‘Stop in the name of pants!’

Even if she is not there, I bet he and his mates will be roaring round Rome on their scooters smiling at all the girls in their red bikinis or whatever it is they wear there.

Probably nothing. They probably go to work in the nuddy-pants because they are wild and free Pizza-a-gogo types. They don’t have inhibitions like us, they just thrust their nungas forward proudly and untamed. Probably.

In my bedroom looking in the mirror

The only thing that is really thrusting itself forward proudly is my nose. Even Dave mentioned it.

One minute later

Perhaps it has grown bigger and bigger in Masimo’s imagination in the week he has been away. He hasn’t even got a photo of me to remind him that I am more than just a nose on legs.

Five minutes later

Perhaps because he is foreign he is a bit psychic. Perhaps he has a touch of the Mystic Meg about him and he knows about the Dave the Laugh incident.

One minute later

Jas has probably sent a message via an owl to let him know. Just because she has got the hump with me. AGAIN. About the stupid tent business.

Lying on my bed of pain

8:00 p.m.

And I mean that quite literally because my cat Angus (also known as a killing machine) is pretending my foot is a rabbit. In a sock. If I even move it slightly, he leaps on it and starts biting it.

Also, ouch and double ouch. I can’t get into a comfy position to take the pressure off my bum-oley. I think I may have actually broken something in my bottom. I don’t know what there is to break, but I may have broken it. I wonder if it is swollen up?

Then I heard the phut phut of the mighty throbbing engine that is my vati’s crap car. Carefully easing my broken bottom off the bed and slapping at Angus, I went downstairs. Angus was still clinging to my sock-rabbit-foot even though his head was bonking against the stairs.

As I got to the hall I heard the front door being kicked. Oh good, it was my delightful little sister.

“Gingey, Gingey, let me in!!! Let me in, poo sister.”

Then there was squealing, like a pig was being pushed through the letter box.

Thirty seconds later

It wasn’t a pig being pushed through the letter box, it was Gordy, cross-eyed son of Angus. I could see his ginger ears poking through.

Oh, bloody hell.

I said, “Libby, don’t put Gordy though the letter box. I’m opening the door.”

She yelled, “He laaikes it.”

When I got the door open, it was to find Libby in Wellington boots and a bikini. Gordy was struggling and yowling in her little fat arms and finally squirmed free and leaped off into the garden sneezing and shaking.

Libby was laughing. “Funny pussy. Hnk hnk.” Then she came up to me and started hugging my knees and kissing them. In between snogging, Libby was murmuring, “I lobe my Gingey.”

Mutti came up the steps in a really short dress, very tight round the nungas. So very sad. She gave me a hug, which can be quite frightening seeing her enormous basoomas looming towards your head. She said, “Hello, Gee, did you have a larf camping?”

I said, “Oh yes, it was brillopads. We made instruments out of dried beans and Herr Kamyer did impressions of crap stuff with his hands that no one could get except Jas. And, as a pièce de résistance, I fell in a pond and was attacked by great toasted newts.”

She wasn’t even listening as usual, off in her own Muttiland.

“We went to see Uncle Eddie’s gig at The Ambassador last night. It was like an orgy; one of the women got so carried away she stole his feather codpiece.”

Is that really the sort of thing a growing, sensitive girl should have to listen to? It was like earporn.

One minute later

I watched her bustling about making our delicious supper (i.e. opening a tin of tomato soup). She was so full of herself burbling on and on.

“Honestly, you should have been there, it was a hoot.”

I said, “Oooooooh yeah, it would have been great to have been there. Really great.” But she didn’t get it.

Libby was still kissing my knees and giggling. She had forgotten that they were my knees; they were now just her replacement friends for Josh. But then she had a lovers’ tiff with her knee-friends, biffed me on the knee quite hard and went off into the garden, yelling for Gordy.

I said, “Mum, you didn’t take Libby with you to the baldy-o-gram fiasco, did you?”

“Don’t be silly, Georgia, I’m not a complete fool.”

I said, “Well, actually, you are as it happens.”

She said, “Don’t be so rude.”

I said, “Where’s Dad? Have you managed to shake him off at last?”

And then Vati came in. In his leather trousers. Oh, I might be sick. Not content with the horrificnosity of the trousers, he kissed me on my hair. Urgh, he had touched my hair; now I would have to wash it.

He was grinning like a loon and taking his jacket off.

“Hello, no camping injuries then. No vole bites. You didn’t slip into a newt pond or anything?”

I looked at him suspiciously. I hoped he wasn’t turning into Mystic Meg as well in his old age. I said, “Dad, are you wearing a woman’s blouse?”

He went completely ballisticisimus. “Don’t be so bloody cheeky! This is an original sixties Mod shirt. I will probably wear it when I go clubbing. Any gigs coming up?”

