monday july 18th
8:00 a.m.
This is the first day of the rest of my life. So why is my hair sticking up like a cockerel?
8:10 a.m.
Mum caught me ironing my hair. God, she made a big deal out of it. It’s probably the first time she has seen an iron.
Bloody hell, ramble on, why don’t you?
She was all red-faced. “By the time you are twenty-five, your hair will be like nylon.”
I said, “Mum, who cares what I look like at twenty-five? I will be in the twilight zone of life by then, like you.”
If I hadn’t used my athletic responses, I could have been quite badly injured by Mum’s hairbrush. She is very unstable.
8:20 a.m.
Scavenging around in the kitchen for something to eat. Luckily a piece of toast popped out of the toaster. Ah, good. I buttered it and ate it. Blimey, being a Love Goddess can make you peckish.
Vati came dadding in. He didn’t even say “Good morning.” He said, “Is that my toast you are eating?”
I said, “To be honest, Dad, I don’t think you need any more toast, you seem to have plenty stored away around the trouser area.”
As usual in this house when anyone (me) tries to be light and amusing, Dad goes ballisticisimus. Mum came in trying to force Libby into her dungies whilst she still had a cup of milky pops in her hand which she would not let go of.
Dad was still moaning on about me. “Where does she get all this rudeness from, Connie? You are too easygoing on her.”
Mum said, “I know, she’s been ironing her hair.”
Dad forgot about the toast fiasco and started on beauty. Something which quite frankly he is not an expert on.
“How bloody ridiculous is that? You’ll end up like Uncle Eddie.”
I said, “Oh right, I’m going to turn into a mad bloke on a motorbike because I straighten my hair. I think women everywhere should be told.”
8:30 a.m.
I hate my parents. They are so unreasonably mad.
8:35 a.m.
And so self-obsessed. They don’t seem to understand that their lives are over, and I am covered in cake.
8:36 a.m.
I am nearly at Jas’s house. I must exude calmnosity and friendlinosity. I must put the egg incident behind me and be nice to Jas, so she will tell me all she knows.
8:40 a.m.
When I got to Jas’s gate, it was to see her bottom waggling off in the distance. Of course Eggy had set off. She will still be having the huff with me. I must be at my most charming. I did my fast walking until I caught up with her and gave her a lovely smile as I linked arms with her.
“Hello, Jas, my little chummly-wummly.”
She shook me off. “Don’t hang on to my arm, Georgia, I’m not dragging you up the hill to school just because you are tired.”
“I’m not tired, I am just so glad to see you, you lovely big-pantied loon.”
I chucked her under the chin, but she still wasn’t having it. So I stopped and stood in front of her and looked into her eyes.
“Jazzy Spazzy, you know I love you.”
She went all red. Some Foxwood lads who had been trailing us uselessly as usual shouted, “Oy you lezzies, won’t she give you a kiss?”
And another one said, “Can we see your breasts, please?”
Good grief.
Jas started flicking her fringe like a mad thing.
“Now look what you’ve started.”
We set off at a spanking space for Stalag 14. As we went along, I was doing my special pleading, it was very touching.
“Jas, please forgive me. Did you find out anything? I know you will have done, because you are so vair vair clever. And top girl at blodge and…er, everything.”
As we took our coats to the cloakroom she relented a bit. “Well, I did talk to Tom in a casual way, even though you said I couldn’t.”
“Jas, Jas, I knew you could do casualosity big time, don’t forget I have seen you in your nighttime panties, relaxing and at play.”
As the bell rang for Assembly I could see the Hitler Youth (prefects) approaching, keen to do a bit of poncing around like prats.
I said, “Please, pleasey please tell me what Tom said.”
“Well he said…”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well he said…he didn’t know anything.”
“Pardon?”
“Robbie is having a break from farming in Kiwi-a-gogo, but he doesn’t know how long he is staying.”
Is that Detective Inspector Jas of Scotland Yard’s idea of finding out stuff?
I wanted to kick her in the shins, but just in the knickers of time I remembered that she is my best pally and I gave her my “interested” smile.
Jas was starting to say, “Yes, so I don’t really know if he likes you or not,” when Wet Lindsay slimed up alongside me with Astonishingly Dim Monica as sidekick slug and weed.
Wet Lindsay’s hair extensions have been redone, how vair vair chav and naff she is. Having longer hair only draws attention to her lack of forehead and general octopus tendencies.
I forced myself to look at Wet Lindsay’s forehead as if Jas had told me a good joke about it and laugh merrily. Wet Lindsay said to me, “What have you got to laugh about, Nicolson? Have you caught sight of yourself in a mirror?”
Oh my aching sides!!! How I laughed. Not. Astonishingly Dim Monica did, though, sniggering and snorting like a fool on fool tablets. I just said, “How very natural your hair looks, Lindsay. It really suits you and brings out all your best features, especially your knees.”
She went a bit red round the earlobes and said, “Prat.”
Charming. Absolutely charming. I said to Jas as we went into the hall, “Charming, utterly utterly charming. Who wouldn’t want to go out with her?”
ace gang headquarters
break
Rosie blew a bubble-gum bubble that exploded all over her nose. Very amusing. She had a big blob hanging off her nose like a huge bogey.
She said, “Look how it dangles about. I bet I can swing it round and round in time to some music. Like a snot disco. You lot sing something jolly and I’ll improvise on bogey work.”
five minutes later
I think despite being slightly singed in the oven of luuurve, I may be going to die of laughing. The snot disco dance is officially born. Danced to the tune of EastEnders, it is, “Swing your snot to the left, swing to the right. Full turn, shoulder shrugging, now nod to the front, dangle dangle, hands on shoulders and kick kick to the right, dangle dangle, kick kick to the left, dangle dangle and then full snot around and shimmy to the ground.”
