‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’

Five minutes later

Ellen, Rosie, Jools, Mabs, Jas and me are all swinging on the swings. Not backwards and forwards like normal people enjoying a day in the park, but sideways so that the Blunder Boys can’t see anything. Life is not easy. The Blunder Boys are in the bushes watching us on the swings. They think we don’t know they are there; it’s pathetic. They are so noisy and keep falling over things and fighting with each other.

Five minutes later

Now the Blunder Boys are lying down on the ground, hoping they might see up our skirts. I can see their beaky eyes blinking under the branches. If they do happen to see our knickers they will think we are doing it on purpose to attract them. Dear God.

One minute later

Just then a Pekingese dog came hurtling by dragging its lead behind it, followed by Angus. Oh no. He loves Pekingese. A LOT. I hope it is a fast runner.

Anyway, I haven’t got the time to worry about everything. If careless people will let their small dogs loll around in parks they are asking for trouble. It’s a cat-eat-dog world.

Twenty minutes later

The general mood of the gang is that I should play it cool until I know what is really going on. Although what Ellen knows about cool I really don’t know. She had a massive ditherspaz trying to describe how Dave the Laugh had said good night to her at the Stiff Dylans gig. Apparently, and I know this because I heard it about a zillion times, “Er, well… then he, well… and I didn’t know what he meant, but then, well, he just said… he just said to me… he said…”

I shouted, “WHAT? What in the name of heaven, Ellen? WHAT, WHAT did he say?”

And I didn’t even want to know; I just wanted to get to the bits about what happened after I left and what did people say about me and so on. But you know what people are like, it’s just me, me, me with them.

Ellen went even more divvyish. Good grief. “He said, ‘Well, good night then, Ellen, never eat anything bigger than your head.’”

I didn’t know what to say.

No one did.

Fifteen minutes later

Anyway, the nub and the gist is that the Ace Gang are useless and don’t know anything more than I do. It seems they all watched me run off like a loon (to catch my train) and then lolloped home. Useless.

However, I decided to forgive them. They are, after all, my besties.

And if I don’t forgive them I will never find out anything. And also never go out again and stay in my house with my parents. So, grasping the bull by its whatsits, I said to the gang, “In order to make a full and frank decision boyfriendwise, I have to know the intentions of the prospective snoggees.”

Ellen said, “Er, what are they? I mean who, what is, like, a snoggee?”

“Ellen, keep up, the prospeccy snoggees are Masimo and Robbie. Masimo said that he was single and free for me, but on the other hand did not come running after me and stop me getting on my train. And Robbie only had time to say hello and then not long after went off with Wet Lindsay. Soooo, did Robbie come to the gig to see me, or does he just want to be friends with me? Why has he come home?”

Rosie said, “Someone must go underground and subtly find out what Robbie’s intentions are. Shall I ask Sven? He could wear his camouflage flares.”

I said, “No.”

Jools said, “What about asking Dave the Laugh to find out?”

Ellen nearly fell over with pleasure. “Oh, yes, well, I mean, I could, well, maybe I could, like, go with him or something. Be, like, his assistant? But maybe that would be, like, too forward or something. What do you think… or something?”

I said, “No, Ellen, it has to be this year, really.”

Jas had gone off into Jasland. She was fiddling with her fringe and I could tell she had Tom and voles on her mind.

I said, “There is someone here, isn’t there, who knows Robbie’s brother quite well, shall we say, and who could use subtlety and casualosity to find out stuff? Isn’t there, Jas?”

Jas looked up like a dog when she heard her own name. “What do you mean? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find out about Robbie by asking Tom a few casual questions.”

Jas said, “Oh, OK. Can we go now?”

“The key word here, Jas, is ‘casualosity’. Casualosity. Can you say that, Jas?”

Jas got into her huffmobile. “I know how to be casual, Georgia.”

“Wrong.”

In bed

5:00 p.m.

I am absolutely full of exhaustosity. How difficult can it be to be casual? We coached Jas for four hours. It was like talking to a lemming in a skirt.

First of all, we tried it her way. Always a mistake in my humble (but right) opinion. Her idea of casualosity essentially means that she says: “Does Robbie fancy Georgia? Or is he normal?”