Mum said, “Have you heard anything from the Italian Stallion?”

Dad had his head in the fridge and I could see his enormous leather-clad bum leering at me. I had an overwhelming urge to kick it, but I wasn’t whelmed because I knew he would probably ban me from going out for life.

I gave Mum my worst look and nodded over at the fridge. I needn’t have worried, though, because Dad had found a Popsicle in the freezer and was as thrilled as it is possible for a fat bloke in constraining leather trousers to be. He went chomping off into the front room.

Mum was adjusting her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and looking at me.

I said, “What?”

And she said, “So… have you heard anything?”

I don’t know why I told her, but it just came tumbling out.

“Mum, why do boys do that ‘see you later’ thing and then just not see you later? Even though you don’t even know when later is.”

“He hasn’t got in touch then?”

“No.”

She sat down and looked thoughtful, which was a bit alarming. She said slowly, “Hmm – well, I think it’s because – they’re like sort of nervous gazelles in trousers, aren’t they?”

I looked at her. “Mum, are you saying that Masimo is a leaping furry animal who also plays in a band and rides a scooter? And snogs?”

She said, “He snogs, does he?”

Damn, drat, damnity dratty damn. And also merde. I had broken my rule about never speaking about snognosity questions with old mad people.

I said quickly, “Anyway, what do you mean about the gazelle business?”

“Well, I think that boys are more nervous than you think. He wants to make sure that you like him before he makes a big deal about it. How many days is it since he went?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been counting the days actually, I’m not that sad.”

She looked at me. “How many hours then?”

“One hundred and forty.”

We were interrupted by Gordy and Angus both trying to get through the cat flap at once. Quickly followed by Libby.

In my bedroom

8:45 p.m.

I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs because he hasn’t taken the rubbish out. And never does. On and on.

I will never behave like this when I am married. Mind you, I will not be marrying a loon in tight trousers who thinks Rolf Harris is a really good artist.

Who will I be marrying at this rate? I haven’t been out of my room for years and the phone hasn’t rung since it was invented.

Why is no one phoning me? Not even the Ace Gang. I’ve been home for hours and hours. Don’t they care?

The trouble with today is that everyone is so obsessed with themselves. They just have no time for me.

Five minutes later

At last, a bit of peace to contemplate my broken bum. Oh no, here they go again. They are so childish. Mum shouted out, “Bob, you know that sort of wooden thing in the bedroom, in the corner? Well, it’s called a set of drawers and some people, people who are grown up and no longer have their mummy wiping their botties, well those sort of people put their clothes in the drawers. So that other people don’t have to spend their precious time falling over knickers and so on.”

Uh-oh. Fight, fight!!

Then I could hear him shambling into their bedroom and singing, “One little sock in the drawer, two socks in the drawer and two pairs of attractive undercrackers on the head then into the drawer, yesssss!!”

How amazing. I shouted down, “Mum, is Dad on some kind of medication? Or have his trousers cut off the circulation to his head?”

That did it. Vati hit number seven on the losing it scale (complete ditherspaz). He yelled up, “Georgia… this isn’t anything to do with you!”

I said, “Oh, that’s nice. I thought we were supposed to be a lovely family and do stuff together.”

He just said, “Anyway, where is your sister? Is she up there with you?”

Why am I Libby’s so-called nanny? Haven’t I got enough trouble with my own life? I am not my sister’s keeper, as Baby Jesus said. Or was it Robin Hood? I don’t know. Some bloke in a skirt anyway.

I said, “No. Have you tried the airing cupboard or the cat basket?”

Five minutes later

Things have got worse. While Mum went hunting for Bibbsy, Dad unfortunately decided to check the phone messages. He heard Mum’s mate’s message. I could hear him tutting. And then it was Josh’s mum’s message.

He had the nervy spaz of all nervy spazzes, shouting and carrying on. “What is it with this family??? Why did Libby have a bread knife in her bedroom? Probably because you are too busy pratting around with your so-called mates to bother looking after your children!”

That did it for Mum. She shouted back, “How dare you! They’re MY children, are they? If you took some notice of them, that would be a miracle. You care more about that ridiculous bloody three-wheeled clown car.”

Mum had called his car a clown car. Tee-hee.

Dad had really lost it. “That car is an antique.”

I shouted, “It’s not the only one.”

Mum laughed, but Dad said, “Right, that’s it, I’m off. Don’t wait up.”

Mum shouted, “Don’t worry, I won’t.” The door slammed and there was silence.

Then there was the sound of the clown car being driven off at high speed (two miles an hour) down the driveway.

And silence again as it whirred away into the distance.

Then a little voice said, “Mummy, my bottom is stuck in the bucket.”

9:30 p.m.

Dear God, what a nightmare. This has taken my mind off the oven of luuurve situation.

