‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’

8:36 a.m.

I am nearly at Jas’s house. I must exude calmnosity and friendlinosity. I must put the egg incident behind me and be nice to Jas – so she will tell me all she knows.

8:40 a.m.

When I got to Jas’s gate it was to see her bottom waggling off in the distance. Of course Eggy had set off. She will still be having the huff with me. I must be at my most charming.

I did my fast walking until I caught up with her, and gave her a lovely smile as I linked up with her. “Hello, Jas, my little chummly-wummly.”

She shook me off. “Don’t hang on to my arm, Georgia, I’m not dragging you up the hill to school just because you are tired.”

“I’m not tired, I am just so glad to see you, you lovely bigpantied loon.”

I chucked her under the chin but she still wasn’t having it. So I stopped and stood in front of her and looked into her eyes. “Jazzy Spazzy, you know I love you.”

She went all red. Some Foxwood lads who had been trailing us uselessly as usual shouted, “Oy, you lezzies, won’t she give you a kiss?”

And another one said, “Can we see your breasts, please?”

Good grief.

Jas started flicking her fringe like a mad thing. “Now look what you’ve started.”

We set off at a spanking space for Stalag 14. As we went along I was doing my special pleading – it’s very touching. “Jas, please forgive me. Did you find out anything? I know you will have done because you are so vair vair clever. And top girl at blodge and, er… everything.”

As we took our coats to the cloakroom she relented a bit. “Well, I did talk to Tom in a casual way, even though you said I couldn’t.”

“Jas, Jas, I knew you could do casualosity big time. Don’t forget I have seen you in your night-time panties, relaxing and at play.”

As the bell rang for assembly I could see the Hitler Youth (prefects) approaching, keen to do a bit of poncing around like prats. I said, “Please, pleasey please tell me what Tom said.”

“Well, he said…”

“Yes, yes?”

“Well, he said… he didn’t know anything.”

“Pardon?”

“Robbie is having a break from farming in Kiwi-a-gogo, but he doesn’t know how long he is staying.”

Is that it? Is that Detective Inspector Jas of Scotland Yard’s idea of finding out stuff? I wanted to kick her shins, but just in the knickers of time remembered that she is my best pally and I gave her my “interested” smile.

Jas was starting to say, “Yes, so I don’t really know if he likes you or not…” when Wet Lindsay slimed up alongside me with Astonishingly Dim Monica as sidekick slug and weed. Wet Lindsay’s hair extensions have been redone. How vair vair chav and naff she is. Having longer hair only draws attention to her lack of forehead and general octopus tendencies.

I forced myself to laugh merrily and look at Wet Lindsay’s forehead as if Jas had told me a good joke about it. Wet Lindsay said to me, “What have you got to laugh about, Nicolson? Have you caught sight of yourself in a mirror?”

Oh, my aching sides! How I laughed. Not. Astonishingly Dim Monica did, though, sniggering and snorting like a fool on fool tablets. I just said, “How very natural your hair looks, Lindsay. It really suits you and brings out all your best features, especially your knees.”

She went a bit red round the earlobes and said, “Prat.”

Charming. Absolutely charming. I said to Jas as we went into the hall, “Charming. Utterly, utterly charming. Who wouldn’t want to go out with her?”

Ace Gang Headquarters

Break

Rosie blew a bubble-gum bubble that exploded all over her nose. Very amusing. She had a big blob hanging off her nose like a huge bogey. She said, “Look how it dangles about. I bet I can swing it round and round in time to some music. Like a snot disco. You lot sing something jolly and I’ll improvise on bogey work.”

Five minutes later

I think despite being slightly singed in the oven of luuurve I may be going to die of laughing. The snot disco dance is officially born. Danced to the tune of Eastenders, it is: Swing your snot to the left, swing to the right. Full turn, shoulder shrugging, now nod to the front, dangle, dangle, hands on shoulders and kick, kick to the right, dangle, dangle, kick, kick to the left, dangle, dangle, and then full snot around and shimmy to the ground.

