iceland, though, for all we know.

Captain Mad came on the PA system and said, “Ladeez and jentlemen, ve are now approaching Dieppe.”

I said to the gang, “With a bit of luck, he’ll manage to dock by tomorrow evening.”

9: 00 p.m.

Miraculously survived the ferry journey and caught the train to Paris. I think the driver might have been wearing a beret, but we still managed to arrive at Hô tel Gare du Nord in

le gay Paree! Right in the middle of everything.

The lady behind the desk said, “Welcome, I will show you to your rrruuuuuuums.” I thought French people were actually being funny when they put on their accent, but they aren’t being funny, they are being French. That, as I said to Jas, is why I

aime them so much.

Gorgey Henri has let the ace gang be in the same room together! How fab is he? Usually we get split up in class, but the six of us are back together again. Yes!!!

Les girls have arrived. It’s a really groovy room as well. I have a bed by the window. I lay down on it and said, “Aaahhh, this is the sort of life I will be leading from now on.”

Rosie said, “What? Sharing a room with five other women? Are you setting up a lezzie farm? ” I had to duff her rather savagely over the head with my pillow.

Jas had brought the photo of Tom and her at Seaworld and she put it on the table by the side of her bed.

Ellen tried to sneak a book under her pillow, but I saw it. “What’s that? ” I asked.

“Oh, it’s just a bit of homework I brought with me.”

Rosie fished it out and read out the title. “It’s called

Black Lace Shoulder, a story of passion on the high seas.” Now we know what sort of homework she is doing: snogging research. It was a semi-naughty book. I flicked through it and found a bit to read to the rest of the gang.

“‘He captivated women with his fierce, proud face, his lean, well-exercised body and his aura of sexuality, wild as that of a stallion.’”

Rosie said, “That’s like Sven.”

Jas said, “What, he’s like a stallion? ”

“Yes.”

I said, “A stallion in loons.”

Rosie said,

“Mais oui.”

“

Quel number have you got up to now with le stallion in loons on the scoring system? ” I asked.

“Eight.” Upper-body fondling indoors. All of our eyes drifted towards Rosie’s basoomas, which, it has to be said, are not gigantic.

Ellen said, “Is it, does it…I mean, are your, erm, nungas…getting bigger? ”

Rosie looked down the front of her T-shirt. “I think they are a bit. Not as much as Georgia’s, though.”

Oh no, here we go. I thought my new nunga-nunga holder had stopped this sort of talk. To change the subject I said to Ellen, “What number have you got up to with Dave? ”

She went all red. “Oh, well, you know, he’s like really a good, well, kisser.”

Yes, as it happens, I do know that he’s a really good kisser.

Rosie was all interested now. “Has he touched anything? ”

Ellen was about to explode from redness. “Well, he stroked my hair.”

We haven’t even bothered to put hair-stroking on our snogging scale. If we had, it would have been minus one.

Out of our bedroom window we can see the streets of Paris and the French-type

garç ons. Some of them look quite groovy, but their trousers are a bit too short. Perhaps this is the French way. I said, “Look, people are wearing berets and they’re not even going to school. Unless they still go to school at ninety-four.”

saturday january 22nd

saturday in paris
9: 30 a.m.

Oh

j’aime Paris muchly. For brekkie we had hot chocolate and croissants. All the French kids dipped their croissants into their hot chocolate. How cool is that? Yummy scrumboes.

We set off with Gorgey Henri for the Eiffel Tower. I was singing “Fallink in luff again, never vanted to…” until Rosie pointed out that Marlene Dietrich sang that and she was by no means a French person.

up the eiffel tower
11: 00 a.m.

Jas and I got split up somehow from the rest of the gang. Well, mainly because Jas was dithering around making me take a photo of her with some French pigeons. How anyone would know they were French pigeons, I don’t know. I said to her, “We will have to draw little stripey T-shirts on them when we get the prints back.”

Anyway, the others had gone on ahead and we got trapped just in front of a group of French schoolboys of about nine years old. They spent the million years it took climbing the steps looking up our skirts.

Jas was OK because she had her holiday knickers on (same gigantic ones as her daywear in England, but with a frilly bit round the gusset). I, however, had normals on, and so I tried to walk up the stairs with my legs together, which is not easy. Every time I looked behind me I could see the little boys ogling like ogles on ogle tablets.