Libby has wedged herself into the outdoor metal bucket. We pulled her and wiggled her about but we can’t get it off.

Mum said, “Go and get me some butter from the fridge. We can smear it on her and sort of slide her out.”

Of course, we didn’t have any butter; we had about a teaspoon of cottage cheese but Mum said it wasn’t the same.

Twenty-five minutes later

In the end Mum made me go across the road and ask Mr Across the Road if we could borrow some butter. She said I could lie better.

Mr Across the Road was wearing a short nightshirt and I kept not looking anywhere below his chin. He was all nosey about the late-night butter scenario though.

“Doing a bit of baking, are you?”

I said, “Er… yes.”

“It’s a bit late to start, isn’t it?”

I said, “Er, well, it’s emergency baking. It has to be done by tomorrow.”

He said, “Oh, what are you making?”

How the hell did I know? I was lying. And also the only kind of confectionery I knew were the cakes I had got from the bakery of love. The Robbie éclair, the Masimo cream horn and then I remembered the Dave the Tart scenario and quickly said, “Erm, we’re making tarts. For the deaf. It’s for charity.”

He said, “Tarts for the deaf? That’s a new one on me. I’ll have to go down to the storeroom for some packets.” And he ambled off.

And that is when Junior Blunder Boy and full-time twit came in. Oscar.

He looked at me and said, “Yo, wa’appen, bitch?”

What was he talking about and also what was he wearing? He had massive jeans on about fifty sizes too big for him. He had to sort of waddle about like a useless duck to keep them from falling down. And pull them up every five seconds. How spectacularly naff and sad he was. I just looked at him as he waddled over to the kitchen counter. He reached up to get a can of Coca-Cola from a shelf and momentarily forgot about his elephant jeans. They fell to his ankles. Leaving him standing there in his Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers.

I said to him, “Oscar, you are wearing Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers. I know this because, believe it or not, your trousers have fallen off.”

He said, “Yes man, me mean to do that. Be cool, it is righteous.” And he shuffled off, still with the trousers round his ankles.

I will never, ever tire of the sheer bonkerosity of boydom.

11:00 p.m.

It took us nearly half an hour to get Mr Bucket off Libby. We greased as much of her bottom as we could reach, like a little suckling pig. Eventually we cut through the top of her panties and managed to make a bit of leeway and free the bum-oley.

For some toddlers, being greased up and pulled by brute force out of a metal bucket might have been a traumatic experience. But then not all toddlers are insane. Libby laughed and sang through the whole episode, amusing herself by gobbling stray bits of butter and smearing other bits on my head. Oh, how I joined in the merry times. Not.

In addition, Gordy and Angus lolloped in to lick at the leftover butter on her botty. Soooo disgusting. Libby was shouting, “They is ticklin me!!! Heggy heggy ho!!!”

Back in bed

It is like the botty casualty department in here. My bottom, which I have had no time to attend to, is being supported by Libby’s swimming ring and I have a buttered-up child rammed in next to me.

Also, have I got a boyfriend or not?

Midnight

And I am still thinking about the Dave the Laugh accidental snogging in the forest incident.

12:10 a.m.

Perhaps this is God’s little way of saying, “She who lives by the red bottom gets to lie in a rubber ring.”

Once more into the huffmobile

Monday August 1st

8:00 a.m.

Oww oww and double owww!! I think my botty has taken a turn for the worse. I wonder if it is swollen up?

Looking in the mirror

It does look a bit on the swollen side. Oh marvellous. I will have to ask Jas if I can borrow some of her enormous winter pants. She will have got them out of her winter store by now. She starts ironing her school pants about a month before we are forced back to Stalag 14. Which reminds me, we only have about four weeks of holiday left. Sacré bleu and merde.

Libby has already scarpered off to get ready for nursery, so I can just have a little dolly daydream about snogging the Luuurve God. If I make a mental picture of us snogging, I might attract him to me through the psychic ethery stuff.

Ten minutes later

I can hear the postman coming up the drive. Ah, the postie. It’s a lovely job being a postie; you see it in all ye olde films that ye olde parents watch. Mr Postie coming up the drive with a cheery whistle and a handful of exciting letters for the family. A “Good morning, ma’am” to the mistress of the house and then—

“I’ve got a bloody stick, you furry freak, and I’m not afraid to use it!!!”

Charming. Utterly, utterly charming.

I looked out of the window. Angus was sitting on the dustbin showing off to Naomi, his mad Burmese girlfriend and slag, by taunting the postie – hissing and doing pretend biffing, sticking his claws in and out. The postie had to get by the dustbin to get to the door and he was waving a big stick about in Angus’s direction. Angus loves a stick. The larger the better. He lay down and started purring so loudly I could hear it in my bedroom. I don’t know why he loves sticks so much, but he does. Almost as much as he loves cars.

