saturday july 16th
11:45 p.m.
Run away, run away!!!
Pant, pant, pant.
And double pants.
How in the name of God’s novelty undercrackers and matching toga have I ended up running along the streets at midnight?
I’ll tell you how. You wait ages for a Sex God to come along and then two come along at the same time. Where is the sense in that? If it is all part of Big G’s divine plan, all I can say is this: “Keep it simple, Big G. Just give me one Sex God to eat at a time. And then if I am not full up, I’ll have another one. Thank you. Regards to Baby Jesus.”
That is all I am saying. Inwardly, obviously, as I am nearly dead with trying to run in my high-heel boots. I may have to lie down in a ditch in a minute.
11:50 p.m.
I had to stop and sit in the hedge by the park. I’m so out of breath. Hurrah, I am sitting in the dark like a panting vole in a skirt.
three minutes later
Pant, pant. So this is a brief résumé of vole girl’s evening.
Scene 1
A top night at the Stiff Dylans gig, including an excellent Viking disco inferno dance* in honor of Rosie and Sven’s forthcoming (well, in eighteen years’ time) wedding, Sven arriving in furry shorts and, as the pièce de whatsit, Masimo, lead singer and Luuurve God that I have been dreaming of and longing for, asked me to go outside, and said, “So, Signorína Georgia, I am free man for you. If you still want for us to go out.”
Keep in mind that he said it in his gorgey porgey Pizza-a-gogo land accent. Looking at me like I was a Sex Kitty.
Scene 2
Just as I was experiencing Swoon City and melty pantaloonies a car pulled up and Robbie the original Sex God got out.
The one who had left me and gone to Kiwi-a-gogo land.
To snog marsupials and so on for the rest of his life.
Not.
Scene 3
After a moment of silence I said in a quick-thinking and casual way, “Oh hello, Robbie, do excuse me, I have a train to catch and time and tide wait for no man.”
And walked quickly off before breaking into a slight trot. Then a light gallop. Then I ended up in the hedge and that is where all this started.
In conclusion I would say that after queuing up at the cakeshop of luuurve for ages I have accidentally bought two cakes.
And I am sitting in a bush.
11:56 p.m.
Oh yet more marvelous, marvelous news, the Blunderboys are lurking around in the park. Probably setting fire to themselves and practicing being crap. Which they needn’t bother doing as they are top at it anyway.
They’ll sense I’m here in a minute and come looming out at me. The Blunderboys have got radar for girls within half a mile.
thirty seconds later
Mark Big Gob (who lives in my street and who I accidentally snogged once, and who has the largest lips known to humanity) larged out of the gloom and saw me panting in the hedge. He was looking at my nungas, which were heaving up and down. Stop heaving and retreat into your over-the-shoulder boulder holder, you stupid nungas! Mark said, “I see you are all pleased to see me, girls.”
How repellent is he? I ignored him and got up with a dignity at all times sort of attitude. As I was brushing past him, he said, “Steady darlin’, you nearly knocked me over, then.”
The rest of the trainee idiots had sidled up by then and they sniggered and choked on their fags. Still, on the bright side cigarettes stunt your growth, so with a bit of luck most of them will remain about three-foot eight.
Mark Big Gob said, “I see you’ve got the Horn. Is it for me?”
Is he mad? Is he implying that I have got the Horn for him? I would rather plunge my head into a bucket of whelks than let him anywhere near me. I can’t believe that his hand had once rested on my basooma. And that his enormous gob had squelched around my face. Erlack. If anything, he gave me the anti-Horn.
Sadly, it was then I realized that in fact he was right, I did have the Horn. Horns actually. I was still carrying my Viking bison horns that I had worn to rehearse Rosie’s wedding dance.
Still, what is so very unusual about that?
five minutes later
Quite a lot, actually, when you think about it.
Which I won’t.
Oh double merde and ordure and poo.
12:15 p.m.
Got to my street. My tootsies are killing me. The light is still on in the front room. Oh noooo. That means the terminally insane (Mutti and Vati) are still up. I must avoid them at all costs. I can’t speak to them. Not now. Not anytime if I have my way.
I snuck really really quietly through the front door and stashed my horns in a secret place where they will never be found (the ironing basket).