Excellent in every way.
As we strolled back for an action-packed morning of being bored and depressed I said to the gang, “I bet we could have the snot coming out of our nostrils all during German and Herr Kamyer wouldn’t notice. Or if he does, we could pretend we have really bad colds. Hand over the bubble gum, girls, and get chewing!”
german
It was a triumph, darling, a triumph!!! We were all translating from our textbooks—what larks! The Koch family were off on another camping trip, taking an enormous amount of food with them, as usual. In our books there are hilariously bad illustrations of the Koch family, drawn by a blind person. Mrs. Koch looks vair like Herr Kamyer in a frock. I never get tired of the Kochs. In fact, I am thinking of writing to the author of the textbook (A. Schmidt, no, I’m not joking), and asking where the Kochs live. I want to write a letter to them, thanking them for the endless hours of fun they have given us all.
I put up my hand to ask a pressing Koch question. When Herr Kamyer noticed my hand blowing in the wind he said, “Jah, Georgia?”
“Herr Kamyer, there is a strange-looking thing in one of the pictures of the Kochs. It looks like a very tiny poo on a plate. But that doesn’t seem right.”
Herr Kamyer blinked through his moley glasses. “Ah, bring up ze picture, Georgia, und we will see.”
I quicky attached my bubble-gum bogey as I pretended to sneeze into my hankie and went up to his desk with the snot rag still covering my nose.
Herr Kamyer didn’t notice. He is so INTERESTED in things; it’s tragic, really. He actually seems to believe that we want to learn things. I put the textbook down in front of him at the picture of the Kochs and pointed to the poo on a plate.
“Ach so, Georgia, der spangleferkel…oh jah, I remember ven as a youngen ve vent into the voods camping, we would cook up the spangleferkel and sing our songs around ze campfire. The fun ve had camping. You vould have loved it, girls.”
I still had my hankie out to disguise the bogey, but when he started humming, “Gif me ze campfire light und komt mit me to der liebe liebe Rhein,” and took his glasses off to clean them. Or perhaps he was crying. Who knows? Who cares? Anyway, when he did that, I took the opportunity to let the bogey run free and wild. I even did a bit of the bogey dance slightly behind him and managed to get the hankie back in place before he finished. When I walked back to my desk the whole class spontaneously clapped. Herr Kamyer thought it was for his crap camping song and bowed. Quite sensationally German.
five minutes later
Sadly, Herr Kamyer really thinks we love his camping stories. He’s going on and on about what they did. How they sang songs and cooked over the campfire.
twenty minutes later
Swapping notes. Rosie wrote, “Dear fellow loons, Let us have a scoring system for bogey work. Gee gets 5 points for her excellent letting the bogey run free and wild over Herr Kamyer’s head. Similar acts earn 5 points and the first to get to 20 gets free Jammy Dodgers for life. Well, for a bit, anyway. Ro Ro, advisor to the stars xxxxx.”
Of course there is always a dog in the manger of life. Jas wrote back and said it was “silly” and “childish.” Hilarous really, coming from someone who practically snogs owls. Ellen was dithering about. Even in her notes. She wrote, “Hi everyone, it’s me. Erm, about the snot disco, well, you know, I don’t know. Like, er, what if we er, get into er, like trouble? What do you think, or something?
Er…Ellen
xxx”
on our way to french
Jas and Ellen have formed their own little breakaway gang and they are living in a snot-free zone. They should grow up.
french
Drat and dratty drat drat Rosie is catching up pointswise by letting her bogey dangle over Mme. Slack’s head as Mme. Slack is checking her homework. We were all trying not to laugh and Mme. Slack must have sussed something because she unexpectedly looked up and nearly got the pretend bogey in her eye. As she was looking at Rosie, Rosie casually popped the “snot” into her mouth and started chewing.
Mme. Slack went ballisticisimus and Rosie has got detention.
4:10 p.m.
Home time for some. As we went by the hall we saw Rosie’s face at the window. She pressed her nose against the pane of glass so that it spread out like a trapped piglet. Vair funny. She mouthed “I love you all,” and then disappeared from view.
in my bedroom
6:00 p.m.
Lying on my bed. No phone calls or anything from any of my so-called maybe perhaps boyfriends. I’m all aloney on my owney. Even Dave never rings me these days, not even as a matey-type mate, which he is. And the Swiss Family Mad are out at some sad tea party, wrecking people’s lives with their weird ideas and Dad’s huge bottom.
6:30 p.m.
I may as well go to sleep early and get as much beauty sleep as I can. Just in case all my boyfriends come home to roost at once.
I wonder—what they are all doing?
Maybe I’ve imagined it all. Maybe Masimo didn’t mean he wanted to be my one and only one. Maybe he just wanted a snog. Or maybe he thinks I still like Robbie and that’s put him off. Maybe he’s right—maybe I do still like Robbie. Maybe…I should just call him.
6:40 p.m.
Boom crash bang. Yowl yowl. Now what?
Then I heard the lovely tones of my father.
“Bloody hell, that furry bastard has stuck its claws into my arse.”
How delightful my home life is. It’s practically like living in Pride and Prejudice it’s so elegant. I will pretend to be asleep. Not that anyone cares. I have asked them to respect my privacy, but I bet they—
Ah, yes. My door crashed open.
I said, “Mum, I am asleep, actually.”
Mum said, “Don’t you want your letter then?”
I sat up in bed. “What letter?”
She held out an envelope. “This one. It was on the doormat before you got home from school. I put it in my bag and forgot about it. It must have been hand delivered, because it’s only got your name on it.”
I said, “Quick, give it to me, it is a criminal offense to tamper with Her Maj’s mail.”