Excellent in every way.

As we strolled back for an action-packed morning of being bored and depressed I said to the gang, “I bet we could have the snot coming out of our nostrils all through German and Herr Kamyer wouldn’t notice. Or if he does, we could pretend we have really bad colds. Hand over the bubble gum, girls, and get chewing!”

German

It was a triumph, darling, a triumph! We were all translating from our textbooks – what larks! The Koch family were off on another camping trip, taking an enormous amount of food with them, as usual. In our books there are hilariously bad illustrations of the Koch family, drawn by a blind person. Mrs Koch looks vair like Herr Kamyer in a frock. I never get tired of the Kochs. In fact, I am thinking of writing to the author of the textbook (A. Schmidt, no, I’m not joking) and asking where the Kochs live. I want to write a letter to them, thanking them for the endless hours of fun they have given us all.

I put up my hand to ask a pressing Koch question. When Herr Kamyer noticed my hand blowing in the wind he said, “Jah, Georgia?”

“Herr Kamyer, there is a strange-looking thing in one of the pictures of the Kochs. It looks like a very tiny poo on a plate. But that doesn’t seem right.”

Herr Kamyer blinked through his moley glasses. “Ah, bring up ze picture, Georgia, und we will see.”

I quicky attached my bubble-gum bogey as I pretended to sneeze into my hanky, and went up to his desk with the snot rag still covering my nose.

Herr Kamyer didn’t notice. He is so interested in things; it’s tragic, really. He actually seems to believe that we want to learn things. I put the textbook down in front of him at the picture of the Kochs and pointed to the poo on a plate.

“Ach so, Georgia, der spangleferkel… oh jah, I remember ven as a youngen ve vent into the voods camping, we would cook up the spangleferkel and sing our songs around ze campfire. The fun ve had camping. You vould have loved it, girls.”

I still had my hankie out to disguise the bogey when he started humming, “Gif me ze campfire light und komt mit me to der liebe liebe Rhein” and took his glasses off to clean them. Or perhaps he was crying. Who knows? Who cares? Anyway, when he did that I took the opportunity to let the bogey run free and wild. I even did a bit of the bogey dance slightly behind him and managed to get the hanky back in place before he finished. When I walked back to my desk the whole class spontaneously clapped. Herr Kamyer thought it was for his crap camping song and bowed. Quite sensationally German.

Five minutes later

Sadly, Herr Kamyer really thinks we love his camping stories.

He’s going on and on about what they did. How they sang songs and cooked over the campfire.

Twenty minutes later

Swapping notes. Rosie wrote:

Dear fellow loons,

Let us have a scoring system for bogey work. Gee gets 5 points for her excellent letting the bogey run free and wild over Herr Kamyer’s head. Similar acts earn 5 points and the first to get to 20 gets free Jammy Dodgers for life. Well, for a bit, anyway.

Ro Ro, advisor to the stars

xxxxx

Of course there is always a dog in the manger of life. Jas wrote back and said it was silly and childish. Hilarious, really, coming from someone who practically snogs owls.

Ellen was dithering about. Even in her notes. She wrote:

Hi everyone, it’s me,

Erm, about the snot disco, well, you know, I don’t know. Like, er, what if we, er, get into, er, like, trouble? What do you think… or something?

Er… Ellen

xxx

On our way to French

Jas and Ellen have formed their own little breakaway gang and they are living in a snot-free zone. They should grow up.

French

Drat and dratty drat drat! Rosie is catching up pointswise by letting her bogey dangle over Madame Slack’s head as she was checking her homework. We were all trying not to laugh and Madame Slack must have sussed something because she unexpectedly looked up and nearly got the pretend bogey in her eye. As she was looking at Rosie, Rosie casually popped the “snot” into her mouth and started chewing. Madame Slack went ballisticisimus and Rosie has got detention.

4:10 p.m.

Home time for some. As we went by the hall we saw Rosie’s face at the window. She pressed her nose against the pane of glass so that it spread out like a trapped piglet. Vair funny. She mouthed “I love you all” and then disappeared from view.