Aaahh. Safely in. Now quietly, quietly up the stairs to my room. Quietly, quietly like a little mousie. Mousie girl opening little doorsies. Shhhhh. Shhhh. Nearly safe. Quietly into the room like a quiet thing on quiet tablets. No sign of the furry freak brothers, a.k.a. my cats Angus and his cross-eyed son Gordon, thank the Lord.
As I opened my bedroom door Gordy’s face appeared upside down an inch away from my fringe. I looked into his mad cross-eyes. Why does he do that—lurk on top of the door like a bat? He did a little croaky noise and licked my face with his horrid rough tongue. I managed not to cry out or be sick.
12:25 a.m.
There is a half-eaten mouse on my pillow.
12:30 a.m.
Oh God that means that Gordy licked my face after he had crunched up the mousey head. I am almost bound to get the Black Death.
Nothing nicer than a few pustulating boils when you have boyfriend trouble.
one minute later
Crept downstairs to get rid of the mousey. I had it on a piece of cardboard. When I say mousey, what I mean is two ears and a bit of tail. Too crunchy for Gordy’s delicate little murderer’s gob, I suppose.
As I was going back upstairs, Mutti called out from the front room, “Is that you, Gee?”
I said, “No,” and went up to get into my snuggly bed of pain.
one minute later
In bed under the sheets of life. Can’t be bothered getting undressed as I’m so full of confusiosity.
five minutes later
I’d better make an effort though and at least take my boots off. My feet are probably all swollen from my mad running and I don’t want to have them surgically removed again.
(The boots, I mean, not my feet.)
Anyway, the nub and gist is that I have accidentally acquired two Luuurve Gods.
I may never sleep again.
one minute later
I won’t have time to sleep if I’ve got two boyfriends.
Teeheeee…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
sunday july 17th
7:00 a.m.
Woke up from a dream where Dr. Clooney was looking at my head and saying, “I have never seen anything like it, her head is one enormous boil!” and for a minute forgot that I had two boyfriends.
I checked in the mirror and there has been no pustulating boil extravaganza, so I seem to have escaped catching the Black Death from Gordy’s little mousey snack, thank the Lord. Although my head seems to have exploded, hairwise. I may have to iron it.
7:35 a.m.
Crept downstairs and made some toast and tea. I must keep my strength up. There was snoring coming from every room. Mum had made Dad sleep in the spare room because of his snoring and she was louder than him! I must be kind, though, she probably has difficulty breathing because of the weight of her enormous nungas. If mine grow as big as hers, I will definitely donate them to some charity.
It was a nice day. The birds were humming and the bees a-singing and I could see Angus the furry Luuurve Machine lolling around in the morning sun with Naomi. They are very much in love if the amount of bum-oley licking is anything to go by.
five minutes later
Back in my bed with snacksies.
I must consult with a book of wisdomosity.
five minutes later
This double boyfriend fandango is not mentioned in Mutti’s book How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You.
three minutes later
Maybe Robbie and Masimo will have to have fisticuffs at dawn to decide who gets me. Who knows what the right etiquette is in this scenario.
one minute later
One thing is for sure. I will not be asking Dave the Laugh, my Horn Adviser and occasional snoggee, to the fight. He will only think it is a laugh and start shouting out stuff like, “Hit him with your handbag, Masimo,” or “Mind the hair, love.”
Anyway, Dave is too busy to give me advice these days. He will be with his “girlfriend.”
I wonder—what number they have got up to on the snogging scale?
Shut up, brain! I don’t want to think about Dave—he is an ex-snoggee. And just a mate. I have enough to worry about without Dave popping up all the time—oo-er.
7:55 a.m.
This does mean that I am going to have to be on high beauty and glamorosity alert at all times. One of my multi boyfriends may be so driven by snognosity that he rushes round here first thing in the morning. I must be prepared. But no one must know. I must exude glamour but in a natural just-tumbled-out-of-bed way.
Soooo just a hint of foundation, touch of bronzer, lippy, mascara and tiny bit of eyeliner. Which I like to think looks like I have a touch of the Egyptian in my genes.
That is what I like to think.
8:00 a.m.
Now what to wear?
Nightwear or daywear?
What would you wear if you had unexpectedly woken up to the doorbell ringing and you didn’t know who it was, but you suspected it might be a Luuurve or a Sex God?
8:01 a.m.
Not Teletubbies pajamas, that is le fact.
8:06 a.m.
A leatherette skirt and T-shirt that exude casualosity?
Yep.
8:12 a.m.