“Who do you think it’s from?”
“Er, Father Christmas. Possibly someone from beyond the grave. Mum, I don’t know because you have got it and I therefore have not opened it.”
ten minutes later
At last she has gone. She hung about a bit hoping I would let her know who it was from. Looking at my things, saying meaningless stuff like, “What is my black leather jacket doing in your wardrobe? And my Chanel bag?”
Utterly pointless things. Tutting and carrying on like a tutting thing in a tut shop. But I just looked at her until she left.
five minutes later
I am so nervy that I can’t open the letter. My name is written in capitals so I can’t even recognize the hadwriting. What if it is from Masimo to say that having seen me scamper off at high speed like a prat, he has decided he is not a free man for me? Or what if it is from Robbie, saying that he has always loved me and would I be his?
Or what if it is from Oscar, trainee Blunderboy, asking me on “a date” to go skateboarding? Or what if it is…Oh shut up, shut up.
two minutes later
When you are having a tizz in nervy b. central, Call-Me-Arnold the Vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”
one minute later
I don’t know why, though, because clearly Jesus’ dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in the letter already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do? Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It’s a bit like mime, isn’t it? Why do we have to guess what is going on, why can’t Big G just tell us and get it over with?
five minutes later
What if the note is from Masimo and it just says, “Arrivederci.”
Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It goes “You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, you make me happy when skies are gray, you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take your furry face away.”
ten minutes later
I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie, when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave the Laugh.
two minutes later
I wish I could phone the Hornmeister up now. This is when his Horn advice would be really good. Things have been a bit weird between us since he started seeing Emma. She’s so nice, it’s depressing.
Maybe that’s why he’s going out with her—because she’s so nice, he doesn’t know how to dump her.
Or maybe he likes nice people. Even her hair is nice. And her nose. How annoying is that?
And she’s nice to me.
I hate that.
ten minutes later
Perhaps I can sort of sense what the words say by looking at the envelope and using my psychedelic powers. I saw some geezer in a frilly shirt on TV who said that we all could tap into our clairvoyant side if we just concentrated.
I am looking at the envelope and concentrating.
five minutes later
My eyes have gone all blurry. Oh excellent, I am going blind. That’s perfect, isn’t it? Now even if I open the letter, I won’t know what it says or who it’s from.
one minute later
I can see a bit now. However, I think this is a lesson for us all…never trust blokes who wear frilly shirts and they are not doing it for a laugh.
one minute later
OK, this is it. I am opening the letter.
7:40 p.m.
The letter said:
Hi Georgia,
Since you had to, er, catch your train last Saturday I haven’t been able to get to see you. Do you fancy going for a coffee tomorrow night? I’ll meet you at the bottom of East Street at 7:30 p.m. and we can catch up. I promise not to bring any photos of sheep. Jas tells me that you are allergic to wildlife….
Robbie
Blimey. I am still as full of confusiosity. Is this good or bad? Am I glad it is from Robbie? Why hasn’t Masimo got in touch? What does Robbie mean by “going for a coffee”? That is as bad as “See you later” in boyspeak.
one minute later
Does “going for a coffee” mean, you know, “going for a coffee”? Or does it mean, “Let us start with coffee and end up at No. 7”?
I must phone Jas.
Jas’s dad answered. Blimey. I’d never heard him speak on the phone before, I’d only seen him sucking on his pipe, reading his paper or going out in sensible welligogs. Which is what you want in a dad, pipe sucking, silence and going away, but can you tell my vati that? No, you can’t.
Jas eventually came to the phone.
She said, “What?”
“Why did you say ‘what’ like that?”
“Like what?”
“Don’t start, Jas, I have just had a letter from Robbie.”
“Oh, did he dump you?”
“No.”
“Really? Blimey. I thought he might have been put off by your running. It’s really weird, you know.”
“Well, he wasn’t, and he wants me to go for a coffee.”
“Blimey.”
“I don’t know what going for coffee means.”
“Blimey.”
“Jas, can you say something else besides ‘blimey’?”
“Gee, I have to go now because Tom is leaving and I won’t see him again for seventeen and a half hours.”
Oh dear Gott in Himmel.
four minutes later
Back in bed trying to keep my mind on higher things.
I wonder what number Jas’n’Tom have got up to on the snogging scale.
I have been very lax about finding out.
For the sake of science I think I had better do a survey of the ace gang and see if anything needs to be added since ear nibbling.
ten minutes later
I don’t know why I am bothered, though. There might as well not be a snogging scale as far as I am concerned. I am well and truly a snog-free zone, which is unusual when you are supposed to be a boy magnet and have two or more Luuuurve Gods in your handy pandies.
In fact, when was the last time I snogged anyone, man or beast? (Not counting accidental tonguesies with my sister.) I may have forgotten all my skills, which I had better polish up on in case I have to pucker up for the Sex God.
What is that ludicrous thing that Jazzy Spazzy does? Oh yes, pucker, relax, pucker, relax.
five minutes later
I am full of snogging practice exhaustosity.
two minutes later
I hope doing this puckering malarkey is not going to mean I end up looking like Mark Big Gob. I had better not overdo it; no one wants to go out with a whale.
When was the last time I snogged the Sex God? Also, where is the last letter he wrote to me from Kiwi-a-gogo land?
one minute later
Oh, I know, I hid it on the top of my wardrobe in the only snooper-free zone in my so-called room.
one minute later
Why would a cat eat a letter? Why? It can’t be hunger. But if you start asking questions about cats, you’d end up with the rest of the loons in the twilight home. Why do they eat spiders, that would be another one. There is not much nutrition in a spider, is there? And also, Angus doesn’t really eat them, he just lets them loll out of the corner of his mouth in a disgusting way.
two minutes later
I’ve managed to read bits of the chewed-up letter. And also found my missing fountain pen. Also heavily chewed. Don’t tell me Angus and Gordy are cowriting a book. Cat Tips on How to Really Annoy Your Baldy Owners.
five minutes later
The only sense I can make from Robbie’s chewed-up letter is, “Tom told me about your excellent dancing to ‘Three Little Boys’…and you are, in the nicest possible way, quite possibly clinically insane.”
