Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain in hardback by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2006

First published in Great Britain in paperback by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2007

Copyright © Louise Rennison 2006

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007222094

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2008 ISBN: 9780007279029

Version: 2017-08-18

Contents

Title Page Copyright In Memory And Love Of Dezza The Vicar. A Note From Georgia Living In Fiasco Land On The Brink Of Madnosity Back In The Cake Shop Of Agony Girdey Loins Mate Of The Century MacPants Georgia's Glossary Keep Reading About the Author Also by the Author About the Publisher

In memory and love of Dezza the Vicar.

Big luuurve to my family and friends, old and new. (Look, I'm not saying some of you are old, I'm just saying that some of you are newer than others… er… but not in a less old way. Oh, look, I just love you, right?)

Enormous panty-splitting thanks to my editors and publicists and designers and sales people at HarperCollins in Billy Shakespeare land and Hamburger-a-gogo land.

Thanks as always to the Empress.

But mostly thank you to my lovely, lovely readers (which now even include some vatis, which is a bit alarming).

A Note from Georgia

Dear worldwide Chums and Chumettes,

(Hang on a minute, when I say “worldwide” I don't mean “enormously fat”, I merely mean internationalwise.) Where was I before you got the wrong end of the stick? Oh yes, do you know how much I love you all? A LOT. That is how much. I do, it is le fact. Why else would I spend so much time rifling through my creative drawers (oo-er) writing another diary?

Actually, as I say to anyone who will listen (i. e., no one), I am practically a saint in human form. But there’s very little thanks in it. For instance, the other day I helped a little old lady across the road. I didn't have to. In fact, I was in a tearing dash on my way to get new lip gloss. But I did, and do you know what she did? She hit me with her umbrella! She said she didn't want to cross the road, she was waiting for her friend to pick her up to go pole dancing!!!

That is the kind of world we live in.

The elderly insane, like Elvis Attwood, parents, etc., say that young people only care about lipstick and snogging. I say hahahaha. If they would take the trouble to read works of geniosity like mine, they would soon realise that we do many useful and creative things. Who invented the terms “piddly-diddly department” and “pooparlour division” that are used in schools all over the world? Before I bothered to invent “nunga-nungas”, what fools we felt calling our breasty substances, er… breasts.

Do you see?

I think you do.

Goodbye and God bless you all.

And also S’laters.

Georgia

p.s. And I invented nervy b. and f.t. and so on.

p.p.s. And the Viking disco inferno dance.

p.p.p.s. I could go on but I feel slightly tired with

creativitosity and I may… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Living in Fiasco land
Saturday June 18th
9:00 p.m.

I can’t believe I am once more on the rack of romance.

And also in the oven of luuurve.

And possibly on my way to the bakery of pain.

And maybe even going to stop along the way to get a little cake at the cake shop of agony.

Shut up, brain. Shut up.

Looking out of my bedroom window at the stars
9:01 p.m.

It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.

Ommmm.

9:03 p.m.

The meditation book is wrong. God, stars are annoying. Winking and blinking like twinkly idiots. Why are they so cheerful?

9:03 p.m. and a half

I’ll tell you why they are so cheerful: because they are not me. They know nothing of the call of the Horn and snogging. Has a Luuurve God ever said to one of them, “I will let you know in a week’s time if I want to go out with you or not”? No.

Anyway, what are stars for actually? You can’t even read by them. They just hang about. Like dim torches.

9:04 p.m.

Hanging about is not exactly a job, is it?

9:05 p.m.

I am not as such feeling any calmer.

9:10 p.m.

Being in the bakery of pain is vair vair boring. Ten past nine on a Saturday night and I am in my bedroom. Alone. I am in the prime of my – er – hornosity and joie de vivre and nothing is going on. Nothing.

It’s like a grave in this house. I…

Oh good, my darling little sister has kicked open my door and flung my cat Angus at me.

“HEGGGGOOO, Gingey!!! We is back. Heggo!!! Watch my panties dance. Sex bum, sex bum, am a sex bum!!!”

Oh dear Gott in Himmel. Angus was livid at being thrown, and once he’d stopped doing that cat sneezing and shaking thing he dug his claws into my ankle. Owwwwwww. Now I’m on the way to the cake shop of aggers with a gammy leg. Hurray!

Libby put her frock over her head and waggled her botty around like a pole dancer. Where does she see people doing these things?

They’ve just come back from the lunatic asylum, i.e., Grandad’s sheltered housing, so it will be something she has seen there. I’ve seen the residents in their so-called communal lounge. They pretend to play dominoes, but secretly they practise being mad. And probably prance around in their incontinence knickers.

Then Mum came mumming in and scooped up Bibbs. “Time for Boboland, young lady.”

Libby carried on singing and wiggling around in Mum’s arms, and then Mum noticed me. Being in my bedroom.

“What are you up to, Georgia? Why are you in here?”

I said, “Not that anyone notices, but this is actually my room. You know, for me to be in. I was in bed, as it happens.”

Mum said as she went out, “Oh, you must be sooo tired, all that lip gloss and mascara to carry round all day.”

Vair vair amusing. Not.

9:25 p.m.

I’ve been in my bedroom for more or less twenty-four hours, give or take snack and loo breaks. Oh, and a quick visit to the shops for essentials. Mascara and a new nunganunga holder. And a copy of Cosmo. It is more than twenty-four hours since Masimo left me at my door saying he would let me know if he wanted me to be his girlfriend or not. Why did I admit I wanted him to be like my proper boyfriend? Why why?

9:26 p.m.

And also thrice why? Why why why? Why couldn’t I have just been a callous sophisticate? I could for once have just shut up and been all full of casualosity and savoir whatsit.

9:30 p.m.

If I’d played my cards right I could have had loads of boyfriends. All at the same time. Masimo the Italian Stallion for a weekendy boyfriend, with a touch of Dave the Laugh (oo-er) for a rainy weekday. And also maybe even the former Sex God (whose name I’m not going to mention even beyond the grave) as a sort of Kiwi-a-gogo airmail boyfriend. But, oh no, I had to moan on about wanting to be Masimo’s one and only.

9:40 p.m.

I was so happy snogging Masimo under the stars on our date. Stars didn’t get on my nerves then. Nothing did.

9:42 p.m.

How come I am living in Fiasco land again? One minute he was snogging me under the twinkly twits, and then the next he is off to Late and Live with Wet Lindsay, stick insect and drip.

I am haunted by old Droopy Drawers. First she enticed you know who, whose name I will never mention even beyond the grave, but as a clue his name starts with “R” and ends in “obbie”. Now she has slimed her way around Masimo. I hate her, I hate her.