I took a peek out of the front window. No sign of any Sex or Luuurve Gods. The reverse, in fact, because I was alarmed to see Mr. Across the Road in his garden in a shortie dressing gown. I hope he is not going to become a homosexualist in his twilight years. Then Mrs. Across the Road came out in a massive pair of pajamas. Was there the suggestion of a small mustache on her upper lip? Maybe that’s what happens in the end when people are married: They change sex. My dad is certainly on the turn, but on the other hand no man alive has developed nunga-nungas like Mum.
8:30 a.m.
Why hasn’t Jas phoned?
You would think that Radio Jas would have been on the airwaves of life wanting to know what happened to me and also wanting to report what had happened after I had left the gig. I suppose I will just have to wait until she wakes up, or the rest of the ace gang wake up to let me know what is going on. I must use the steely discipline for which I am world renowned.
8:35 a.m.
That’s it, I can’t stand it anymore. Crept out of the house. I won’t leave a note because no one will notice I am missing for hours. The last thing I want is a cross-examination from Herr Vati. Or Mum being “interested.”
outside on the drive
Angus was still lying on his back on the wall whilst Naomi licked his face and then started in on his bum-oley. How disgusting. Kittyporn first thing in the morning.
Also, they are both covered in what looks like snot.
Oh, Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers, it isn’t snot; it’s frogspawn. They have been maurauding about in Mr. and Mrs. Next Door’s new marine conservation area. Known to other normal people as a bucket with disgusting tadpoles and slime and so on in it. The Prat brothers, also known as Mr. Next Door’s annoying and useless toy poodles, were on marine conservation life-guard duty, so all Angus had to do was duff them up a bit, round them up into their kennel, and then it was a night of splashing around in the bucket to his heart’s content.
The Next Doors will go absolutely ballistic; they always do about the least thing. Mr. Next Door has been hovering on the edge of a nervy spaz for the last year and this might drive him over the edge and into the rest home. His shorts will probably explode with the tension. Which is no bad thing, unless I happen to be around at the time and am exposed to the sight of his huge bottom looming about.
I said to Angus, “You are soooo bad, Angus, and in for big trub. That is a fact. Au revoir, dead kitty pal.”
I’m sure he understands every word I say because he got idly to his feet, stretched and nudged Naomi off the wall. He treats his girls rough. Naomi leapt back on the wall and arched her back and raised her hackles, making that really mad screechy noise that Burmese cats do. She was spitting at Angus and teetering backward and forward. Really, really mad. Angus was frightened. Not. When she got near enough, he biffed her with his paw and she disappeared over the wall again. You had to laugh.
Not for long, though, because after he had rolled about on the lawn to get rid of the frogspawn, he began stalking me.
Oh no, not today, my furry friend, I am not having him tagging along with me all day causing mayhem and eating anything that moves. I said, “Clear off, Angus, stay there. Sit. Sit.”
I even threw him a stick to distract him and he ran bounding off after it, but then came back to trail along behind me.
I started running. He started running. I hid behind a wall. His head loomed over the wall at me.
In the end, to give him the hint, I threw stones at him—some of them quite big.
five minutes later
This is hopeless.
He doesn’t care about having stones thrown at him at all. He is senselessly brave.
one minute later
He is trying to catch the stones in his mouth.
one minute later
He’s just slightly dazed himself by heading one of them.
in jas’s garden
9:00 a.m.
No sign of Jas being up and her curtains are drawn. Damny damn damn. She is so lazy, snoozing in Pantsland. I don’t want to arouse any interest in the elderly mad by ringing the bell. Even though Jas’s m and d are on the whole more acceptable than most in that they provide snacks and Jas’s dad doesn’t speak, they are still technically in the elderly loon category.
three minutes later
How can I get Jas to get up without ringing the doorbell?
one minute later
Oh here we are! There is a ladder in the shed, I can use my initiative and Girl Guide training (which I haven’t got and never will have) and use the ladder to make a small fire to send smoke signals past her bedroom window. Shut up, brain.
five minutes later
It must be a child’s ladder, as it only reaches to just above the lounge window. I would have to have orangutan arms on stilts to reach Jas’s window. Poo and merde.
two minutes later
As I was looking up wondering how to make my arms grow, something bit my ankle really viciously. Angus was on the ladder with me, looking at me and playfully biting my legs. Ouch, bloody ouch.