This does not give the impression of sophisticosity that I want.
8:20 p.m.
I think I will just play the special CD he recorded for me before he went to Kiwi-a-gogo, to get me back in the mood.
8:45 p.m.
I tell you what I will not be doing: I will not be lying with my head in his lap whilst he sings “I’m not there” to me. I have just remembered doing that in the park the summer before he went away. And I could see right up his nose. If I had been looking. Which I wasn’t because I had my eyes closed and was nodding my head along in time to the music.
two minutes later
I’ve just remembered something else. I had a lurking lurker. Oh brilliant, now I have thought about lurkers, I am almost bound to get one.
one minute later
I must not get stressed out, that is the kind of thing that lurkers love.
I must be calm. Ohm.
three minutes later
Ah, my little furry letter-eating pals Angus and his adolescent son Gordy have come to keep me company in bed. That will be nice and soothing having them purring beside me. They seem in a nice sleepy mood for once. So night night, world.
Sex Kitty signing off.
ten minutes later
Fat chance. Other people have pets and I’ve got the furry freak brothers. They’ve done the flattening the bed down, pacing round and round and now they are doing that really really irritating prodding with their paws, kneading me like a dough person.
I will be a hollow-eyed wraith at this rate if I don’t get some beauty sleep. I must do some inner calming exercises. Ooohhhmmm ohmmmmm.
Ooooohhhhhmmmyyygod. Mum has slammed into my inner sanctum carrying the spawn of the devil in her nightime nappy and deelyboppers.
I said, “What? What is it you people want of me???”
Oh brilliant, Bibbs is being bunged into my bed with me because she won’t go to sleep without me. I said to Mum, “Mum, I am sure there is some European law against this kind of overcrowding. Even in poor people’s land, I bet they don’t have as many people and stuff in bed with them as I do.”
She just said, “Don’t be silly, Gee, read Bibbsy a little boboland story.”
Libby had a big book with her that she smashed me in the nose with in a loving way as she snuggled in, pushing Gordy out of bed. He had just nodded off and crashed to the floor. He went ballisticisimus, yowling and shivering and attacking the bedside light before leaping back onto the bed and burrowing up from the bottom. His head popped up in between the book and me and he spat at me. Good grief.
Libby said, “Aaaah naaaaice and comfy. Readey book, Ginger. About Sindyfellow. Now.”
I am a slavey girl in this family of loons, furry or otherwise.
ten minutes later
Blimey O’Reilly, I thought that Heidi was boring, cheese and goats and old grumpy blokes for as far as the eye can see, but Cinderella takes the bloody bee’s pajamas on the boring and depressing front. This is the story: Cinderella lives with her ugly stepsisters. They hate her because she is pretty, although I can’t say I blame the uglies. Looking at the drawing of Cinders, I would be inclined to give her a bit of a duffing-up. She has a very irritating sticky-up nose.
I read the story as fast as I could to get it over with: “Cinders is doing cleaning cleaning, some poncey bloke in a wig invites the sisters to a ball, Cinderella can’t go because she is in rags and then some bint turns up in wings and changes her frock into a ballgown and some cats and mice and a pumpkin into a coach and horses. Moaning Minnie (Cinders) dances with some other poncey bloke in a wig (not the first one), leaves at midnight, tries on a shoe and marries Prince Wiggy. The end.”
Libby laughed like a loon the whole way through, I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why.
You see, this is the sort of story that irresponsible fools (my mutti) make their children read. No wonder they are all mad and covered in cat food like my sister is.
And of course the whole facsimile of a sham turned to violence because Libby wanted to change Angus into a horse like in the story and banged him with her “wand” (my tennis racket), and the rest is history. Well, the vase in the knitted coverlet that Grandad’s girlfriend Maisie gave me is history, Angus leaped up (not exactly changed into a horse as such) onto the windowsill and careered about, scattering my CDs, photos and the vase all over the place.
How can I be expected to have a decent snogging relationship with anyone whilst my home life is so bonkers?
tuesday july 19th
stalag 14
I had to practically iron my face this morning. I had slept facedown because I was so exhausted from the nighttime shenanigins and ordure. My nose was flat like a plate, all across my head. I had to use hot flannels to smooth it into a reasonable(ish) state. The only positive thing is that we have German today so at least I will be able to do my premakeup makeup in peace.
in the cloakroom
Talking to Jassy about my letter from Robbie, I said, “How come you told Robbie that I hate wildlife?”
“You do.”
“That is not the point, you should tell him something about my finer points, not ramble on about rubbish.”
“What are your finer points?”