But that is life in a nutshell, isn’t it? Well, mine anyway – all fabby and marvy and then all pooey and merde.

9:45 p.m.

What was it Charlie Dickens said in his famous book Oliver Twit? Ah, yes, “Forsooth and lack a day all ye worlde is-eth a stage and verily we-eth are players in-eth it. Gadzooks.” Or was that Billy Shakespeare?

Who knows? Who cares? What does it mean, anyway? And why do none of those beardy Elizabethan types know how to speak proper English?

What does anything mean?

Midnight

Oh, I can’t bear this. How many hours will it be until Masimo tells me his answer? Perhaps I should phone him and tell him that I didn’t mean what I said about him being my one and only one. I could say that he can go out with Wet Lindsay as well, as long as he likes me too.

12:10 a.m.

But then I might snog him after she has snogged him, and that would mean I have practically snogged her. No one could live with that.

12:20 a.m.

I would rather snog Angus.

12:26 a.m.

I bet Angus is a much better snogger than her. Much better.

12:30 a.m.

He has certainly got nicer legs.

12:31 a.m.

Well, more of them, anyway.

12:36 a.m.

Everyone has gone to bed. And the kittykats are out. I can hear them yowling and spitting in the garden somewhere. Cross-eyed Gordy is practically a teenager in cat years now. I’ll bet he is doing keepie-uppie like Oscar, the so-called son of Mr and Mrs Across the Road, otherwise known as Perv Boy. No, what I mean is, he will be pretending to do keepie-uppie but really keeping his eyes out for female-type kittykats.

12:39 a.m.

Actually, Gordy would be much better at keepie-uppie and girl spotting than Oscar because he could quite literally do them at the same time – keep one eye on the ball and use the other one for spotting girly kittykats. His spaggy eye would be a blessing in disguise.

12:41 a.m.

Oooh, I can’t sleep. I must read a book of wisdomosity.

12:42 a.m.

It says in my (well, officially Mum’s) book How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You that if you pretend to feel how you feel, then you will feel like you feel.

Pardon?

12:45 a.m.

For instance, it says, “If you go to a party and you feel shy, enter the room with a wide smile. Put your shoulders back, hold your head high, let your arms hang loosely by your side. Then, even if you don’t feel confident, no one will ever know!”

Okey dokey, I’ll try that in the mirror.

Wide smile, arms loosey loose and swing. Big smile, shoulders back, head high, swing swing. Loosey loose arms and swing swing.

12:52 a.m.

Yep, I definitely look confident. There is one tiny drawback, though: hanging my arms loosely and swinging them makes me look like an orang-utan. An orang-utan called Ralf, probably. And who wants a confident orang-utan as a girlfriend? That is what I ask myself.

12:54 a.m.

Ralf the confident orang-utan wearing Teletubbies pyjamas. Which I only wore for comfortnosity. I had no idea I was going to have to go out to a party in them looking confident.

Shut up, brain.

Sunday June 19th
My bedroom
10:00 a.m.

Same rack of love.

Same oven of pain.

Same bakery of… shutup shutup.

I would usually consult with Dave the Laugh about the Luuurve God scenario. He is after all the official Hornmeister and Pants King. It still makes me laugh like a drain when I think of him singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of pants!” I would ask him to give me the benefit of his wisdomosity about boys and so on, but he’s gone a bit weird with all that “What if we should have really been together?” fandango, so I feel a bit funny about seeing him again.

11:00 a.m.

Mutti popped her head round my door. “We’re going to Waterworld. Do you want to come?”

I said, “Are you mad?”

I said it in a polite and inquiring way, but she still went ballisticisimus. “You are so bloody rude.”

I very nearly said that swearing shows a lack of vocabulary, but I didn’t because I am so vair vair tired.

11:30 a.m.

The Swiss Family Mad have “roared” off in the clown car – otherwise known as Dad’s ludicrous three-wheeled Robin Reliant – leaving me alone at Château Sheer Desperadoes.

11:35 a.m.

I’m going mad. I am going to have to phone The Big Knickered One, and hope she doesn’t ramble on about bat droppings.

Phoned Jas.

Jas was so much in Jas ‘n’ Tom land that she didn’t even notice I was in the bakery of pain. She just went on rambling for Europe. “Oooh, it’s so groovy that Tom’s back!

I only saw him briefly yesterday. He is going to bring around his flora collection from Kiwi-a-gogo land in a bit and that will be soo… oh…”

I said, “Indescribably dull?”

She said, “I have to go now.”

“Jazzy Wazzy, can I come and see you? I need your help.”

“No.”

Jas’s bedroom
Lunchtime

I am lying amongst Jas’s sad collection of stuffed toys, mostly owls, while she ponces around in front of a mirror. What is she doing?

I said, “Jas it’s very distracting trying to tell you stuff, important stuff full of tragicosity about me your very bestest pally, when you keep pouting like a goldfish. What are you doing?”

“I’m practising puckering.”

“What?”

“Puckering. I had, well, a bit of a problem vis-à-vis snogging with Tom last night.”

Despite my world coming apart at the seams, I am always interested in snogging tales. “Tell me.”

“Well, I was quite nervy at first when I was waiting for him.”

“Were you doing your annoying flicky-fringe thing?”

“I don’t know; anyway, when he came in, I was sort of jelloid. But then it was all right because he got his whatsits out.”

“Pardon?”

“His, you know, snapshots from Kiwi-a-gogo land, so we looked at them for a bit. Until I felt calmed down. Actually there was a really cool one of Robbie…”

Oh brilliant. On top of everything else I was now talking about someone I had vowed I would never talk about this side of the grave.

I said, “Was Robbie playing the guitar and dancing with marsupials?”

Jas wasn’t even listening. “Anyway, as we were looking at them Tom got closer to me and put his arm around me. Then we, well… we, you know, started snogging and so on.”

“And so on? Where is ‘and so on’ on the snogging scale? What number did you get to?”

“Er… five and a bit of six. It was really groovy. I felt like I was all melting in to him and then… well… then I had sort of a lip spasm.”

“A LIP SPASM?”

Ten minutes later

Apparently she had been snogging away when she had suddenly had the lip spaz.

She said, “I got cramp in my lips and they sort of seized up.”

“What does that look like?”

And she showed me. Blimey. You know when you put food in a baby’s mouth and it doesn’t like it, and its eyes go all goggly and then its whole face goes into a spasm and the food comes shooting out of its mouth? Well, even if you don’t know, believe me, I do. Libby could make rice pudding reach the other side of the room.