I had to use clevernosity to get Jas to do what I wanted in the end. I said, “I’ve got an idea. You know how good you were as Lady MacUseless and everything, Jas?”

Jas said, “Yes, it took quite a lot out of me, actually. Do you remember the bit when I had the dagger and…”

Oh no, three million years were going to go by while she relived her big moments in the school play.

I interrupted her by hugging her so hard that her head was buried in my armpit and said, “Yes, yes, now this is my idea.”

I asked her to act out what she was going to do in an improvised scene, like in drama. She loves that sort of thing as she is such a teacher’s bum-oley kisser.

Rosie volunteered to be Tom. She said, “I’ve got the legs for it.”

Incidentally I’m a bit worried that she was able to whip out a false beard from her rucky. I said that to her, I said, “Rosie, do you carry a beard around with you at all times?”

And she said, “Well, you never know.”

The Viking bride-to-be gets madder and madder. We are definitely entering the Valley of the Unwell.

Anyway, Jas was mincing around like a mincing thing, warming up, flicking her fringe at Tom (or Rosie in a beard, as we know him). It was incredibly irritating. I was on the edge of a mega nervy b. and supertizz as it was. I said, “Jas what in the name of arse are you doing?”

And she said huffily, “I am getting into character.”

I said, “But you are being you.”

She looked at me like I had fallen out of her nose. “I am finding the inner me.”

Good grief. Her “inner me” is bound to be an owl.

Eventually she was ready and came pratting girlishly up to Rosie and twittered, “Oh, Tom, I found some vole spore down by the woods.”

Tom/Rosie said (in a French accent, for no apparent reason – it must be the beard), “Ah, did you, my liddle pussycat? Would you like to, how you say… kiss my beard?”

Jas actually blushed and said, “Well, you know I would, Tom… but maybe, you know, in private, not in front of everyone.”

I had to put a stop to this. It was like watching some pervy film, like Two Go Mad in Bearded Lezzie Land. I said, “Will you get on with it?”

Jas predictably lost her rag immediately over the slightest thing and said, “I was just getting in the mood, actually, and anyway this is stupid, practising to be casual. I know how to be casual.”

I said, “Well, why don’t you BE casual then?”

She gave me her worst look, but eventually after Mabs gave her a Midget Gem they started again. Jas said to Rosie, who now had a pipe, “Tommy-wommy?”

“Oui.”

“Well, I was just, you know, thinking about Robbie. It’s nice he’s back, isn’t it?”

“Mais oui – très très magnifique.”

It was pointless objecting about the Froggyland language, especially as Ro Ro was now plaiting her beard.

Jazzy said, “Did he come back, you know, because he missed England and his mates? Do you think he will join the Stiff Dylans again?”

I looked at Jas in amazement. She had asked an almost good question in a quite subtle way and not mentioned me. Blimey.

And it only took four-and-a-half hours of torture. We had to leave it there because Sven came along yodelling through the trees (no, I am not kidding).

5:30 p.m.

When would be a good time to call Radio Jas? Surely she must have had time to talk to Tom by now? I should exercise discipline and patience, of course.

5:31 p.m.

Phoned Jas.

“Jas.”

“What?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, well, this is me, too.”

“Jas, don’t start.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Good.”

And I put the phone down. That will teach her.

Two minutes later

“Jas, what have you found out?”

“I’ve found out that I am having scrambly eggs for tea. Byeeee.”

And she put the phone down.

Damn.

I have my pride, thank goodness. No one can take that away from me. I won’t be bothering Jas again, not while she is so busy stuffing her gob with eggy.

6:00 p.m.

This is torture but I will never give in. Never, never. The Eggy One will never get the better of me.

6:10 p.m.

Phoned Rosie. I’ll get her to phone Eggy and casually ask her, but not on my behalf.

6:20 p.m.

Rosie is out with Sven at the “pictures”, her mum says. Oh yeah, as if. And the film they are watching is, Number Seven on the Snogging Scale.

I daren’t ask Ellen, Jools or Mabs to phone Jas as they are bound to spill the beans to Eggy. The tragedy is that all three of them are such crap liars; it’s a curse, really.

7:30 p.m.

She is soooooo annoying. She will never phone me if she has got the hump.

7:35 p.m.

Masimo hasn’t called or anything. Maybe he really does think I am insane. Or maybe he thinks I caught the train from the shopping centre and have gone away for a few days. In which case he is insane.