When we eventually got to the top, Jas said, “It’s your fault; you should have worn sensible knickers.”

“Jas,

fermez la bouche or I will fermer it for you.”

oo la-la la gay paree
2: 00 p.m.

We walked along the banks of the Seine in the winter sunshine. There were musicians and so on playing, and a bird market. I wanted to take a chaffinch or some lovebirds home with me, but I knew that they’d only last two minutes if Angus got a snack attack in the middle of the night. As we passed a bloke playing a saxophone underneath one of the arches, he put down the sax and started doing a juggling thing with his hands. It was a bit peculiar, though, because, as I said to Jas, “He hasn’t got any balls.”

Rosie said, “Ooer…” which set us off on the uncontrollable laughing fandango.

Jas said, “He must be doing a sort of mime thing.” Mime juggling? In the end, unfortunately, we realized he was actually pretending to juggle my breasts. I am the first to admit that I can be paranoid about my nungas, but in this case it was clear even to Jas that he was a perv. He pointed at my nungas and made a sort of leering, licking smile and then continued his pretend juggling. How disgusting!

Am I never to be free from the tyranny of my basoomas? I buttoned my coat up as tightly as possible.

la nuit extravaganza

Henri took us down

rue St. Denis in the evening and said, “Zis is where the ladeez of the night ply their trade.”

Jas said, “I can’t see any ladies of the night; all I can see are a load of prostitutes.” She astonishes me with her hilarious stupidosity sometimes.

Actually, it should have been called “

rue de Bummer, ” because all the prozzies looked exactly like the Bummer twins. Only less spotty.

It isn’t even just Henri who has a handbag, lots of

les franç ais men have little handbags. And no one laughs. Weird. I may buy one for Dad as a souvenir.

sunday january 23rd

Herr Kamyer has reached dizzying heights of giddiness since he’s been in Paris, even going so far as to wear leisure slacks and a cardigan with a koala on it. Jas said kindly, “Perhaps it’s a Christmas gift from his mum.” But I don’t think so. I think he knitted it himself. And I think he is proud of it.

1: 00 p.m.

Jas and Rosie keep nipping off to phone Tom and Sven every five minutes.

I would phone Robbie, but I don’t really know what to say to him. What if he asks me what I have been doing? What would I say? “I pulled off a French flag, some boys looked up my skirt and finally a bloke with a saxophone juggled my breasts.” I wouldn’t mean to say any of that, but I know I would blurt it out.

2: 15 p.m.

Herr Kamyer has been showing us how to ask for things in shops. I know how to do this already: all you do is ask Gorgey Henri to go and ask for whatever it is you want in the shop. He does, after all, know the language. However, Herr Kamyer thinks we should learn stuff, so he keeps going up to French people and asking for things, which is hilarious in the extreme as: a) no one has a clue what he is talking about and b) they wouldn’t give him anything anyway, because he is not French.

Oh, I tell a lie. He did manage to get something. He went into the tourist information center for a map. “I vill be back in a moment, girls,

mit der map and ve vill proceed to the Champs Elysé es.”

He came out ten minutes later dithering like a loon with a souvenir walking stick but no map. As I pointed out to Jools, “The tragic thing is that they speak English in the tourist information center.”

plunging into the seine
photo opportunity

We tried the “Just step back a bit, Herr Kamyer, I can’t get all your cardigan in” tactic on the banks of the Seine. But Herr Kamyer looked back before he moved so he did not plunge into the Seine. And now we really do have a photo of Herr Kamyer in his cardigan.

notre dame
4: 00 p.m.

Very gothic. No sign of hunchbacks, though. So…with a marvelous display of imaginosity (and also after Herr Kamyer, Henri and Madame Slack had gone into the cathedral) the ace gang got into their hunchback gear (haversacks under coats). We were getting ready, shuffling around and yelling, “The bells, the bells, ” but then Jas and I stepped onto a bit of green grass verge to take a photo of the ace gang being hunchbacks against the romantic backdrop of Notre Dame (

trè s historic). Suddenly all hell broke loose. Whistles went off and some absolute loon started yelling through a loudspeaker in French at us. Then we were surrounded by blokes in uniforms. I thought we were going to be taken to the Bastille.

I said to Jas, “What have we done? Ask one of them.”