While Jas was showing me her spazzy face, I said, “If you don’t mind me saying, Jas, that is not very attractive.”

She said, “I expect it was snogging withdrawal. I hadn’t puckered up for ages, so… you know, being out of practice… but it won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

“Because I have an exercise regime now. Shall I show you?

“No.”

“OK. It goes pucker, relax, pucker, relax, pucker, relax. Do you see?”

I didn’t say anything, just lay there staring at her with big starey eyes like the rest of the owls as she pouted her lips and then relaxed them. She looked like a mixture of Mick Jagger and an idiot. Not necessarily in that order.

She was in full ramble mode now. “And then for the pièce de résistance it’s darty tongue, darty tongue.”

God, it was horrible sitting there while her little tongue went in and out like a mad vole. Fortunately I was able to shove a Midget Gem in her gob so that I could tell her the sad tale of my Italian Stallion.

Ten minutes later

She said (chewy chew), “So you said that he had to be your one and only boyfriend scenario or else that was it? Arrivederci, Masimo?”

I said, “Yes, but…”

“Well, what in the name of Slim’s outsize pyjamas were you thinking of? Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad, Jas. I just happen to have a friend who looks a lot like you who said, ‘Just be yourself.’”

“What?”

“You said being yourself and genuine was like having a generous nose. Like I have got. The exact words used were: ‘Just because you have a generous nose, don’t go to the nose-disguiser shop; let your own nose run free and wild.’”

“What complete fool said that?”

“YOU did, Jas.”

“Did I? Well, yeah, but I didn’t mean it, did I? Clearly. That was in the sanctity of our own brains, wasn’t it? I mean, we were going to the PRETEND nose-disguiser shop. I didn’t actually mean you should BE yourself. That is just stupid.”

I really really could kill her. In fact, if I attacked her stupid fringe suddenly, she might choke on her stupid Midget Gem, and that would be good.

Sadly, Jas had got interested now. She said, “So let me get this right – he’s choosing between you and Wet Lindsay? Blimey, does she know that? Because if she does, you are dead as a doughnut. Deader.”

Cheers.

1:30 p.m.

The doorbell rang downstairs, and a minute later Tom bounded into the room. He said, “Hey, Georgia… gidday, as our Kiwi pals say! Bonzer to see you!” And he gave me a big, proper boy hug. It felt really nice. Especially as I may never feel another boy’s jumper next to my head in this lifetime, the way things are going.

He sat down on the bed and looked at both of us and said, “OK, what have you two been talking about? Lipstick?”

We both looked offended. Tom went on, “Erm… world peace, the Manchester United attacking four? Snogging?”

I said with dignitosity at all times, “I’ve got a lot more on my mind than boys, Tom. There are other things in the world, you know.”

He said, “So it’s all over with you and the Italian Stallion then?”

“No, well, er maybe… oh, I don’t know.” And I blurted out the whole story because it was so nice to have a boy type to talk to. And, for a boy, Tom is very nearly not quite completely insane.

At the end he lay back on Jas’s stuffed owl family and said, “Wow.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me. “Wowzee wow and wow.”

Jas said, “I know, that’s what I thought.”

What are they, the idiot telepathic twins?

I said to Tom, “What do you think?”

He said, “Well, you know he’s just come out of a big relationship and, well, he’s a fit-looking guy, isn’t he? Not that I’m on the turn or anything. But he is. He could pretty much have any chick he wanted.”

Jas was nodding away like Tom was Dr Ruth, psychiatrist to the Hollywood set, or something. And she shuffled up really close to him. It’s pathetic.

Tom went on talking, “Georgia, you don’t think he’s, you know, well, a bit worried that you might be a bit… well, unusual?”

I said, “Unusual? Like how?”

Tom said, “Well, when he first asked you if you wanted a drink, you went off disco dancing to Rolf Harris’s ‘Two Little Boys’.”

Oh goddygodgod, am I never to be free from my own bonkerosity?

I said, “What else is a person supposed to do when their boy entrancers get stuck together?”

Jas was still doing her nodding along wisely fiasco. She said to Tom, “Yes, yes, I see what you mean. He may be afraid to go out with her, and really who can blame him?”

I was just about to lunge for her throat when her mum knocked on the door and said, “May I come in for a moment, Jas? Dad and I are off to the allotment and then we may pop into the club for a quick game of cards, so I’ve left snacks in the kitchen. I know how you young people eat! Bye.”

Her mutti and vati were going to their allotment. Jas’s mum was wearing welligogs and a proper mum-sized pair of trousers and a cardi. Her vati probably doesn’t even know what leather trousers are. My vati has a clown car and my mum came in last night with her T-shirt on inside out. How am I supposed to know how to behave? Why would any Luuurve God want to have anything to do with me? Oh nooo, please don’t let me blub.

Tom looked at me and then he put his arm around me. “Listen, Georgia, if he doesn’t get you then its his loss. You’re fab; we all know that.”

Jas even had a go at being nice. “Yes, you are, er… fab, and you are so, you know… you. I mean, you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t you, would you?”

What was she rambling on about?

Tom was fishing about in his rucky. “I’ve got something to show you, Gee.”

Oh blimey, now he was going to get his newts out or something, at a time like this. He handed me a pile of photos. Oh good, they were of his trip to Kiwi-a-gogo land. How interesting. Not.

I flicked through them. Trees, trees, sheep, trees, Kiwi-a-gogo people in big boots and shorts and funny beards. And the men were just as bad!!! Hahahahahaha. Oh, shutup, brain. More sheep, wombat droppings, rogue bores, more beards, sheep, trees, sheep and… then I saw the photo of you know who. The Original Sex God Heartbreaker. Smiling into the camera. With dreamy dark blue eyes. Suntanned. Standing in a river wearing shorts. Thank goodness I had eschewed him with a firm hand and felt nothing.

One minute later

Corrrrrr. And also phwoar.

Back in my bedroom of pain
7:00 p.m.

I felt like a goosegog extraordinaire round at Jazzy Spazzy’s. All that hand holding and giggling, it’s pathetic. I may as well have been the wife of the Invisible Man. Mrs Invisible Man. It was all kissy kiss kiss, “Oooooohhh, Tom, do you like my new shoes? Oooohhh, Tom, I’ve got a new owl.” Pathetic. I would never do that in front of anyone. I needn’t worry, though, because if Masimo chooses Wet Lindsay, I am going to be living in a lesbian monastery for the rest of my life.

Five minutes later

Life really has gone merde when I can’t even speak to my besty pally because she is so BUSY with her boyfriend.