If I have an early night I can do skincare – cleanse and tone, and get everything ready for tomorrow just in case I have a chance encounter with one of my many maybe boyfriends on the way to Stalag 14.

8:15 p.m.

Blimey, I look about two and a half, I am so shiny faced and clean. Also, I am nice and baldy everywhere, except on my head, of course. I do not want to have an Uncle Eddie hairstyle.

Actually, my hair is a bit of a boring colour. It hasn’t got je ne sais quoi and umph.

Bathroom

Five minutes later

Ahaha, Mum has got some hair dye. Warm chocolate. That would be nice and groovy. I could just put a couple of streaks in the front, like highlights, or is it lowlights? Hi, lo – it’s lights anyway, which is all that counts.

Got the dye and went into the front room. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t. Mum and Dad were all over each other on the sofa watching some old film with crying in it and blokes in tights and an Uncle Eddie bloke in a frock. Mum said, “Come and watch Robin Hood. It’s good.”

I said, “Mum, I’m just going to use your hair dye for a bit.”

“No.”

“Er, Mum, I think you are being a bit negative.”

“No.”

“But I—”

“No.”

“Look at the colour of my hair! It’s crap. I might as well be the Invisible Mouse.”

“No.”

“But I…”

Then Vati joined in. “Georgia, no, no, no, and thrice no. And also no.”

“Vati, I am not asking you, actually, I am asking my dear dear mum about her hair dye.”

“It’s not her hair dye, it’s mine.”

What??? What fresh hell? HIS hair dye? My vati, not content with growing small badgers on his chin and wearing leather trousers and having a clown car, was now trying to be Lady Cliff Richard. Or Lady Paul McCartney.

“Please say you are not serious.”

Vati said, “I am very serious. I am a man in his prime, as your mother knows.” And he did that disgusting thing of grabbing one of her nungas, squeezing it, and going, “Honk honk!!!”

Mum didn’t even hit him, she just went all girlie and said, “Stop it, you big boy.”

Vati was still in Madland, however, and said, “Yes, I thought I’d get down with the youth, you know, dye my hair, get the old leathers on and maybe check out a few clubs. Which one would you recommend?”

I nearly fainted. Imagine bumping into my dad and his sad mates down at the Buddha Lounge!!! Any chance I had of having a Sex God or a Luuurve God or even Spotty Norman would be well and truly up the pictures without a paddle. My dad’s impression of Mick Jagger dancing could reduce people to tears – and not of admiration.

In the kitchen

9:00 p.m.

I must have toast to calm down.

I was buttering it when my mad little sister Libby popped her head out of the airing cupboard. “Heggo, Ginger. Come in my nest. Now.”

I looked up at her. “Libbs, I’m too big for it.”

“No.”

“Yes, I am.”

Her face went all frowny and she started snorting and tutting like she has heard Mum do. I wasn’t liking this. The frowny face is not one I like to see because usually I am in agonising pain seconds later.

However, this time it wasn’t my turn to suffer. Libby disappeared into her “nest” and then scuba-diving Barbie came flying out, quickly followed by Mr Potato, Pantalitzer doll (well, the head) and finally, after a lot of panting and heaving and squealing, Gordy came hurtling through the air. He came to a skidding halt on the dish rack and then did that shivering thing before he hurled himself through the cat flap.

Libby popped her head out again and smiled in a terrifying way. “Come on, Gingey… it’s naaaaaice.”

Oh dear God. Still, what else was I doing this fine evening that I couldn’t squeeze into an airing cupboard with my clearly insane sister? She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I lobe you velly times twice.”

Aahhh. At least she “lobes” me, unlike my so-called bestie Jas, who is dead girl to me now that she can’t even perform the slightest task.

Five minutes later

Sitting in the dark little cupboard, I had to bend double with my knees practically up my nose. Libby had snacks in there, which was nice if you like bits of banana covered in fluff.

11:00 p.m.

Libby was only persuaded out of her “nest” by Mum saying she could sleep in my bed. Thanks, Mum.

For a little girl Bibbs is very full of gas. Her farts are like gunshots and sooo smelly. If anyone lit a match we would all be blown to kingdom come. And back. And there would still be some fart left over to cook on for the rest of the year.