I reached down to strangle him and I was just saying, “You bloody furry freak, I’ll kill you when I get down from here” when I saw Jas’s dad standing on the garden path with his paper, smoking his unlit pipe. He was looking at me. Like I was Norma Normal.
I said, “Aah yes, I was just…thinking I’d see what your garden looked like from up here. And yep, yep, it looks very, very nice indeed. Full of stuff. Growing and so on.”
What am I talking about?
five minutes later
Jas’s dad is sensationally nice, or insane, it’s hard to tell. He let Angus carry his newspaper into the house, and didn’t even seem to mind when he ate it.
in jas’s bedroom
I managed to dig Jas out from underneath her owls. How many stuffed owls can one person collect? A LOT is the answer in her case. What is the matter with her? Also, she was vair vair grumpy when I woke her up with a kiss. It was only on her cheek, but you would think she had been attacked by hordes of lesbians in cowboy outfits. Blimey. She looks very odd in the mornings and her fringe was akimbo to the max. She looked like a startled earwig in jimjams.
I said, “So, so? What happened?”
She looked at me and started early morning fiddling with her fringe. Vair annoying.
She said, “You just ran off like a fool.”
I said, “Yes, I know, I was there.”
“Yes, you say that, but you weren’t there, that is the whole point. And everyone was going, ‘What’s Georgia doing, has she gone mad?’ and so on.”
“Jas, if I get you a little cup of tea and a snack-let, will you try to be normal and tell me everything that happened? It is a matter of life and death. YOUR life and YOUR death.”
ten minutes later
It’s quite nice and cozy tucked up in bed with Jas and snacksies. Except that I think I have an owl’s beak up my bum-oley. Jas was munching and rambling.
“Well, first of all, after you had run off like a ninny. By the way, you run in a really weird way in those high heels. You looked like Nauseating P. Green when she’s playing hockey. Her legs go all spazzy and—”
I hit her with snowy owl.
She almost choked on her toast.
I said, “Jas, get on with it, I have only got about fifty more years to live.”
“Well, first of all, the boys did that boy thing with Robbie.”
“What boy thing?”
“You know, slapping each other on the shoulders, shaking hands and so on.”
“Yeah.”
Jas went on, “Robbie was saying hello to a lot of people and Masimo got his jacket on. You were just approaching the park by then, we could still see you. Masimo said to Tom, ‘She asked me about footie results. Then she ran away. Is she normal?’”
Ohmygiddygod. I said to Jas, “What did Tom say?”
“Well he stood up for you, of course.”
“I love Hunky very much, as you know, Jazzy Spazzy.”
“Yes, he said you were quite often normal. He had seen you being normal once or twice himself. Usually when you were asleep.”
Marvelous.
Apparently after I had run off to “catch my train,” Masimo had gone home with the band, and just after he’d gone, Wet Lindsay had come stropping back looking for him. Jas said her no forehead was all crinkly and mad and her hair extensions were swishing around in a nervy b. central way. Then she had seen Robbie and was all over him like a rash and they had gone off together.
What, what???
I said, “Wet Lindsay went off with the Sex God?”
“Well, they did go out together once, didn’t they?”
“Yes, Jas, I know, I was heartbroken. Do you remember? “
“I mean, maybe he still likes her, I don’t know, maybe he has had a secret thing for her, some people like lanky girls.”
“Jas, shut up now.”
“Well, I am just saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder and so on. It’s an ill wind that—”
“Jas, that is not shutting up, that is rambling on and on about rubbish.”
She was chomping away on her Jammy Dodger like Wise Mabel of the Forest. I really, really wanted to shove it down her throat, but I knew it would take another million years to get the end of the story if I did, so I just said, “Jas, you know when you were going on and on about ‘maybe something good will happen,’ and I didn’t want to go to the gig in the first place, but you persuaded me, well, did you know that Robbie was going to be there?”
“Well, I sort of thought he might. I knew he was coming home because he rang Tom and said that he had booked his ticket. And that he would be back in time for the gig.”
“But did he say why he was coming home?”
“Erm, no, not exactly no.”
Oh noooooo. I have left the cakeshop of luuurve thinking I have accidentally bought two cakes and found out that I may have only got one cake. And I might have already eaten that. I may in fact be cakeless.
I said to Jas, “We must call an emergency ace gang meeting.”