Well, so be it: if she chooses Tom above me, that is her lookout.

I will be eschewing her with a firm hand.

A LOT.

Like I am eschewing Robbie.

I will not have him in my brain. There is no room for anyone else in the cake shop of agony; it’s crowded enough in there already. And, anyway, Masimo is my one and only one.

Maybe.

Ten minutes later

I hate Jas. My so-called friend and bestie.

But I tell you this for free: she will never know how much she has hurt me. I might be in pain, but at least I have my dignitosity.

That I will never give up for anyone.

One minute later

Phoned Jas.

“Jas, what do you think Masimo will say? Do you think he wants to go out with me? Would you go out with me if you were him?”

“Oy, don’t start that lezzie business again.”

“Jas, I am just asking you to imagine being him and what you would think about me if you were him. I mean, you wouldn’t pick Wet Lindsay over me, would you?”

“She’s got quite nice arms.”

“Jas, that is the wrong answer. The correct answer is, ‘Of course I would choose you every time, Georgia, you gorgey creature.’”

“Well, if you already know the answer, what is the point of asking me the question?”

“And, by the way, what do you mean she has got nice arms? She’s a stick insect, therefore she’s got sticky thin stupid arms. And unusually enough for a stick insect, it doesn’t stop there – she’s got a stupid forehead and stupid feet and—”

“I’ve not seen her feet unclothed. Have you? When did you see her feet?”

“Jas, I don’t know that I have seen her feet, but I know that they are sad. Anyway, stop going on and on about her feet. I’m not interested in her bloody feet.”

“Well, I didn’t start the feet business. I was only being polite.”

I slammed down the phone. I may be having a nervy spaz.

I’d better eat something sweet.

In the kitchen

Nothing to eat, of course.

I must and shall have sugar.

Five minutes later

Never have sugar on bread. It is disgusting.

7:30 p.m.

I had better plan what I’m going to wear the day he comes round to see me. It may be the deciding factor between happinosity and sadnosity.

I must make sure he doesn’t see me in my school uniform. It will only remind him that I go to school.

I think I’ll practise smiling in the mirror.

7:40 p.m.

Oh, what larks, I’m developing a lurker on my chin. Perfect. It should just be nicely ripening into a massive red pus-filled second chin by Friday.

Five minutes later

Typico, I have run out of spot cream. I could squirt some perfume on it; that sometimes works. What does it say in CosmoGIRL! vis-à-vis lurker alerts?

Five minutes later

Apparently you are supposed to lure out the lurker by encouraging it to come to a head. You should steam the area. With a steaming thing.

Ten minutes later

I’ve had my face over a boiling saucepan for the last year and a half, and although my face is bright red and dripping with water, the lurker is still lurking there happily.

In Cosmo’s beauty hints it says you can use a poultice to draw it out. What can I use as a poulticey-type thing? It says a muslin bag with herbs and stuff in it.

In the bathroom

I have just looked in the “medical chest” and it has got some mouldy old oranges, a leg from Libby’s Pantalitzer doll, and some dried cat poo in it. How disgusting.

In Mutti and Vati’s bedroom

I’ve found some corn plasters in a drawer. Maybe they would do as a poultice. I’ll stick one over the lurker.

One minute later

Well, that is attractive. Not.

But who said that love was painless?

One minute later

And who said it involved corn plasters?

8:10 p.m.

God, the lurker is throbbing. I hope the corn plaster poulticey thing isn’t drawing anything else out. I don’t want to wake up with no chin.

Wandering lonely as a clud round the house
8:15 p.m.

I may as well be an orphan, for all the notice my family takes of me. They went out gaily laughing and singing years ago, leaving me with a measly fiver for a whole day. Just out scaring people for hours and hours.

I hate them.

It’s a bit spooky in the house by myself. Even the kittykats are nowhere around. What if an escaped prisoner came in out of the night and broke into the house to get food and so on?

He wouldn’t stay long, I can tell you that.

Ten minutes later

I never thought the day would come when I would be glad to hear the whine of Vati’s half-horsepower clown car, but it has.

I scampered up to my bedroom.

Loony alert
One minute later

Bang bang, crash. Why can no one in my family open a door normally? Crashing around when starving people with two chins are trying to sleep.

Mum came upstairs into my room. I don’t know why she bothers having her own room.

She sat on the bed and looked at me. What am I? A looking at person?

She said, “Could you tell me why you’ve got a corn plaster on your chin?”

I said, “Oh, leave me alone, will you?”

“Georgia, what is the matter with you? Seriously, you seem all worried and upset – what is it?”

And then, I don’t know what happened, but I told her. “I said to the Italian Stallion that I wanted him to be like my proper boyfriend, and he said, ‘Oh, this is a serious thing’, you know, in that really groovy accent-type thing, and then Dave the Laugh said, ‘What if you really liked someone and then you lost them’, and Jas said, ‘Wet Lindsay has got nice feet and he might like that’… maybe they do, the Italians, they are an ancient race and maybe they like feet… and then a lurking lurker situation occurred, so I got out the corn plaster… and he’s going to choose on Friday, that’s five days away… and the coup de whatsit is that the Original Sex God, whose name I will never mention this side of the grave, had his shorts on, in a river, probably showing off to his wombat friends… Oh, what is the point?”

Actually, for a complete fool and someone who tosses her nunga-nungas around with gay abandon, Mum was quite nice. And she seemed to understand.

Which I am surprised at, as I don’t know what I’m saying myself most of the time.

And I’m in my head. Sadly.

10:00 p.m.

Mum gave me a kiss, and I even let her cuddle me. A bit. She said the corn plaster wouldn’t work, but she would get me some cream tomorrow that will dry the lurker up.

She said I should keep myself busy with a list of things to do until Friday so that I don’t have time to go mad.

Good idea. I will start on the list now.

Two minutes later

This is my list:

Practise not being mad.

10:35 p.m.

Mum brought Bibbs into bed with me. She was asleep, still clutching her swimming goggles and snorkel. She was also clutching the statue of Our Lord Jesus, or Sandra, as he is now called in his Barbie frock and make-up. He is Libby’s new best “fwend”. I looked at Bibbs in the half-light in my bedroom. She is so sweet when she is asleep. Her little eyelashes are long and curly and her mouth all pouty and pink. I cuddled up to her, and she turned over in her sleep and put her little arms round me. Ooooohhhhh. I said softly, “Night-night, my little sister. I love you.”

And she said sleepily, “Night-night, Ginger. I lobe you.”

Ooohhh. At least she loves me.