He thinks cars are like giant stupid mice on wheels. That he can chase after.

He brought a stick home the other day that was so big, it took him half an hour to figure out how to get it through the cat flap. He did it, though, because he is top cat.

Two minutes later

It was the same with the ginormous dead pigeon. Angus backed his way through the cat flap dragging the feet first, and then Gordy heave-hoed the head bit through.

It was an amazing double act. Father and son were very impressed with themselves. Although slightly covered in feathers. They even arranged the pigeon so that it was looking towards the door and propped up so Mum could get the full benefit when she came in.

She did get the full benefit and went ballistic, jumping on a chair and screaming etc. Angus and Gordy and the dead pigeon all looked at her.

“Bloody murdering furry thugs!!!” she yelled.

I said, “Look, you are really hurting their feelings.”

And then she threw the washing-up bowl at me. That is the kind of mothering I have to put up with.

One minute later

The postie has bravely got past Angus and disappeared from view as he posts our letters through the letter box. Angus has disappeared as well. Oh, I know what he is doing!

He is doing his vair vair amusing trick of lurking in the top of the hedge to leap down on the postie’s head as he passes by. Tee-hee. Happy days. I wish I was a cat. At least I would get fed now and again.

I wouldn’t be quite so keen on all the bum-oley licking. Although as mine is so swollen now, it would probably be easier to reach.

Mum yelled up, “Gee, come down and have brekkie and say goodbye to your family.”

I said, “Have I still got one? I thought that Father had left us and would never be back. That is what he promised.”

Dad yelled up, “You think you are so bloody funny, but you won’t when I don’t give you your ten-quid pocket money. Nothing to spend on your eyeliner or nit cream or whatever else it is that you plaster yourself with.”

Nit cream? Has he finally snapped?

Mum said, “Stop it, you two. Oooh look, here is a foreign postcard addressed to Georgia – I wonder who it’s from?”

Oh my giddy god’s pyjamas!!! I leaped downstairs, putting the pain of my bottom behind me. Tee-hee. Oh brilliant, my brain has gone into hysterical clown mode.

Thirty seconds later

Dad had the postcard in his hand and was reading it!!! Noooooo!

He was saying in a really crap Pizza-a-gogo accent, “Ciao, Georgia, it is smee.”

I tried to get the postcard from him. “Dad, that is private property addressed to me. If it doesn’t say ‘to some mad fat bloke’, it isn’t yours.”

Dad just went on reading it. “I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family.”

Finally I ripped it out of his hand and took it upstairs.

Mum said, “You are mean, Bob. You know what she is like.”

Dad said, “Yes, I do. She’s insane like all the other bloody women in this family. Hang on a minute… what the hell happened to my car-washing bucket?”

Mum said, “We had to hit it with a hammer in the end. Libby got her bottom stuck in it.”

Dad said, “I rest my case.”

In my room

Oh God, I am sooooo excited, my eyes have gone cross-eyed. What does it say?

Twenty seconds later

Ciao, Georgia,

It is smee. I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family. I am hot. (You don’t have to tell me that, mate.) I am playing fun. Are you playing fun? I miss I you me.

I call on the telefono on Tuesday for you. Ciao, bellissima, Masimo xxx

An hour later

After about three thousand years and a half, the Swiss Family Mad all crashed off to ruin other people’s lives and I could get on the old blower.

I nearly dialled Wise Woman of the Forest before I remembered that she had practically called me the Whore of Babylon. She is so full of suspicionosity. And annoyingnosity. How dare she suggest in front of everyone that I had been up to hanky-panky and rudey-dudeys with Dave the Laugh? She knows very well that I am going out with a Luuurve God. Who is a) hot and b) playing fun.

What in the name of arse does “playing fun” mean?

I must consult with my gang.

But not her.

I am ignorez-vousing her with a firm hand and it serves her right. I hope she realises that I am ignorez-vousing her, otherwise it’s all a bit pointless.

Two minutes later

I may have to call her and let her know I am ignorez-vousing her, as she can be a bit on the dense side.

Phoned Jas.

Her mum answered. “Hello, Georgia. Gosh, you had a fabulous time camping, didn’t you? Jas said you sang and played games till all hours.”

I said, “Er yes…”

“You had a great time, I bet.”

“Er yes, it was very, erm, campey.”

“Good. I’ll just call Jas, dear. I think she’s in her bedroom dusting and rearranging her owls and so on.”

You couldn’t really write it, could you? If I wrote a book and I said: “I’ve got a mate who dusts her collection of stuffed owls and follows greater toasted newts about,” people would say: “I’m not reading that sort of stupid exaggeration. Next thing you know, someone will say they went to a party dressed as a stuffed olive. Or accidentally snogged three boyfriends at once.” Hang on a minute, everything has gone a bit déjà vu-ish.

Jas came on the phone. “Yes.”