“Well, I thought I might go to the river with Tom and—”
“No, Jas, you thought wrong.”
park
midday
Angus is still trailing me around like Inspector Morse in a furry coat. (And on all fours.)
on the swings
Rosie said, “I hope this is worth it, Sven and me were going to practice artificial respiration on each other in case anyone chokes on the vats of mead at our wedding.”
Even the ace gang has no sense of community these days. Jas bleating on about missing Tom, Jools wanting to go hang around Rollo whilst he played footie, Rosie banging on about Sven, half reindeer half fool, and Ellen…well, Ellen just being Ellen.
five minutes later
Ellen, Rosie, Jools, Mabs, Jas and me are all swinging on the swings. Not backward and forward like normal people enjoying a day in the park, but sideways so that the Blunderboys can’t see anything. Life is not easy. The Blunderboys are in the bushes watching us on the swings. They think we don’t know they are there; it’s pathetic. They are so noisy and keep falling over things and fighting with each other.
five minutes later
Now the Blunderboys are lying down on the ground, hoping they might see up our skirts. I can see their beaky eyes blinking under the branches. If they do happen to see our knickers, they will think we are doing it on purpose to attract them. Dear God.
one minute later
Just then a Pekingese dog came hurtling by, dragging its lead behind it, followed by Angus. Oh no. He loves Pekingese. A LOT. I hope it is a fast runner.
Anyway, I haven’t got the time to worry about everything. If careless people will let their small dogs loll around in parks they are asking for trouble. It’s a cat-eat-dog world.
twenty minutes later
The general mood of the gang is that I should play it cool until I know what is really going on. Although what Ellen knows about cool I really don’t know. She had a massive ditherspaz trying to describe how Dave the Laugh had said good night to her at the Stiff Dylans gig. Apparently, and I know this because I heard it about a zillion times, “Er. Well, then he well, and I didn’t know, what, he meant, but then well he just said…he just said to me…he said…”
I shouted, “WHAT, what in the name of heaven, Ellen, WHAT, WHAT did he say?”
And I didn’t even want to know, I just wanted to get to the bits about what happened after I left and what did people say about me and so on, but you know what people are like, it’s just me, me, me with them.
Ellen went even more divvyish. Good grief.
“He said, ‘Well good night then, Ellen, never eat anything bigger than your head.’”
I didn’t know what to say.
No one did.
fifteen minutes later
Anyway, the nub and the gist is that the ace gang are useless and don’t know anything more than I do. It seems they all watched me run off like a loon (to catch my train) and then lolloped home. Useless.
However, I decided to forgive them.
They are, after all, my besties.
And if I don’t forgive them I will never find out anything. And also never go out again, and stay in my house with my parents.
So, grasping the bull by its whatsits, I said to the gang, “In order to make a full and frank decision boyfriendwise, I have to know the intentions of the prospective snoggees.”
Ellen said, “Er, what are they, I mean who, what is, like a snoggee?”
“Ellen, keep up, the pro snogs are Masimo and Robbie. Masimo said that he was single and free for me, but on the other hand did not come running after me and stop me getting on my train. And Robbie only had time to say hello and then not long after went off with Wet Lindsay. Soooo, did Robbie come to the gig to see me, or does he just want to be friends with me? Why has he come home?”
Rosie said, “Someone must go underground and subtly find out what Robbie’s intentions are. Shall I ask Sven? He could wear his camouflage flares.”
I said, “No.”
Jools said, “What about asking Dave the Laugh to find out?”
Ellen nearly fell over with pleasure. “Oh yes, well I mean, I could, well maybe I could like, go with him or something. Be like his assistant? But maybe that would be like too forward or something. What do you think, or something?”
I said, “No, Ellen, it has to be this year, really.”
Jas had gone off into Jasland. She was fiddling with her fringe and I could tell she had Tom and voles on her mind.
I said, “There is someone here, isn’t there, who knows Robbie’s brother quite well, shall we say, and who could use subtlety and casualosity to find out stuff. Isn’t there, Jas?”
Jas looked up like a dog when she heard her own name. “What do you mean, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out about Robbie by asking Tom a few casual questions.”
Jas said, “Oh OK. Can we go now?”
“The key word here, Jas, is ‘casualosity.’ Casualosity. Can you say that, Jas?”
Jas got into her huffmobile.
“I know how to be casual, Georgia.”
“Wrong.”
5:00 p.m.