Then she whispered, “Ginger, I poo my jimjams, oh dear.”

Midnight

After emergency removal of my pooey sister, I eventually snuggled down into my bed of pain alone. Not entirely alone because there is a bit of a residual pong and Sandra/Jesus is still in bed with me.

2:00 a.m.

Woke up from a dream.

I dreamt that I had a conversation with Jesus. He had the hump because he didn’t like his frock and he said his lipstick didn’t suit his complexion. It brought out the orange in it.

I wonder if it is a message from my subconscious that I must be more religious?

Monday June 20th
8:00 a.m.

The Portly One (Vati) yelled up, “Georgia, up NOW! You’ve got five minutes to get your bum down here.”

Oh, he is so crude. And how dare he take my bum’s name in vain?

My delightful little sister unexpectedly burst into my room to collect Sandra. She was wearing a see-through plastic Pacamac and some tiny tiny pants that she must have had when she was a baby. Or, more likely, she has nicked them from a poor unfortunate child at playschool. I must tell Mutti to remind the mothers not to leave their toddlers unattended when Libby’s around. She came over, quite slowly because the tiny pants were making her walk with small steps, got into bed with me and grabbed Our Lord and started to cuddle him.

I said, “I’m getting up for school now, Bibbs.”

She said, “Snuggle buggle.”

We had a bit of a cuddle and I kissed the top of her head. Is it normal to be able to snack on Rice Krispies from your little sister’s head?

Mutti came bustling in wearing a costume designed for a teenage prostitute. “Georgia, GET UP! It’s ten past eight. You’ll be late.”

I said, “Late for what? Six hours of misery at Stalag 14 being tortured by the Hitler Youth, followed by twelve hours of extreme boredom and starvation at home?”

She didn’t even listen. She said, “Don’t be so silly. You are such a drama queen.”

Is everyone’s life like this?

Cleaning my tushy pegs
Ten minutes later

I wish it was Friday and I could just get it all over with. Masimo comes round and says, “I am sorry, Georgia, I cannot be your one and only one. How do you say in English language? Ah, yes… so long, loser. Loser, loser, double loser, snap snap get the picture?”

Then I could just go back to being ordinarily bored and depressed.

One minute later

I grabbed a piece of toast from the kitchen to ward off death. Angus was happily chewing on something in his basket. He is better fed than me.

On the way out of the front door I heard Mum screeching like a banshee. “Bob, Bob, that horrible furry thing is eating my tights. Stop him, stop him!!! Trap him with that chair!”

Then I heard some crashing and Dad shouting and cursing. Mum hadn’t finished: “Of course you haven’t broken your leg, Bob. Anyway, never mind about that, get him… Oh bugger, now he’s in the laundry room. Oh dear God, he’s doing a poo in the ironing. That is it! They are going, they are going!!!”

8:40 a.m.

Jas was on her wall with Tom when I puffed up the hill. They were looking at something in a brown paper parcel. Jas was talking in a really silly girly voice that she uses when Hunky is around. I swear to God she will be developing a lisp soon. Pathetic. She went, “Ooooooohhh, Hunky, that is soooooo interesting. Look at this, Georgia.” And she held out the brown paper bag.

There was a newt in the bag. How beyond the Valley of the Really Quite Mad and entering the World of the Certifiably Bonkers is that?

Jas said, “It’s got very unusual markings. I’m taking it into Biology to show Miss Baldwin.”

I said, “Yeah, good idea. Crawler.”

But she didn’t even notice that I’d called her a teacher’s botty-kisser because she was so busy being an idiot around her boyfriend.

Tom left us at the corner to go off to college. As he kissed her on her cheek, Jas was fiddling with her fringe so much that I thought she’d had sudden onset of rampant disco inferno dancing. At last they parted. But only after she had blown kisses at him and then he had to pretend to catch them and blow them back for about two trillion years.

She was completely lost in Jasland. “Oh, it is so so so so nice to have him back.”

I said, “Is it nice to have him back then?”

But she didn’t get it. She just started again. “Oh yes, it is so so so so nice to have him back. I could never not have a boyfriend; it would be so sad. Imagine not having a boyfriend. Oh, actually, I suppose you can imagine not having a boyfriend.”

What a cow she can be. I didn’t hit her because I think violence is wrong, and also she was walking too quickly for me to kick. I just said, “You are a very caring person, Jas. It’s almost uncanny how empathetic you are.”

“I know – do you know what? Sometimes it’s like I can actually read Tom’s thoughts.”

“Really, you mean when he’s looking at you and not saying anything, and yet you know what he is thinking?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Yes, I could read his thoughts today too when he was looking at you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it was quite clear he was thinking, Hey, I’ve accidentally got a prat for a girlfriend.”

Hobbling into Stalag 14

I’m not speaking to Jas. She is vair violent. I may have to go to a support group for victims of friends’ violence. UNPAL (United Kingdom’s Network for Protection Against Loonies).

Assembly

I am at the far end of the Ace Gang lineup next to Rosie. Not in my usual position next to Mad Dog Jas. She has given Ellen, Jools, Mabs and Ro Ro Midget Gems from her secret stash, but I don’t care because I am giving her my cold shoulders. She’s only got a boyfriend in the first place because of my excellent stalking skills. If it wasn’t for me, she would still be Mrs Sad on the shelf of life.

One minute later

Like me.

Oh God.

Even Rosie doing her shoulder disco dancing during “Jerusalem” failed to work its usual magic. Although when she sang, “And was Jerusalem builded here amongst these dark satanic pants”, I did snap and join in with the laughing attack the Ace Gang had. We had to be shuussshed by the Hitler Youth.

Slim, our beloved elephantine headmistress, was in full jelloid mode. She was wearing an unusually attractive jumper in canary yellow. It must have taken at least ten sheep to make it. When she loses her rag she trembles all over. But each bit trembles independently. Chins, jowls, basoomas. If there was such a thing as jelly wrestling, she would be top at it.

One minute later

Oh, drone on. Yawn yawn. What was she talking about?

“…No loitering without intent in the loos… In my day you were lucky to get a shoe to live in… Only nineteen more days to go till our production of Macbeth – I hope you’re all telling your parents about it…” Blah blah blah. As if.

Then through the dark mists of boredom like a hearing-eye dog I heard my name mentioned. As I drifted back into consciousness I heard her say, “Georgia Nicolson and Rosie Mees to see me in my office immediately after assembly.”

Oh dear God, what fresh hell?