11:20 p.m.

And the snoring. It’s like comedy snoring except that I’m not laughing.

11:25 p.m.

Tried to shove Libby over on to her side to stop her snoring and got a smack around the head for my trouble. She is even violent when she is unconscious.

11:30 p.m.

I wonder what Robbie really came home for? I can’t believe it was to see Wet Lindsay. Surely Tom would have told me if he knew that Robbie fancied her. I bet she has been writing to him, pretending to be a nice person. How could he fancy her? Still, facts have to be faced, he did actually go out with her once before he started seeing me. And they must have been doing something in those months. They weren’t talking about her ludicrous forehead.

He must have snogged her. If he went out with her for three months that is a lot of snogging opportunities. And she is bound to have been puckering up pretty much nonstop because she has no pridenosity. I wonder what number on the snogging scale they got to?

Five minutes later

Not number seven (upper-body fondling), clearly, otherwise her false nungas would have made a surprise appearance. Maybe that is what happened!!!

I wish.

Anyway, I don’t want her nungas in my head. Get out.

Two minutes later

Does he like me or not?

One minute later

Do I like him or not?

11:40 p.m.

Hang on a minute, I’ve just realised something. I am on the rack of love again. How did this happen?

Well, I’m not dangling about up here any more. I say no, no, no, and thrice no to the rack. I am a free woman. That woman Emily Plankton chained herself to a policeman and chucked herself under a horse and so on so that I could vote. I must not let her down.

11:50 p.m.

Although it does seem a bit over the top to chuck yourself in front of a horse so that you get to vote.

One minute later

Especially as in fact she was dead, so she couldn’t vote anyway.

Two minutes later

And neither can I.

Like I have always said, history is crap.

Midnight

On the other foot, Masimo said, “Now I is a free man.” And that means he wants to go out with me. So that is that. I have been to the bakery of love and I have got an Italian cakey.

Five minutes later

But I might also have an éclair called Robbie, in case I’m peckish and the Italian cakey isn’t filling enough.

Five minutes later

Some people, naming no names (but Jas) will probably say I’m greedy. But I’m not. I am just having a choice. I am not sad like Jas, who only stays with one boyfriend because she has no special talents. Other than an unerring eye for a crap owl, or being able to spot a vole at a hundred yards. Or having the largest knicker collection in the northern hemisphere. And being the biggest and most annoying twit on the planet.

Two minutes later

Yes, the Good Lord has been kind enough to give me a couple of special gifts.

One minute later

Oh, that was a bit freaky-deaky, I had Dave the Laugh’s voice in my head when I said “a couple of special gifts”. And his voice said, “Ah, yes… the nunga-nungas.” He is even rude when I make him up in my head. That is very rude indeed. It is rudey-dudey in absentia, as we say in Latin.

Every time I think about Dave the Laugh it makes me laugh. I’ve just remembered him (accidentally) switching all the lights off during MacUseless and the entire Forest of Dunsinane falling off the stage. God, it was funny.

One minute later

And his vair amusing “pants” thing – as in the famous song “The Hills are Alive with the Sound of PANTS”.

Two minutes later

And when he put a FOR SALE sign on his school’s roof – tee hee hee.

One minute later

Oy, shut up, brain! This is a Dave-the-Laugh-free zone!

Five minutes later

If I do decide on the Luuurve God, it will serve Robbie right. He will just have to check into Heartbreak Hotel, like I had to when he dumped me. He should ask for the sobbing suite.

12:30 a.m.

I have never had to check into Heartbreak Hotel because of the Luuurve God. Except, I suppose, I thought I might have to make a booking when he said he would tell me in a week’s time if he was going to be my one and only one.

12:40 a.m.

But that was then, and now he has said, “I am for you if you want?” Which is vair vair good.

12:45 a.m.

Good night, Luuurve God.

12:50 a.m.

I hope he doesn’t think it’s odd that I had to catch a train from near the shopping centre.

At midnight.

When there isn’t a train station there.

1:00 a.m.

To be fair, I haven’t really given Robbie much of a chance. Maybe I should at least talk to him before I, you know, choose my cake.

1:10 a.m.

I don’t suppose they would both consider a time-share girlfriend…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Snot disco dancing

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 Luuurve 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 while 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 easy-going 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.