She said, “You came top in French, you ask.” Unfortunately, I had come top in French only to annoy Madame Slack. I had learned twenty-five words and then made sure I answered every question using only those words.

Just then Henri came running back to save us. He started yelling and shrugging his shoulders, and soon everyone was shrugging shoulders. Even the bloke selling bird food. I don’t know what he had to do with it.

I turned to the gang. “Wait for a big group shrug and then run like the wind into Notre Dame for sanctuary. We must beg the priests to save us.”

It all got sorted out in the end. The French loon patrol turned out to be park keepers. Sort of like park Elvises. Apparently you are not allowed to step on their grass, because it drives them insane.

Madame Slack gave her world famous “Once again a few bad apples have spoilt the reputation of England” lecture and gave us all bad conduct medals. I mean marks.

I said to Jas, “You would think that she would encourage us to bring history to life, but oh no,

au contraire, we are pilloried on the spike of…er…life.”

9: 30 p.m.

Henri took us out to a restaurant tonight. It was really groovy, apart from some old drunk at the piano who kept moaning on about

“Je ne regrette rien.” Ellen asked, “What is he going on about? ”

I said, “He’s saying in French that he doesn’t regret a thing, which he quite clearly should. He should regret having started this song, for one thing.”

Henri said he was a famous French singer. Good Lord.

Very very funny evening. There was a notice on our table saying what you could have to eat. It said “Frogs’ legs” at the top. When the waiter came he spoke English (sort of). “Good evening, mademoiselle, what can I get you? ”

I said, “

S’cusez moi, have you got frogs’ legs? ”

He smiled. “Yes, m’selle.”

So I said, “Well, hop off and get me a sandwich, then.”

We laughed for about a million years. Even the waiter thought it was funny(ish). However, Madame Slack heard what had happened and said we were “giddy.”

monday january 24th

last morning in gay paree

Sitting by myself in a café because the ace gang have gone off to look at some French boys. I even ordered a cup of coffee for myself. And a croissant. Well, actually, it looks more like an egg sandwich (because it is an egg sandwich), but at least it’s not a walking stick.

pompidou centre
midday

You can’t move for white-faced loons in the area around the Centre. Some of them just stand still for ages and ages, painted all white like a statue. Then when you are really bored from looking at them, they slowly move a finger, or lift a leg, and then go back to being still. And people throw coins in their hats for that. I said to Rosie, “What is the point of mime artists? Why don’t they just tell you what they want? ”

Then I noticed that a gorgey

garç on was watching me watching the white-faced loons. I kept catching him looking at me. He was cute. Trè s cute. And his trousers were relatively normal. And he wasn’t wearing a beret. And he was handbag-free.

He caught my eye and smiled quite a dreamy smile. He was very intense-looking, with incredibly dark curly hair. However, I am a red bottom–free zone and I was just about to ignore him when he went off.

Ah well.

C’est la guerre, as they say here, although what the railway station has to do with anything, I don’t know. (Or is that gâ re? Oh, I don’t know. As I say to Madame Slack, French is a foreign language to me.)

five minutes later

The gorgey French boy came back and brought me a red rose!! He said, “For the most beeootiful girl, ” kissed my hand and then went off into the crowd.

Honestly.

The ace gang were dead impressed. We discussed it for ages. It didn’t fit into the snogging scale anywhere. And it wasn’t a “see you later.” Was I supposed to follow him? Should I have done something erotic with the rose?

As I have said with huge wisdomosity many times, boys the world over are a bloody mystery.

au revoir

We got on the train and said

“Auf Wiedersehen” to the city of romance. We have our memories to take home with us. More importantly, we also have our HUGE comedy berets.

We found them in a souvenir shop in the station that sold musical Eiffel Towers, nuddy-pants cancan dancers and other sophisticated gifts. The berets are gigantic and they are wired around the rim, so that they stick out about a foot from your head. They are quite hilarious in the extreme. We each got one. I can’t wait to wear them to school. They make the lunchpack berets seem traditional by comparison.

When we got on the train, Madame Slack went off to the teachers’ compartment, probably to chat with Gorgey Henri about handbags they had known and loved. We took the opportunity to try on our new berets. All six of us leaned out of our carriage window wearing our gigantic berets as the train pulled out. We were yelling “

AU REVOIR, PARIS! WE LOVE YOU ALL!!! ”

And guess what? The people on the platform all waved and cheered. They were shouting,

“Bonne chance! ” I think.