I looked at Rosie and she looked back. I shrugged my shoulders, she shrugged back. I looked at the Ace Gang and shrugged my shoulders and they shrugged back. (The Ace Gang, I mean, not my shoulders. I don’t mean my shoulders have a shrugging life of their own.)

What have we done?

As we were walking out in a Winter Wonderland of shrugging, Hawkeye appeared from nowhere like the Bride of Dracula and barked out, “Stop that shrugging!”

I said to Rosie, “Now shrugging is a capital offence, apparently. Don’t accidentally shake your head, for God’s sake.”

Outside Slim’s office
Ten minutes later

In the waiting room of fear there are Rosie and I and a couple of scaredy first formers playing with their pigtails. Oo-er. Ro Ro said, “Do you remember when the Bummer twins had a pigtail-cutting extravaganza?”

Ah, the Bummers. Jackie and Alison. They had taken bullying to new heights before they were expelled for shoplifting. There was for instance their famous using of first formers as armchairs. And in a particularly inspired moment they had actually superglued one of the little titches to a bench. In their pigtail campaign they used to snip off bits of first formers’ pigtails as they passed by and then hang them on their havvies like scalps.

Rosie said, “I wonder what has happened to the Bummers?”

I said, “Prison with a bit of luck.”

Two minutes later

Slim had the scaredy little ones in first. They came out about five minutes later all red and crying and hiccupping. I gave one of them a snot rag and asked, “What did you do?”

Ginger titch said, “We… we… drew a picture of a vole with a… a… bra on… on the blackboard in… in… blodge.”

I said, “Well done, girls, keep up the good work; we are relying on you.”

Rosie slapped them both on their backs, a bit hard actually. I thought their lungs might shoot out. She said, “Goodus workus, smallus idiotus.” And they went off looking really pleased.

I said, “I like to think they look up to us as examples of womanhood.”

And Rosie said, “Yes, but what you have to keep in mind is that you are bonkers.”

Then we heard our beloved leader shout out, “Come.”

Here we go. A duffing up for something that we quite clearly have not done. Whatever it is.

Slim was scribbling away at her desk. The chair she must have been sitting on (unless she was levitating) was completely hidden from view by her jelloidness. I wonder if she has a specially reinforced chair? There is probably a specialist circus furniture shop where she gets her requirements. Imagine the size of her bath! Oh nooooo, now I’ve got a nuddy-pants Slim in my head!

Slim finally looked up.

What had we done?

“I am returning these to you.”

Wow, this was a turn up for the book! And she handed me a bag. It was the bison horns!!! The return of the bison horns! Yesss! The horns brought back especially from Hamburger-a-gogo land for the Ace Gang. I fondled the horns and thought back to when I had first worn them riding a bucking-bronco bar stool in Gaylords while Rawhide played. Let no one say that the Hamburgese have given us no culture besides Elvis. In fact, as I have said many times to those who will listen (i. e., no one), we have a lot to thank our tiny American chums for – mostly things beginning with “h”: hamburgers, hillbillies, howdy doody, er… horns and so on.

Slim was still rambling on. “Now I like a joke as much as the next person, but there is a time and a place, and wearing bison horns during German is not the place. Ironically, you two are quite bright girls, but you waste your talents on silliness. You won’t get a job as a silly person, you know.”

I didn’t say “Miss Wilson has” because, as Slim says, there is a time and a place for everything and time waits for nomads, etc.

I was pleased to have the horns back and it made me think quite kindly about Slim. She isn’t such a bad old huge elephantine thing, really. When we got to her door to go, I did think about pretending to be a hilarious alien like in Doctor Who and saying, “I offer you my mandible in peace.” But then I thought, er, no.

German

Herr Kamyer seems to have accidentally come to work dressed as a twit. His trousers are so short they are bordering on the Bermuda shorts area of legwear. And there is never an excuse for wearing a sleeveless jerkin with diamond patterns all over it. Even if you have been brought up on a diet of spangleferkel.

I stared at him. He was quite literally a sight for sore eyes. If you looked at him, he gave you sore eyes. He can always be relied on to come up trumps in the twit arena. He blinked back at me. “Guten morgen, Georgia and Rosie.”

We clicked our heels together and said, “Jawohl Kommandant.”

I sat next to Rosie in our comfy seats on the back row. In some of our lessons we are not allowed to sit together for some mad reason that escapes me. Something to do with attention deficit disorder. I got out my chuddie and settled down on my arms to have a little zizz. But I could feel mad beadies looking at me. I opened my eyes. It was Jas. Just looking at me. Look all you want, Miss Looking at Me Person. She soooo wanted to know why we had been to Duffing Up Headquarters and come back looking so pleased. But she will be the last to know anything about me now.

Fifteen minutes later

It is impossible to get a decent sleep in German – you just drift off and the shouting begins. It’s all Achtung! or Schnell! and Raus raus! and more Spangleferkel! Cor blimey. I was awake now, so I might as well do something. I got the horns out. I nudged Rosie awake and said, “Look at my lap.”

She said, “As I’ve said before, Georgia, you are an attractive girl and everything but I’m just not interested.”

I said, “No, really look. Take a good look. Drink in the sight. The bison horns are back!” I made up a little dance with the horns on either hand.

Rosie said, “Sound out the bells of England – the fun days are back!”

Break

Yes indeedy, even though I am on the rack of luuurve I have the bison horns to comfort me. As we ambled off to Ace Gang Headquarters behind the fives court I said, “Do you know I can feel it in my waters, the bison horns are a symbol of hope. The fact that Slim gave them back is a sign from Baby Jesus, it is the dawn of a new era.”

Ellen said, “What, er, do you… er, do you mean that people will be more spiritual and get back to nature and looking after the earth and…”

Is she mad? I said, “No, what it means is that Masimo will be mine, mine all miney mine mine.”

I said it to the gang, apart from Jas, who I was ignorez-vousing like billio. She was doing reverse ignorez-vousing by pretending to be interested in what Ellen was saying. I said to the others, “In some ways I am looking forward to the autumn term because of course it means the return of the beret. Imagine the scene: a cold morning at Stalag 14, the grey day stretches ahead filled with lesbian perverts and sadistic ‘teachers’; but then up the hill, past the Foxwood lads setting fire to their farts and generally being prats, comes a sight to lift the spirits. Could it be? Is it true? Silhouetted against the sky is an awesome sight. It’s the return of the Ace Gang in winter uniform. Berets proudly worn with bison-horn attachments. Yesssss!”

The gang broke into spontaneous Klingon saluting. Maybe everything is going to be all right.