I may have to kill her, but I won’t be able to do it in Assembly because Hawkeye is on Seeing Eye dog duty this morning. She never seems to tire of hating us. I reckon she limbers up every morning at home, shouting, “I hate all girls, I hate them. What do I do? I hate them!!!”
fifteen minutes later
Oh for heaven sakes, why does Slim bother going on and on? What is she talking about now? Isn’t it bad enough that we have to get up at the crack of eight o’clock, get dressed, turn up, hang around all day being bored and depressed and usually get detention for our trouble? But she wants to talk as well. Why? What can she possibly say that would…then I heard the dreaded words “Four A are going on an exciting field trip in the last week of term.” What? What??? I looked at the ace gang and they looked at me. Slim went on, in tip-top jelloid mode. Her nungas were practically doing the Charleston. Separately. She said, “I think it’s marvelous, and just shows the kind of spirit that we foster in this school. Herr Kamyer came up with the idea after form Four A expressed interest in the camping trips that he used to go on in the German forests. I am sure that this is a lovely surprise for all of Four A. Instead of normal lessons next Friday you will go by school bus to the lovely Cow and Calf Valley and camp there overnight. There are printed details for you to take home to your parents. Round and about the site there is an absolute cornucopia of wildlife, riverlife abounds, and in the evenings Miss Wilson, who has volunteered to accompany Herr Kamyer, will be teaching you some of the games and songs that she was taught herself as a young lady. The whole thing sounds like a real treat. I only wish that I were able to come myself.”
We were all absolutely speechless. Rosie pretended to faint, which I thought was very funny. Wet Lindsay came bustling over and said, “Get up, you twit.” Rosie said, “Oh where am I? Am I in heaven? Are you Gabriel?”
Lindsay said, “Think how excited you will be if you get to help with gardening duties after school.”
Rosie did actually make quite a startling recovery. She was saying, “Oh I feel much much better now after my little rest.”
And Lindsay slimed off. How I hate her. It gives me energy, the amount that I hate her.
ace gang heaquarters
break
I am definitely beyond a shadow of a doubt not going on the camping trip. Not. Never and also NO.
I said that to the gang.
Jas said, “I think it will be really good fun.”
I looked at her.
Rosie said, “I told Herr Kamyer that I will be having my period, because usually if you mention anything like that he has the ditherspaz to end all ditherspazzes and his head drops off with redness. But he just said, ‘Ach, hmmm, vell pop along to see Mizz Vilson, she is in charge of the ladies’ area of things.’ And I couldn’t discuss it with Miss Wilson, as she would probably tell me about what she does when she has a period and then I would die.”
I said, “We must make a plan, perhaps we could all have a sort of accident.”
Mabs said, “Like what?”
“Erm, we could fall in a hole.”
Jools said, “What hole?”
I said, “Er, we could dig one.”
Jools said, “We could dig a hole and then fall in it?”
“Yes.”
Rosie said, “Excellent idea, Georgia, quite startlingly insane, even for you.”
Ellen said, “It might, you know, it might like be, well you know…like, well…”
I said, “Crap?”
Ellen dithered on, “No, it might be like, quite a good laugh.”
Alarmingly all of the ace gang didn’t seem to mind the trip. They seemed to think it might be “a laugh.”
five minutes later
We discussed the “coffee with Robbie” scenario.
Rosie said, “So he says he wants to ‘catch up with you,’ but he sent you a letter, so that means it’s not like a casualosity sort of fandango because he would have just phoned you if it was, wouldn’t he?”
I nodded and went, “Uh-huh, uh-huh….”
Jools said, “When you meet him, let him say stuff. Don’t you start talking rubbish first.”
I nodded and went, “Uh-huh, uh-huh….”
And Jas said, “Georgia, why are you doing an impression of one of those nodding dogs in a car?”
five minutes later
It’s surprising how much relief from tensionosity you can get merely by giving Jas a Chinese burn.
3:00 p.m.
I have managed to take my mind off my “coffee” with Robbie by applying two coats of nail varnish and coloring in all the “o’s” in my Charlie Dickens book Crap Expectations. There are many more than you think; it may well be a lifetime’s work.
4:20 p.m.
As I skedaddled home, all the ace gang gave me the Klingon salute for luck. Jools said, “So is it Robbie you like, then?”
I said with great dignitosity, “He is on my list.”
I thought I heard Jas say, “Tart.” Which is unnecessary. And also at some time will cost her a quick plunge into the nearest ditch. Maybe if I am forced to go on the ridiculous camping fiasco, I can think of an amusing revenge involving twigs and her pants.
home
Anyway, I am going to get this camping thing out of the way so that I can just concentrate on my love life.
I wonder why I still haven’t heard anything from Masimo. It’s been three whole days now. And no one seems to have seen him.
two minutes later
What does it say in the How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You book? I’m just going to open it randomly and see what it says.
one minute later
“Boys live mostly in their heads.” What is that supposed to mean? I wouldn’t live in my head, I can tell you that. It’s full of rubbish.
one minute later
Ooohhh well, I can only think of one cake at a time, my hands are full (oo-er).
6:00 p.m.
What is the matter with my parents? They will not do the least thing for me. I simply asked my vati to send a letter saying that I could not go on the school trip to a field because we had planned to do something as a family.
Vati said, “We haven’t planned anything.”
I said patiently, “I know that, Vati, it is merely a cunning ploy.”
“You mean a lie.”
“Yes, exactly…er, I mean, well, not really, you see what it is is that I am allergic to the countryside.”
Vati, as usual when he is intellectually challenged, resorted to coarse and unnecessary language.
“You do talk absolute bollocks, Georgia.”
That is a nice way to talk to a sensitive growing teenager, isn’t it? No wonder my hair won’t go right and I am almost constantly in detention. Then he walked out of the room. I followed him. Was he wearing hipster jeans or was it just that his bottom was growing?
I decided not to ask.
“Dad…”
“Georgia, you are going on the field trip. We can take Libby to Grandad’s and then your mum and I can have some time to ourselves for once.”
“Mum doesn’t want time with you, you will only talk about rubbish and set fire to your farts and so on. Please please don’t make me go. I may die in the forest eaten by voles.”
“Good.”
6:30 p.m.
God I am so tense. I’ve spent precious makeup sex-minxy time trying to talk some sense into my father and now I have only an hour to get ready for the Sex God. I must concentrate.
6:32 p.m.