I asked Jas, as we tucked into our cheesy snacks for the journey, “Do you think that the French-type people think we really like our berets? ”

She said, “No, I think they think we are English people and therefore not normal.”

“How could they think that? ” asked Rosie.

Then I noticed that Rosie was wearing a false mustache as well as her beret.

on the ferry heading home

Uneventful trip home because we had a normal captain (i.e., English).

Also we had chips. A LOT.

I was quite overcome when we saw the white cliffs of Dover, until I realized we weren’t going to Dover and they are just some crappy old white cliffs of somewhere else.

midnight

Arrived home to my loving family. As I came up the drive, Angus shot over the wall and gave me a playful bite on the ankle as he passed. I opened the door and yelled, “

C’est moi! Your daughter is home again, crack open the fatted calf and—”

Angus had pushed his way in first and Dad started yelling. “Get that bloody cat out! This house is full of fleas.”

I said sternly to Angus, “Angus, stay out of the house, it is full of fleas! ” But the Loonleader didn’t think it was funny. Even though it was.

12: 10 a.m.

Libby was pleased to see me, at least. She woke up when I came in and said, “Heggo, Gingey.”

She made me a card with a drawing of a cat band on the front. Angus is the lead singer, although why he is upside down, I don’t know. The audience is little mice and voles in disco wear.

By the time I had unpacked my bag, Libby had fallen back to sleep in my bed with her “fwends.” She is so lovely when she is sleeping, and I gave her a kiss on her cheek. I wonder how I will get on without her when I go to America. It made me feel a bit weepy, actually. I must have boat lag.

Just as I was dropping off into snoozeland, Mutti came in. I think she might have had a couple of glasses of

vino tinto, because she looked a bit flushed.

“Hello darling, welcome back. How was France? ”

“Fantastique.”

“This came for you.” And she handed me a letter. In the Sex God’s handwriting!! Wow and wowzee wow!

Mutti came and sat on my bed.

“So, did you have a fab time? ”

“

Oui. Trè s sportif. Night-night.”

“Did you see the Eiffel Tower? It’s amazing at night, isn’t it? Was it all lit up? ”

Oh, good grief. I know she was being a nice mutti and everything, but I wanted to read my Sex God notelet. I said kindly, “Mum, I’m a bit boat-lagged. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

She touched Libby’s cheek and then she touched mine.

“Don’t grow up too fast, love.” She looked all tearful.

What is the matter with grown-ups? They are always banging on about how childish you are and telling you to grow up and so on, and then when you do, they start blubbering.

After she’d left I ripped open my letter.

Dear Georgia,

Welcome home, snog queen. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. I’ve thought about you all weekend and I wanted to tell you that I like everything about you. Your hair, your gorgeous mouth. The way I say “good-bye” and you say “I’m away laughing on a fast camel.”

See you Tuesday.
Lots of love,
Robbie

Phwoar. I put the letter under my pillow. My very first love letter.

1: 00 a.m.

Well, unless you count that one that Mark Big Gob sent me, which looked like he had written it with a stick.

1: 05 a.m.

Dave the Laugh sent me quite a nice letter when Wet Lindsay deliberately hit me on the ankle with her hockey stick. Actually, the reason I say “I’m away laughing on a fast camel” instead of “good-bye” is because of him.

And “nippy noodles.”

1: 10 a.m.

And “poo parlor division” instead of “loo.”

the cosmic horn

tuesday january 25th

Exhausted, but up like a startled earwig at 8: 15

A.M., thanks to Libby blowing her new bugle in my ear. What complete fool had bought her that? Dad, obviously.

stalag 14

I wore my beret proudly this morning (not the huge one, as I didn’t want to get a reprimand first thing). I wore my beret

à la franç aise on the side of my head. When I saw Hawkeye, I said, “Bonjour Madame, I aime a lot your trè s bonne outfit ce matin.”

“Just get into Assembly and try to be normal for once.” That’s nice, isn’t it? You try to add a little bit of beautosity and humorosity into a dull world and that is the thanks you get.

As we slouched past Elvis’s hut, I nudged Jas. “Elvis has got a bell! How ludicrously sad is that? ” He has a bell on the outside of his hut and a sign above it that says: “Ring the bell for the caretaker.” Hahahahahaha.

assembly

Slim in tip-top jelly form this morning, in her attractive elephant-tent dress. We were all still in

la belle France mood, saying “Ah, bonjour” and nodding at one another a lot and shrugging.