Two minutes later

When we got to our headquarters, Rosie donned her horns. She strolled up and down just enjoying the magnificence of her own horns. Once we all had them on, I said, “Perhaps this is a good time to repeat the Ace Gang manifesto, because some people who shall remain nameless to save them shame – and that means you, Jas – seem to forget about the Ace Gang when boys turn up.”

Jas didn’t say anything, she just straightened her horns and smoothed down her fringe. In case she was going to have a violent spaz like this morning, I went behind Rosie because my ankle still hurt.

Rosie said, “Yes, one for all and all for one and one for the road and so on.”

Jas was still fiddling about with her fringe, so Rosie put her arms round me and Jas and said, “Let bygones be bygones, shake hands and let the rule of Horn reign.”

Mabs, Jools and Ellen were all looking at us. Mabs said, “One for all and one for the road and all for one.”

I put my hand out first to Jas, which is vair vair nice of me seeing as it was me who was kicked. But that is me all over. Always the first to offer the hand of friendiness.

After a little minute Jas held out her hand. Rosie raised her eyebrows, and the Ace Gang started doing wise (ish) nodding. Rosie said, “Now hug.”

Jas gave me a little hug, and I sort of hugged her back. There was a bit of nunga-nunga contact so I leaped back quickly and said, “Er… group hug, group hug.”

This culminated in a group hug that nearly made my eyes pop out. Jools was so hyped up, she yelled, “One for all and all for one and all in a one for… anyway, hip hip hooray for Merrie England and the Ace Gang!!!”

We finished up with a sailor’s hornpipe (which I have to say was a spontaneous idea of mine, because England is after all a seafaring nation and renowned for its hornpipes).

Then Wet Lindsay and Astonishingly Dim Monica came round the corner, wearing their prefect badges. How uncool is that? Vair vair uncool is the answer. They are always following us about – haven’t they got lives? Lindsay has done something alarming to her head. Her hair has somehow grown a foot over the weekend. (I mean twelve inches; I don’t mean that there was a foot coming out of her head, although there might as well be.) She’s had extensions. What a mistake. They are spectacularly chav and naff. She said, “Aaaah, are you little girls practising games for one of your pyjama parties? Will there be lemonade and biscuits?”

How could Masimo even think of snogging her? Erlack a pongoes. I drew myself up with great dignitosity and adjusted my horns, which had slightly fallen over one eye in the excitement of the hornpipe. “Your hair is looking unusually, er, unusual, Lindsay, if you don’t mind me saying?”

“I mind you saying anything. In fact I mind you breathing.”

The bell rang then for end of break. And she went on: “Get back inside, because if one of you is a minute late, it’s a bad conduct mark for you all.”

Oooooh, fear factor ten. Not. But we all went grumbling and moaning off towards the science block. Lindsay yelled after us. “And take those horns off, you stupid idiots.”

I said, “Charming, what a charming charming person she is. In every single way charming.”

4:15 p.m.

Walking home with Jas and Ro Ro. Jas has even done linkyupsies with me. She can’t stand being unfriends with me, really. Especially as something vair merde and odure has happened.

Ro Ro said, “I can’t believe our horns have been confiscated AGAIN. How crap is life in Stalag 14? Vair vair crap, is the answer. We should write to the newspapers about it. We are almost bound to be drug addicts by the time we are seventeen because of all the trauma.”

I said, “We’d only had them back for two hours. It is so so crap. Once again we are hornless.”

Jas said, “Not only that but we’ve got detention for two nights.”

I said to her, “Have you thought about going to hospitals and cheering people up, Jas? Because if you have, don’t – that’s all I’m saying.”

Rosie said, “When we started the bison dance in blodge, I thought Miss Baldwin was busy looking at Jas’s newt.”

Jas said, “She was. She was very interested in its peculiar markings. Tom said that actually it was the only one of its kind that—”

I said, “Jas, can you shut up now?”

She of course got the immediate hump and said, “It was the stools crashing over that attracted her attention.”

Merde.

Jas went on raving on to me, “And even then I think she might have let us off. But you just had to cheek her.”

What? What? Why was it my fault? I said that to Mrs Prissypants, “Why does the finger of shame always point towards me?”

Jas went rambling on, “Because when she asked you what you were doing, you said that it was a Viking day of celebration. That was when she snapped.”

Booo.

After Jas went home, Rosie and I did a bit of skipping to raise our spirits. I think our skipping days are numbered, though, my nungas are vair heavy. We had to sit down on a bench near the park.

Home

All quiet on the Loon front. I slumped down on the sofa.

Oh God – Tues, Weds, Thurs and all of Friday to go before I know my luuurve fate. Why does he need a week to think about it? Why didn’t he just say, “Of course I want to be your one and only. You are a Sex Kitty of the first water.”

Dave the Laugh would have said that.

One minute later

I miss seeing Dave the Laugh, actually, but I don’t feel I can call him. I still don’t know what he meant about me not getting it about me and him. Get what?

I thought he said we were only young once and we must blow our horns.

Does he mean he only wants to blow my horn?

Oo-er.

No he can’t mean that.

Can he?

Ten minutes later

When Masimo said he would let me know in a week, I wonder if that’s a week boy time or week girl time? If a girl says a week, that’s what she means, but a boy’s week could mean anything. It’s like when I say “s’later” to the Ace Gang, that’s what I mean – see you later. But when a boy says “s’later” it could mean “you’re dumped”.

Twenty minutes later

Oh, this is sooooo boring. I’m going out to the park to practise my pretend confident walking where I have got room to really swing my arms. I’ll see if it works and anyone thinks I’m confident.

Park

Here we are. So, shoulders back, swingy arms, walking, walking and swing, swing. Feet directly in front of me in a straight line. Make my hips go from side to side. This is a well known boy-entrancing movement. Swing, swing, hip, hip. Aaah yes, this is working, I am feeling very confident. Hello, tree, I am vair vair confident. Head up.

And that’s when I saw Dave the Laugh ambling along with his mates. I hadn’t seen him since the “what if we should have really been together” incident. Oh, please let him be normal and not ignorez-vous me. He saw me and looked across the road, just looking, not smiling. Oh no. This was awful. He didn’t want to be my mate any more. I felt a bit like crying.

But then he shouted across, “Ciao, Georgia. Ho due gatti e un maialino!”

I said, “What?”

He shouted, “I thought you luuurved the Pizza-a-gogo language. I thought you loved Italian blokes. You know, all that handbags at dawn, ‘Ooh, have you seen my lovely trousers?’ sort of thing. ‘Ooo, don’t let the rain spoil my hair.’”