How do I feel about meeting Robbie? I had eschewed him with a firm hand. And now he wants to shake my hand, and put my hand…Shut up about hands! Stop going on and on about hands!! Be a hands-free zone!!!
Oh brilliant news, my brain has popped off on an away day to Loonchester!
6:35 p.m.
I’ve put really loud music on to drown out my brain whilst I do my makeup. I wonder whether he will have a Kiwi-a-gogo accent. He will probably say “Gidday cobbler” or whatever it is they say.
I’ve got this stuff that you paint on your lipstick and it makes it stay on, even through snogging. I tried snogging my arm in a very passionate way and it remained lippy-free. So resultio!!!
one minute later
But I don’t know why I’m bothered about snogging because I might just be drinking coffee.
I wonder if I put the stuff on my eyeliner it would stop it coming off as well. Sometimes when I go to the loo after dancing like a loon I look like Polly the Panda.
7:10 p.m.
Ow buggery bugger. It’s like putting paint stripper on your eyelid.
Ow.
My eyes will probably all swell up now. I must keep them very wide open.
7:15 p.m.
I’ve got my blue leather skirt and black top on and my ankle boots. I might take a jacket just in case he wants to er…wander about in the woods or something.
My hands are shaking so much I can’t do the buttons up.
I must be cool and calmy calm. I must not under any circumstances turn into ditherqueen and remind Robbie how much younger than him I am. I must exude sophisticosity at all times.
Nearly fell down the stairs because I was trying to keep my eyes open. Mum came out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“Just round to Jas’s.”
“What, with half a ton of makeup and your shortest skirt on?”
“Mum, just leave it for once. Remember when you were young, there must be some papyrus scroll somewhere that will remind you of what it was like.”
She looked at me. “Georgia, that is not the way to get a favor out of me.”
I would have to risk it. I said, “Mum. The letter was from Robbie. You know, from before? Well, he has come back unexpectedly and I don’t know why, but he asked me to meet him tonight. Please don’t ruin my life.”
To my amazement she said, “Alright, but you must be back at a reasonable time, otherwise your dad will have one of his turns and no one wants that.”
What? No argument? As she went off she said, “You look lovely. Why wouldn’t he want to go out with you? Just try not to do that thing that you do when you are nervous and your brain drops out. And why are you staring at everything?”
I gave her a quick kiss and leapt out of the door.
ten minutes to get to east street
Pant pant.
five minutes later
Nearly there. I must stop my starey eyes now and prepare for sticky eye work like what it says in How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You. Yes and it is also time for hip work. And…hip swing, hip swing, flicky hair flicky hair, licky lips, hip swing, hip sw—
There he was! Robbie the Sex God. How many hours had I spent longing for this moment? How many times had I cried myself to sleep just dreaming of him coming to meet me?
He looked vair cool and tanned. Not in an English way, which is a bit like crispy bacon bits with a touch of tomato sauce, but in a groovy gravy sort of way. He was wearing all black. A suit with a collarless black shirt. My heart went all melty. And my legs. And my brain. Hurrah, jelloid girl was back! He turned round and saw me and smiled and shook his hair back out of his eyes. They were incredibly blue black against his tan and all softy looking and he looked like he really liked me. I held my hand out for him to shake. Why? Had I turned into the Duke of Edinburgh? He smiled in a puzzled sort of way but took my hand and shook it.
“Er, how do you do? You’re not dashing off for a train, are you?”
I went beetroot.
“No, I—well, that was a bit of a misunderstanding, trainwise.”
“What, you mean as there is no train station in town?”
“Yes, that will be the one.”
He laughed then.
“I’d almost forgotten how interesting life can be around you, Georgia.”
But he said it in a sort of nice way.
And I said, “Hgnnfff.”
Which is a quite brilliant thing to reply if you want someone to run away.
Robbie looked at me. “Look, let’s just try and relax and have a nice time, it’s OK. We haven’t seen each other for ages.”
two minutes later
He really is vair groovy looking. I had slight jelloid knickers. Then I heard Jas’s voice in my head saying, “Tart.” I don’t see why, though, because I am still a free woman. I haven’t plighted my troth with Masimo. I haven’t had a chance to plight anything, as he hasn’t bothered to get in touch with me. I am officially an untrothed person.
Robbie suggested we go to La Strada, which is a cool Italian bar/coffeehouse sort of place with sofas and stuff. All the groovy types go there, it’s perfect for showing off in.
three-quarters of an hour later
Robbie has been telling me about his time in Kiwi-a-gogo land. He’s made me laugh quite a lot, but I must say there is a high level of tensionosity. He hasn’t actually said anything that would make you think he was not just a mate, talking about wombats and sheep to another mate. He hasn’t said, “You’re the one for me, Sex Kitty.” Actually from my point of view it’s a bit tricky thinking of safe things to talk about. I don’t feel I can talk about the Stiff Dylans because then Masimo would come up (oo-er) and what would I say then? I don’t know if anyone has snitched to Robbie about Masimo being my maybe boyfriend. I can tell you this for free, though, if anyone has said anything bitchy it will be Wet Lindsay. Using my world-famed subtle-tosity I must subtly find out, in a subtle way, what she has told him.
I said, “Erm, I heard that Wet…I mean Lindsay—turned up on the night you arrived back. Did she have any…er…news?”
He looked at me. “I didn’t think you got on all that well with Lindsay.”
I said, “Who does? I’m only human.”
He laughed, thank goodness.
At which point, and this is unbelievable, Miss Octopushead herself walked into the bar with her indescribably dull and sad mates. She was flinging her hair about and doing that hippy walk thing which is vair vair common. (Unless I am doing it.) She went over to the bar and turned round to say something to ADM and that is when she saw us. She looked like someone had just stuck a burning poker up her bum-oley. She turned back to the bar to order her drink and when she got it she walked over to our table. Oh brilliant, I was going to get a Coca-Cola over my head. But she ignored me completely and just spoke to Robbie. “Hi Robbie, great night on Saturday, I’ll see you at the after-gig party next week. I’m looking forward to it.”