Slim ordered, “Silence, at once. And stop shuffling around like silly geese. I have something very serious to tell you. I am sorry to say that the whole school has been very badly let down by a few bad apples. Girls from this school have been involved in a criminal act. And I intend to make an example of them by punishing them in the severest manner.”

All of the ace gang looked at one another. God’s slippers, what had we done now? Surely Madame Slack hadn’t told Slim about the hunchback incident? Or the accidental French flag fiasco?

Hawkeye was glaring at us as we shuffled around. Slim went on. “Two girls have been arrested for shoplifting in town. Charges are to be made.”

All of us went Yessssss! (inwardly). The Bummers had finally come to the end of their reign of terror. Yesss!!!

But then we noticed a dog in the ointment. The Bummers were in the row in front of us, looking as tarty and spotty as normal, and also…not bothered.

Slim continued. “The two girls are Monica Dickens and Pamela Green. They are, as of today, expelled from school. I trust this will be a warning to any girl who imagines that crime has no consequences.”

We were all amazed at the news. I kept saying to the others, “Nauseating P. Green? And ADM? Shoplifting? ”

Jools said, “Nauseating P. Green can hardly see the end of her nose. She would be a crap shoplifter. She’d have to ask a shop assistant to point things out to her.”

She is not wrong.

Weird to think that behind those huge glasses lurked a mistress criminal.

I said, “And ADM? She came to a school dance in ankle socks once. That is not shoplifting wear.”

break

Behind the sports hall we all huddled together under our coats discussing the scandalosa.

Rosie said, “I can’t believe Nauseating P. Green actually went shoplifting in a gang with ADM.”

I said, “Do you remember when ADM owned up to Miss Stamp about not having had a shower after games last term? And no one had even noticed that she hadn’t. Miss Stamp didn’t notice. In fact, I don’t think she had actually noticed that ADM had even been doing games. That is not the attitude of a mistress criminal. That is the attitude of an astonishingly dim person. Which is what she is.”

“I was never very nice to them, ” said Jas. “I feel bad now. I wonder if we can visit them in jail and maybe take them things…you know, knitted things and so on. Oranges.”

I said, “Jas, they are not in the Crimean War. They don’t need you to knit balaclavas. They won’t go to jail.”

Jas was rambling on, “Well, Slim said they were expelled and bad apples and so forth and—”

“Jas, can I say something? ”

“What? ”

“Shut up.”

“Well, I—”

“That is not shutting up, Jas, that is keeping on talking rubbish.”

“But—”

We could have kept that up for centuries, but then the Bummers walked around the corner. Jackie Bummer said, “Clear off, tiny tots, we want to have a fag and you are sitting in our ashtray.”

Jools (bravely, but stupidly) said, “This is just ground, anyone’s ground, it’s not—”

Alison came over and got hold of her hair, “You are

in our ashtray, so why don’t you get out of our ashtray.”

We grumbled and groaned as we collected our things. I hate them, I hate them. As the Bummers lit up their fags, Jackie said, “Sad about the criminal element in this school, isn’t it? ”

In a fit of stupidosity, I said, “Yes, well, why don’t you leave, then? ” To which Jackie answered, “Careful, Big Nose, as a severe duffing often offends.” Then she flicked her cigarette ash onto my head and said, “Oh, whoops.”

I had to wash my hair with soap in the loos and then dry it upside down under the hand dryer. Fortunately, I had my mega-duty hair gel with me. Otherwise there would have been a Coco the Clown incident.

maths

It’s a bit funny not having P. Green’s head bobbing around at the front of the class. “I miss her, ” said Rosie. “It’s not the same firing elastic bands with no target.” She is all heart.

Still, I can’t spend any more time thinking about other people. It’s only two hours until I meet the Sex God. It’s double blodge after this, so providing I don’t have to do anything disgusting with pond life, I will be able to get my nails done and foundation on, and possibly mascara, if I crouch down at the back.

double blodge

I thought of an hilarious biology joke (which is not easy). I wrote to the gang in a gang note: “Lockjaw means never having to say you’re sorry.”

They did their famous cross-eyed sign of ap