In bed. I am absolutely full of exhaustosity. How difficult can it be to be casual? Four hours we have been coaching Jas. It was like talking to a lemming in a skirt.
First of all, we tried it her way. Always a mistake, in my humble (but right) opinion. Her idea of casualosity essentially means that she says: “Does Robbie fancy Georgia? Or is he normal?”
I had to use clevernosity to get Jas to do what I wanted in the end. I said, “I’ve got an idea, you know how good you were as Lady MacUseless and everything, Jas?”
Jas said, “Yes, it took quite a lot out of me, actually. Do you remember the bit when I had the dagger and…”
Oh no, three million years were going to go by whilst she relived her big moments in the school play.
I interrupted her by hugging her so hard that her head was buried in my armpit and said, “Yes, yes, now this is my idea.”
I asked her to act out what she was going to do in an improvised scene like in drama. She loves that sort of thing, as she is such a teacher’s bum-oley kisser.
Rosie volunteered to be Tom. She said, “I’ve got the legs for it.”
Incidentally I’m a bit worried that she was able to whip out a false beard from her rucky. I said that to her, I said, “Rosie, do you carry a beard around with you at all times?”
And she said, “Well, you never know.”
The Viking bride to be gets madder and madder. We are definitely entering the Valley of the Unwell. Anyway Jas was mincing around like a mincing thing, warming up. Flicking her fringe at Tom (or Rosie in a beard, as we know him). It was incredibly irritating. I was on the edge of a mega nervy b. and supertizz as it was. I said, “Jas, what in the name of arse are you doing?”
And she said huffily, “I am getting into character.”
I said, “But you are being you.”
She looked at me like I had fallen out of her nose.
“I am finding the inner me.”
Good grief. Her “inner me” is bound to be an owl.
Eventually she was ready and came pratting girlishly up to Rosie and twittered, “Oh Tom, I found some vole spore down by the woods.”
Tom/Rosie said (in a French accent, for no apparent reason…it must be the beard), “Ah, did you, my liddle pussycat? Would you like to, how you say, kiss my beard?”
Jas actually blushed and said, “Well, you know I would, Tom…but maybe, you know, in private, not in front of everyone.”
I had to put a stop to this, it was like watching some pervy film, like Two Go Mad in Bearded Lezzie Land. I said, “Will you get on with it!”
Jas predictably lost her rag immediately over the slightest thing and said, “I was just getting in the mood, actually, and anyway this is stupid, practicing to be casual, I know how to be casual.”
I said, “Well, why don’t you BE casual then?”
She gave me her worst look, but eventually after Mabs gave her a midget gem they started again.
Jas said to Rosie, who now had a pipe, “Tommy-wommy.”
“Oui.”
“Well, I was just, you know, thinking about Robbie, it’s nice he’s back, isn’t it?”
“Mais oui—très très magnifique.”
It was pointless objecting about the Froggyland language, especially as Ro Ro was now plaiting her beard.
Jassy said, “Did he come back, you know, because he missed England and his mates? Do you think he will join the Stiff Dylans again?”
I looked at Jas in amazement. She had asked an almost good question in a quite subtle way and not mentioned me. Blimey.
And it only took four-and-a-half hours of torture. We had to leave it there because Sven came along yodeling through the trees (no, I am not kidding).
5:30 p.m.
When would be a good time to call Radio Jas? Surely she must have had time to talk to Tom by now? I should exercise discipline and patience, of course.
5:31 p.m.
Phoned Jas.
“Jas.”
“What?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh well, this is me, too.”
“Jas, don’t start.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“Good.”
And I put the phone down. That will teach her.
two minutes later
“Jas, what have you found out?”
“I’ve found out that I am having scrambly eggs for tea. Byeeee.”
And she put the phone down.
Damn.
I have my pride, thank goodness, no one can take that away from me. I won’t be bothering Jas again, not whilst she is so busy stuffing her gob with eggy.
6:00 p.m.
This is torture, but I will never give in. Never, never. The Eggy One will never get the better of me.
6:10 p.m.
Phoned Rosie. I’ll get her to phone Eggy and casually ask her, but not on my behalf.
6:20 p.m.
Rosie is out with Sven at the “pictures,” her mum says. Oh yeah, as if. And the film they are watching is Number Seven on the Snogging Scale.
I daren’t ask Ellen, Jools or Mabs to phone Jas, as they are bound to spill the beans to Eggy. The tragedy is that all three of them are such crap liars, it’s a curse, really.