In my bedroom

6:00 p.m.

Lying on my bed. No phone calls or anything from any of my so-called maybe perhaps boyfriends. I’m all aloney on my owney. Even Dave never rings me these days, not even as a matey-type mate, which he is. And the Swiss Family Mad are out at some sad tea party, wrecking people’s lives with their weird ideas and Dad’s huge bottom.

6:30 p.m.

I may as well go to bed early and get as much beauty sleep as I can. Just in case all my boyfriends come home to roost at once.

I wonder what they are all doing?

Maybe I’ve imagined it all. Maybe Masimo didn’t mean he wanted to be my one and only one. Maybe he just wanted a snog. Or maybe he thinks I still like Robbie and that’s put him off. Maybe he’s right – maybe I do still like Robbie. Maybe… I should just call him.

6:40 p.m.

Boom crash bang. Yowl yowl. Now what?

Then I heard the lovely tones of my father: “Bloody hell, that furry bastard has stuck its claws into my arse.”

How delightful my home life is. It’s practically like living in Pride and Prejudice it’s so elegant. I will pretend to be asleep. Not that anyone cares. I have asked them to respect my privacy, but I bet they—

Ah, yes. My door crashed open.

I said, “Mum, I am asleep, actually.”

Mum said, “Don’t you want your letter then?”

I sat up in bed. “What letter?”

She held out an envelope. “This one. It was on the doormat before you got home from school. I put it in my bag and forgot about it. It must have been hand delivered, because it’s only got your name on it.”

I said, “Quick, give it to me, it is a criminal offence to tamper with Her Maj’s mail.”

“Who do you think it’s from?”

“Er, Father Christmas. Possibly someone from beyond the grave. Mum, I don’t know because you have got it and I therefore have not opened it.”

Ten minutes later

At last she has gone. She hung about a bit hoping I would let her know who it was from, looking at my things and saying meaningless stuff like, “What is my black leather jacket doing in your wardrobe? And my Chanel bag?” Utterly pointless things. Tutting and carrying on like a tutting thing in a tut shop. But I just looked at her until she left.

Five minutes later

I am so nervy that I can’t open the letter. My name is written in capitals so I can’t even recognise the handwriting.

What if it is from Masimo to say that having seen me scamper off at high speed like a prat he has decided he is not a free man for me?

Or what if it is from Robbie, saying that he has always loved me and will I be his?

Or what if it is from Oscar, trainee Blunder Boy, asking me on “a date” to go skateboarding? Or what if it is… Oh, shut up, shut up.

Two minutes later

When you are having a tizz in Nervy B. Central, Call-me-Arnold the vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”

One minute later

I don’t know why, though, because clearly Jesus’s dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in it already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do?

Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It’s a bit like mime, isn’t it? Why do we have to guess what is going on? Why can’t Big G just tell us and get it over with?

Five minutes later

What if the note is from Masimo and it just says, “Arrivederci”?

Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy, Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It is called ‘You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, you make me happy when skies are grey, you’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take your furry face away’.”

Ten minutes later

I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave the Laugh.

Two minutes later

I wish I could phone the Hornmeister up now. This is when his Horn advice would be really good. Things have been a bit weird between us since he started seeing Emma. She’s so nice, it’s depressing.

Maybe that’s why he’s going out with her – because she’s so nice he doesn’t know how to dump her.

Or maybe he likes nice people. Even her hair is nice. And her nose. How annoying is that?

And she’s nice to me.

I hate that.

Ten minutes later

Perhaps I can sort of sense what the words say by looking at the envelope and using my psychedelic powers. I saw some geezer in a frilly shirt on TV who said that we could all tap into our clairvoyant side if we just concentrated.

I am looking at the envelope and concentrating.

Five minutes later

My eyes have gone all blurry. Oh excellent, I am going blind. That’s perfect, isn’t it? Now even if I open the letter I won’t know what it says or who it’s from.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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