Oh dear, he was going to be mean to me and hold a grudge and so on. He was going to be Dave the Unlaugh. But then he smiled at me. He has ever such a nice smiley smile. I was so relieved. I smiled back, and I didn’t even rein in my nostrils, I was so pleased we were friends. He didn’t come over or anything, though, he just went walking on with his mates. Then he called back, “Oy, missus, you don’t know what I said to you in Pizza-a-gogo-ese, do you?”

I said, “Er, yeah.”

And he said, “You don’t.”

“I might.”

“Yeah, you might, but you don’t. I said, ‘I have two cats and a small pig.’”

“That’s a lie.”

He said, “Is it, though?”

What is he on about?

Then he tapped his nose. “See you Friday at the MacUseless rehearsal. Get your pants ready for action!”

Cheeky cat.

Still, he was sort of friendly, so maybe he still likes me. I hope he still likes me.

Two minutes later

I still don’t know what he meant about what if you liked someone and let them go.

Does he really mean me and him?

Is he saying he would like to go out with me as my proper boyfriend?

One minute later

Why would he say he has two cats and a small pig?

Boys are without doubt a complete and utter mystery.

And that is le fact.

Without doubtosity.

Walking up my road

Oscar was outside his house. He was doing keepie-uppie, listening to his personal stereo and casually eating a Mars bar at the same time. He said, “All right?” in what he fondly imagines is a cool way.

But he took his eye off the ball and it went over the wall. He pretended he had meant to do it by falling to his knees and going, “Yesssss!” like he had scored a goal.

What is the matter with boys?

8:00 p.m.

How disgusting is this? Mum said Angus has eaten her tights and that if I see them poking out of his bum-oley, I must pull them out!

I said to her, “Mum, are you so short of tights that you will wear some that have been in Angus’s bum-oley?”

And she said, “No, I just want to strangle him with them.”

She is a vair violent and unreasonable person.

In bed
11:00 p.m.

I am using positive thinking and swinging my arms around a lot as I make up an acceptance speech for when the Luuurve God says he wants to go out with me.

OK, this is my acceptance speech: “Aah, Masimo, what a lovely surprise to see you— Owwww, you furry freak!!!”

That isn’t the speech. Gordy just leaped off the wardrobe and used my head as a landing pad so he didn’t have to hurt his feet leaping straight on to the floor.

Anyway, on with my acceptance speech: “Aah, Masimo, che bella sorpresa! What a nice surprise to see you this…” Hang on, what is Italian for “this evening”? This nightio? That can’t be right – he’ll think I am talking about my jimjams for some reason. I’ll look it up later in my Italian for Complete Fools book. Anyway, on with the acceptance speechio: “Oh, you would like me to be your girlfriend? Well, that would be mucho bello. Grassy arse.”

Short and to the point; I think that is the key.

Tuesday June 21st
7:30 a.m.

Had a dream about Masimo last night, only he wasn’t speaking in a nice Pizza-a-gogo land accent; he was saying things like, “That is well good” and “Shut it, my son”. And most alarmingly he was in a band called the Blunder Boys. I was at the gig and he came over to me and said, “Get your tracksuit top, you’ve pulled.” And as we rode off on his scooter, he started singing, “The Funky Moped” by Jasper Carrot. I’ve woken up in a cold sweat. What can it mean?

Wednesday June 22nd
6:00 p.m.

How long can this torture go on? On one hand the days seem very very long, like creeping along snaily days; on the other hand it’s only a matter of hours until Friday. How many hours exactly? Well, it’s 6:00 p.m. now, so that means plus six tonight and then plus twenty-four for tomorrow, and then… er, well, what time will he phone on Friday? Will he count from the hour he told me he would tell me in a week’s time? I would. It was 5:45 p.m. last Friday when he told me, so a week would be 5:45 p.m. this Friday. But you never know with boys. What if he counts it from when he got home? Would that be 6:15 p. m? Or maybe he didn’t go straight home; maybe he went to the shops and got a few nibbly things, then bumped into someone, so he didn’t actually get home until 8:00 p.m. Oh God.

6:30 p.m.

Phoned Jas in sheer desperadoes.

“Jas, do you think he will phone me or come round?”

“Erm, I dunno.”

“Yeah, but what do you think? What would you do if you were going to tell me whether you wanted to go out with me?”

“Er… but I don’t want to go out with you. I would just tell you. In fact, I am just telling you now.”

“Jas, you are being what is technically known as a fool.”

She of course, classically, immediately for no reason, got the megahump. But I was in no mood for her humps. I said, “What does Tom think?”

She said, “Hang on, I’ll ask him.”

Good grief, are they joined at the hip?

She came back a few mins later and said, “Tom says he will do a bit of detective work and see if he can find out anything.”

I said thanks, but in my heart of hearts I don’t know if letting Radio Jas find out things is the best foot forward. Too late now.

8:30 p.m.

Tom is going to the snooker club tonight and the Stiff Dylans are playing in a tournament there. Ohgoddygodgod.

Midnight

Jas says she will tell me anything she finds out tomorrow because Tom is going to call her first thing. How am I supposed to sleep under these conditions?

Thursday June 23rd
Banging on Jas’s door
7:50 a.m.

Jas’s mum answered the door all washed and dressed normally. And smiling. Crikey. It’s so relaxing and normal round here; no wonder Jas has got a boyfriend and is not on the rack of love all the time. She has been brought up properly, not dragged up by fools like I have.

Jas’s mum said, “Would you like a piece of toast, dear, or maybe a boiled egg?”

A boiled egg!! Wow it was like being in a Famous Five book – the next thing you knew, Jas’s dad would come bounding in with a cheery smile and a newspaper.

One minute later

Jas’s dad came bounding in with a cheery smile and a newspaper. What is even more amazing is that although he smiled at me, he didn’t say anything. Nothing. How cool is that? He didn’t ask me anything or tell me a crap joke, he just went off to read his paper. Like a proper dad. He has probably got a pipe.

One minute later

He HAS got a pipe!!!

And he doesn’t even light it. He just sucks on it in a pleasant way and doesn’t annoy people with smoke, etc.

Amazing.

Walking along to Stalag 14
8:30 a.m.

Waiting for Jas to tell me about the snooker-hall thing. I’m not going to ask her; I have too much pridenosity. She was doing tuneless humming. Very annoying. Then she started talking about MacUseless and her part as Lady Macbeth. Who cares about her? She said, “Have you practised your crying for the bit when Macduff finds out his wife and children have been killed?”

I just looked at her. If she thinks it is me that should practise crying, she’s wrong; it’s her – if she carries on rambling about rubbish for a bit longer.

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