7:30 p.m.
She is soooooo annoying, she will never phone me if she has got the hump.
7:35 p.m.
Masimo hasn’t called or anything. Maybe he really does think I am insane. Or maybe he thinks I caught the train from the shopping mall and have gone away for a few days. In which case he is insane.
If I have an early night I can do skin care, cleanse and tone and get everything ready for tomorrow just in case I have a chance encounter with one of my many maybe boyfriends on the way to Stalag 14.
8:15 p.m.
Blimey, I look about two and a half, I am so shiny-faced and clean. Also, I am nice and baldy everywhere, except on my head, of course, I do not want to have an Uncle Eddie hairstyle.
Actually my hair is a bit of a boring color. It hasn’t got je ne sais quoi and umph.
bathroom
five minutes later
Ahaha, Mum has got some hair dye. Warm chocolate. That would be nice and groovy. I could just put a couple of streaks in the front, like highlights, or is it lowlights…hi-lo-it lights anyway, which is all that counts.
Got the dye and went into the front room. Oh how I wish I hadn’t. Mum and Dad were all over each other on the sofa watching some old film with crying in it and blokes in tights and an Uncle Eddie bloke in a frock. Mum said, “Come and watch Robin Hood, it’s good.”
I said, “Mum, I’m just going to use your hair dye for a bit.”
“No.”
“Er, Mum, I think you are being a bit negative.”
“No.”
“But I—”
“No.”
“Look at the color of my hair, it’s crap. I might as well be the Invisible Mouse.”
“No.”
“But I…”
Then Vati joined in.
“Georgia, no, no, no and thrice no. And also no.”
“Vati, I am not asking you, actually, I am asking my dear dear mum about her hair dye.”
“It’s not her hair dye, it’s mine.”
What??? What fresh hell? HIS hair dye? My Vati, not content with growing small badgers on his chin and wearing leather trousers and having a clown car, was now trying to be Lady Cliff Richard. Or Lady Paul McCartney.
“Please say you are not serious.”
Vati said, “I am very serious, I am a man in his prime, as your mother knows.”
And he did that disgusting thing of grabbing one of her nungas, squeezing it and going, “Honk honk!!!”
Mum didn’t even hit him, she just went all girlie and said, “Stop it, you big boy.”
Vati was still in Madland, however, and said, “Yes, I thought I’d get down with the youth, you know, dye my hair, get the old leathers on and maybe check out a few clubs. Which one would you recommend?”
I nearly fainted.
Imagine bumping into my dad and his sad mates down at the Buddha Lounge!!!
Any chance I had of having a Sex God or a Luuurve God or even Spotty Norman would be well and truly up the pictures without a paddle. My dad’s impression of Mick Jagger dancing could reduce people to tears, and not of admiration.
in the kitchen
9:00 p.m.
I must have toast to calm down.
I was buttering it when my mad little sister Libby popped her head out of the airing cupboard.
“Heggo, Ginger. Come in my nest. Now.”
I looked up at her.
“Libbs, I’m too big for it.”
“No.”
“Yes, I am.”
Her face went all frowny and she started snorting and tutting like she has heard Mum do. I wasn’t liking this. The frowny face is not one I like to see because usually I am in agonizing pain seconds later.
However, this time it wasn’t my turn to suffer. Libby disappeared into her “nest” and then Scuba-diving Barbie came flying out, quickly followed by Mr. Potato, Pantalitzer doll (well, the head) and finally, after a lot of panting and heaving and squealing, Gordy came hurtling through the air. He came to a skidding halt on the dish rack and then did that shivering thing before he hurled himself through the catflap.
Libby popped her head out again and smiled in a terrifying way.
“Come on, Gingey…it’s naaaaaice.”
Oh dear, God. Still, what else was I doing this fine evening that I couldn’t squeeze into an airing cupboard with my clearly insane sister? She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I lobe you VELLY times twice.”
Aahhh. At least she “lobes” me, unlike my so-called bestie Jas. Who is dead girl to me now that she can’t even perform the slightest task.
five minutes later
Sitting in the dark little cupboard, I had to bend double with my knees practically up my nose. Libby had snacks in there, which was nice—if you like bits of banana covered in fluff.
11:00 p.m.
Libby was only persuaded out of her “nest” by Mum saying she could sleep in my bed. Thanks, Mum.