Then she looked at me like she had just spotted a bit of gob having a cup of coffee and said, “Georgia, out a bit late, aren’t you? Looking forward to going off camping with your little mates? It sounds ever so exciting and you will probably get to stay up late playing games and so on. I remember I used to love camping when I was your age. See you.”
And she slimed off.
Oh I hate her.
Robbie looked at me. “She doesn’t seem to really like you that much. Er, camping?”
I said, “We are being made to go and thrash around in the undergrowth for German. I should have never mentioned the Kochs.”
Oh well done, brain, talking complete gibberish and mentioning the Kochs. Super. Thanks a lot. Good night.
Lindsay was talking in a really mad way to ADM, shaking her extensions and looking over at us. I was definitely a dead person when I got to Stalag 14. Lindsay was going to make it her life’s work to kill me. At the very least I was going to be Stumpy the girl from Stump land.
As my brain was prattling merrily along by itself, Robbie looked over my shoulder toward the door. He said, “This is a popular place.”
I looked round. Oh excellent, just when you think things can’t get any worse, they get worserer. There at the door was Masimo with Dom from the Stiff Dylans. This was awful. Robbie and Masimo looked at each other and did that nodding thing that boys do. Masimo looked at me in a sort of odd way. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Phwoar, I could tell what I was thinking, though, he is, it has to be said, gorgey porgey plus nine. And that is, as any fool can tell you, a lot of gorgey porgey.
He and Dom came over to our table and did a lot more of that boy stuff:
“How’s it going, mate?”
“Cool.”
“Are you cool?”
“Yeah, I’m cool. How are you?”
“Cool.”
Total WUBBISH. I don’t know why girls get told off so much for being superficial and only caring about makeup. Boys are worse, they never say anything that lets you know what is going on. Even if they have the fight to end all fights with someone and their head gets pulled off they’ll say (with difficulty, because of the missing head-scenario), “No, it’s fine, all cool. We’re cool with it.”
Masimo said to me, “Ciao, Georgia, how are you?”
I said, “Oh, me well I’m alrighty, as alrighty as…er…anything.”
Shutup shutup shutup now.
The lads chatted for a bit about the band whilst I sat there like the goosegog fiasco of the year. Dom said, “Do you fancy coming and jamming with us at the gig?”
Then they started the cool thing again! Robbie said, “Yeah, that would be great if it’s all cool with Masimo.”
Masimo said, “For me, it would be OK, this would be a cool thing, per me, and you come and sing maybe a few of your songs. Yes?”
He was talking to Robbie, but looking at me. I was just sitting there like a fool in a skirt (which I was). I could not think of anything except the last words I had said to Masimo, before I had run off for my imaginary train, which were, as I recall, “Did you see the footie scores this arvie?”
Perfect. What could be more sane than that? “Anything” is the answer you are looking for.
Through the mists of horror and ordure, I heard Dom saying, “See you then, mate. Bye, Georgia.”
And they all went off to another table. As they sat down, some girls from St. Mary’s Sixth-form College came skittering in and joined them at their table. Doing that ridiculous kissing on both cheeks thing. Why were they sitting with them? One of the girls was whispering in Masimo’s ear and flicking her hair about. What was going on?
Robbie said, “Shall we quit the scene? Do you fancy a bit of a stroll?” I managed to nod without my head falling off and we left the cafe. Lindsay looked absolute daggers at me as I went past her. I don’t know what Masimo did as we left, I couldn’t bear to look at him. I have never been so full of confusiosity in my life and that is truly saying something.
Robbie was a bit quiet as we walked along. He had his hands in his pockets so at least I didn’t have the lurking-arms scenario to worry about. As we got to North Street he stopped and turned to face me.
“Georgia, I know that when I left you were really upset and I am sorry that I hurt you so much. I just felt that you were so much younger than me and that…”
He stopped and looked into the distance.
What what? And that what? And that I was wrong, you are so full of maturiosity, Georgia, that I would like to snog you within an inch of your life? Is that what?
And that’s when I felt a sort of dithery strange energy. Like there was a mad person behind me. There was.
“Oh, er, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…I was just out in the street, like I am now and I, well…Hi, Gee…hi, Robbie…”
Ellen. What was she doing? Lurking about like Lurkio in the streets. On her own. But not in casual gear. She was all tarted up. Was she following us? Hoping for a threesome? How weird and French. But no, she wasn’t following us, because that is when I saw Dave the Laugh with his posse. Oh nooooooooo. I must hide, hide. I wish I could turn my skin to bark like those iguana things and then I could just blend in with the trees…What was I talking about? There were no trees, there were just shops, well I wish I could have skin like a shop then…and then…SHUT UP!!! Dave clocked us and came swanning up all full of casualosity and joie de whatsit and winked at me.
“Oy Robbie, Georgia…and oooh it’s Ellen. What are you hep cats up to then?”
Ellen went absolutely purple, and was just opening and closing her mouth like a purple trout. She managed to say, “Oh Dave…wow…er…hi, fancy, fancy seeing you here…er…here…in with your…
Dave said, “Trousers on?”
Ellen went on and on, “Er no, no, not the trousers…well yes, because well you have got them on but…but…well anyway I must be going.”
And she went off.
She must have been secretly trailing Dave around. Blimey. I have eventually met someone who is even more full of bonkerosity than me.
Dave shouted after her, “Missing you already, Ellen.”
That’s done it, now we will spend the next month discussing with Ellen whether he, like, really was missing her already, and when was already and what did he mean by missing. I felt sorry for Ellen in an irritated way, because she really did luuurve Dave the Laugh. She has never forgotten the eight-and-a-half minutes they went out together.
Dave was looking very cool indeed, there is something about him that reeks of naughtinosity. And my lips started that puckering-up business all by themselves. And I did a bit of ad hoc hair swishing.
I’d missed seeing him.
He seemed completely at ease with me and Robbie. Didn’t he mind that we might be going out together? He seemed to have forgotten about his “What if you really liked someone and then you lost them” fandango. Which is of course a good thing. Really good. I’m glad. That means we can just be mates. Which I like. As everyone knows. Mateyness is my besty thing.
He said to me, “Nice skirt, Georgia. Has your grandad’s girlfriend knitted you anything unusual lately? I saw her on the back of your grandad’s bike the other day in a sort of one-piece thing, it may have been a knitted swimsuit. She’s a goer, isn’t she?”
I said, “That is one way of putting it.”
Robbie said, “I didn’t know your grandad had got a girlfriend. The last thing I heard from Tom was that he was arrested for being drunk in charge of a bike.”
The boys laughed together. No, no, no, stop laughing about my stupid grandad, this was not the way things were supposed to be between love rivals.
two minutes later
When we reached the Buddha Lounge, Dave’s posse said, “S’laters,” and went off inside.
Dave said, “We’re having a needle pool match, Robbie, if you fancy it. Or are you otherwise engaged?”
I went completely red and had to pretend to look for something in my bag.
Robbie said, “Maybe catch you later.”
the gate to bonkers hall (i.e., my house)
10:00 p.m.
When we got to my gate Robbie looked me straight in the eyes. Oh goddy god he was going to snog me. He took his hands out of his pockets and I did my famous looking down and then looking up thing. At which point Mr. and Mrs. Next Door came along walking the Prat brothers. What is it with this town? Did someone on the radio say “Snogging alert, snogging alert. There is the chance that Georgia might actually have a snogathon with one of her many maybe boyfriends. Why not go out and annoy her by popping up unexpectedly?”
Mr. Next Door went all puffed up and insane when he saw me. He said, “Just the person I wanted to see.”
Mrs. Next Door was saying, “Don’t upset yourself, dear.”
“Upset myself, upset myself!!! Do you know what that furry ruffian you call a pet has done now, do you? Do you?”
Actually I did have a bit of a clue, but I didn’t say.
Mr. Next Door was going on and on.
“He has absolutely DECIMATED our aquarium. DECIMATED it. There were tadpoles all over the rockery. It’s a bloody disgrace. In fact I have got a good mind to get onto the authorities and get it removed to a place where it won’t be a danger to the public anymore.”
I said, “Yes, I agree aquariums can be very dangerous.”
I really thought that he was going to implode, so I said soothingly, “He’s just high-spirited. He thinks the tadpoles are egging him on, waggling about like that. It’s his nature, he’s a hunter, he likes killing things.”
Mr. Next Door said, “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Eventually he went off grumbling and moaning on and on, the Prat brothers yapping away. They had completely spoiled the snogging mood. Robbie said, “I’m going to get off now, Georgia, nice to see you.”
He looked like he was going to say something else and then he just went, “See you at the gig.”
And that was it. He did give me a little peck on the cheek, but what did that mean?
two minutes later
I watched him walk off down the street. He walked in a really cool way. I watched him right down to the end of the street and he didn’t even look back when he went around the corner.
10:15 p.m.
I have accidentally gotten home at a decent time. When I came in, Mutti just looked at me in amazement. She said, “You’re in.”
Then she went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of cornflakes, which she gave me. I said, “Blimey, you never usually cook, Mum.”
five minutes later
In bed lying down, just thinking.
one minute later
How weird is this?
five minutes later
So this is my wonderful life. I start off not knowing what going for coffee means and now I’m wondering what “see you at the gig” means. Does it mean see you at the gig, my new girlfriend, or see you at the gig, my old mate?
I may or may not have two boyfriends and none of us seem to know. And even if I did have two, maybe I only have one now because Masimo will think that I am going out with Robbie. But I’m not. Am I?
Goodie, now I am queuing up at the Bakery of Love, strapped to the rack of love, which makes it very difficult to even get inside the door in the first place.
Just then I heard baldy types sniggering in the hall outside my door.
Oh dear God, now what? Dad and Uncle Eddie have obviously been at the jungle juice because Uncle Eddie said in a really crap Chinese accent, “Special deliverly.”
And underneath the door came a sort of postcard thing. I heard a piggy-type snort, from Vati.
It’s unbelievable at their age. I suppose I will have to look, otherwise they will be crouching outside my door all night.
one minute later
Oh how vair vair amusant. The postcard said:
TEENAGERS, FED UP WITH BEING HARASSED
BY YOUR STUPID PARENTS? TAKE ACTION,
LEAVE HOME, GET A JOB, PAY YOUR OWN BILLS.
WHILST YOU STILL KNOW EVERYTHING.
I said, “Yeah, good one. Good night, you pranksters.”
They went snorting off. Good grief.
two minutes later
Where was I? Oh yes, strapped to the rack of love, not being able to get through into the bakery. Well, how about if I undo the straps, chuck the rack away and enter boldly, shouting, “Give me a dozen mixed cakes, please!”
No, no, no, no, no! No to red bottomosity!!!
one minute later
What if I said, “Yes, I have made my selection. I would like the Italian cakey, please.”
one minute later
No, no, no, make that the creamy Robbie éclair.
one minute later
On second thought, could I have the…Oh sacré bloody bleu, I will be up all night worrying about…
Zzzzzzzzzzzz.