For a little girl, Bibbs is very full of gas. Her farts are like gunshots and sooo smelly. If anyone lit a match, we would all be blown to kingdom come. And back. And there would still be some fart left over to cook on for the rest of the year.
11:20 p.m.
And the snoring. It’s like comedy snoring except that I’m not laughing.
11:25 p.m.
Tried to shove Libby over onto her side to stop her snoring and got a smack around the head for my trouble. She is even violent when she is unconscious.
11:30 p.m.
I wonder what Robbie really came home for? I can’t believe it was to see Wet Lindsay, surely Tom would have told me if he knew that Robbie fancied her. I bet she has been writing to him, pretending to be a nice person. How could he fancy her? Still, facts have to be faced, he did actually go out with her once before he started seeing me. And they must have been doing something in those months. They weren’t talking about her ludicrous forehead.
He must have snogged her. If he went out with her for three months that is a lot of snogging opportunities. And she is bound to have been puckering up pretty nonstop because she has no pridenosity. I wonder—what number on the snogging scale they got to?
five minutes later
Clearly not No. 7 (upper-body fondling), otherwise her false nungas would have made a surprise appearance. Maybe that is what happened!!!
I wish.
Anyway, I don’t want her nungas in my head.
Get out.
two minutes later
Does he like me or not?
one minute later
Do I like him or not?
11:40 p.m.
Hang on a minute, I’ve just realized something. I am on the rack of love again. How did this happen?
Well, I’m not dangling about up here anymore. I say no no no and thrice no to the rack. I am a free woman. That woman Emily Plankton chained herself to a policeman and chucked herself under a horse and so on so that I could vote. I must not let her down.
11:50 p.m.
Although it does seem a bit over the top to chuck yourself in front of a horse so that you get to vote.
one minute later
Especially as, in fact, she was dead, so she couldn’t vote anyway.
two minutes later
And neither can I.
Like I have always said, history is crap.
midnight
On the other foot, Masimo said, “Now I is free man.”
And that means he wants to go out with me. So that is that. I have been to the bakery of love and I have got an Italian cakey.
five minutes later
But I might also have an éclair called Robbie, in case I’m peckish and the Italian cakey isn’t filling enough.
five minutes later
Some people, naming no names, but Jas, will probably say I’m greedy, but I’m not, I am just having a choice. I am not sad like Jas, who only stays with one boyfriend because she has no special talents. Other than an unerring eye for a crap owl, or being able to spot a vole at a hundred yards. Or having the largest knicker collection in the Northern Hemisphere. And being the biggest and most annoying twit on the planet.
two minutes later
Yes, the Good Lord has been kind enough to give me a couple of special gifts.
one minute later
Oh that was a bit freaky-deaky, I had Dave the Laugh’s voice in my head when I said “a couple of special gifts.” And his voice said, “Ah, yes…the nunga-nungas.” He is even rude when I make him up in my head. That is very rude, indeed. It is rudey-dudey in absentia, as we say in Latin.
Every time I think about Dave the Laugh, it makes me laugh.
I’ve just remembered him (accidentally) switching all the lights off during MacUseless and the entire Forest of Dunsinane falling off the stage. God, it was funny.
one minute later
And his vair amusing “pant” thing—as in the famous song “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of PANTS.”
two minutes later
And when he put a FOR SALE sign on his school’s roof—tee hee hee.
one minute later
Oy, shut up, brain! This is a Dave-the-Laugh-free zone!
five minutes later
If I do decide on the Luuurve God, it will serve Robbie right. He will just have to check into Heartbreak Hotel, like I had to when he dumped me. He should ask for the sobbing suite.
12:30 a.m.
I have never had to check in to Heartbreak Hotel because of the Luuurve God. Except, I suppose, I thought I might have to make a booking when he said he would tell me in a week’s time if he was going to be my one and only one.
12:40 a.m.
But that was then, and now he has said, “I am for you if you want.” Which is vair vair good.
12:45 a.m.
Good night, Luuurve God.
12:50 a.m.
I hope he doesn’t think it’s odd that I had to catch a train from near the shopping center.
At midnight.
When there wasn’t a train station there.
1:00 a.m.
To be fair, I haven’t really given Robbie much of a chance. Maybe I should at least talk to him before I, you know, choose my cake.
1:10 a.m.
I don’t suppose they would both consider a time-share girlfriend….
ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.