‘… then he ate my boy entrancers.’

The staring campaign continues!

And she doesn’t know I am off to America to a Snog Fest with the Luuurve God.

I said to Rosie as we ambled off to the Science block, “He probably only took her to Late and Live because he is in the European Union for the preservation of rare species.”

Rosie said, “What? The ‘No Forehead Stick-insect Fighting Fund’?”

“Absolutemento mon pally.”

We are indeed vair vair amusant.

Blodge

Miss Baldwin has got gigantic basoomas. Even bigger than my mutti’s, and that is saying something. I was very much afraid that she would set fire to them with the Bunsen burner. Sadly there was no basooma incendiary action, so I couldn’t use the foam extinguisher, which would have topped the lesson off in my humble opinion.

On the knicker toaster Break

I told the Ace Gang about Operation Go to Hamburger-a-gogo Land. They were, as usual, agog as two gogs. Three gogs in Ellen’s case. Thank the Lord she seems to have dropped her infectious laugh. I was going to have to kill her if she kept it up.

As we crunched through our nutritious snacks of cheesy Wotsits and chuddie, I said, “It is going to be marv, as I said to Jas – even though she didn’t get it – we will be like the Thelma and Louise of England.”

Rosie said, “But you won’t have a gun.”

“I might do.”

“No, you won’t. Your dad won’t let you go to an all-nighter, so he is definitely not going to get you a gun.”

“He is. He said I could have one when I got there.”

Rosie just looked at me.

“Just a small one for emergency shooting.”

They all just looked at me.

Ellen said (annoyingly), “Where…er…where is Masimo? I mean where is he going to be in America?”

I said, “Well, you know, near where we are going to be.”

She went on in her vague, dumped-by-Dave-the-Laugh way. “Yes, but I mean, well…where are you going to be?”

I said, “At the clown-car convention in America.”

Rosie blew a big gob-stopper bubble and then sucked it back in again. Then she put her face right up close to mine and said slowly, “Yes, but Georgia, where is the clown-car convention?”

“Memphis.”

“And where is that?”

I laughed and said, “Good grief, I thought I was bad at geoggers. Don’t you know?”

“YOU don’t know, do you?”

“Of course I do. It’s…down…a…bit from New York.”

“Down a bit from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Like you thought Hamburg was famous for its hamburgers?”

What had Rosie turned into? Memo the Memory Man? Honestly, just because I had been secretly exfoliating my legs under the desk in geoggers when we were doing the Rhine, and Miss Simpson sprang a surprise question on me…

I changed the subject. “So, what do you think I should pack for my trip?”

Jools said, “Well, not knickers, because they don’t wear them there.”

I said, “Wow, saucy minxes! You mean they go round in the nuddy-pants? They don’t mention that in geoggers, do they? It’s all boring stuff about wheat belts and the Atlantic drift.”

Jools said, “Panties.”

I said, “Oy, clear off with your panties talk. You are a nicelooking girl and everything, but I am just not interested.”

Jools said, “No, that’s what the Hamburgese wear.”

The bell went.

Donner and Blitzen! How am I supposed to discuss my wardrobe if we keep having to go to lessons?

Oh, hang on though, it’s German next, so that’s OK. We can discuss it then without being disturbed.

German

Herr Kamyer was, as usual, rambling on about the Koch family going on one of their endless camping trips.

Keeping in mind that Koch is pronounced ‘cock’, and keeping in mind that they are the family that star in our German textbooks, you have to ask yourself this: what sadist decided to feature a family called Koch in our textbooks? They know that they are going to be read out by the naff and the sad (German teachers) to a load of giggling and hysterical girls obsessed with boys and rudey-dudeyness. The family could have been called anything, couldn’t they? Schwartz or Schmidt, for instance, but oh no, it had to be the Kochs and their spangleferkels. How many sausages can one family eat? In the Kochs’ case, the answer is A LOT.

I put my hand up because I am sehr interested in the Kochs.

Herr Kamyer said, “Ja, Georgia?”

I said, “Herr Kamyer, did all the Kochs go camping, or was it just the little Kochs and the big Kochs stayed behind? Or was it a mixture of little and big Kochs that came out?”

The whole class was in uproar. Herr Kamyer was, as usual, completely bewildered. He said, “Vat is zo funny about the Kochs? Do you not haf the Kochs in England?”

Happy days.

As we lolloped off I said, “German is such a restful and amusing language, isn’t it? Incomprehensible, obviously. As, indeed, are the lederhosen that the Germans go yodelling in.”

Jas was in Jasland and said, “You think The Sound of Music is what Germany is like, don’t you? That’s why you always rave on about singing nuns and yodelling.”

“Well, The Sound of Music is, of course, a documentary-style film. You can’t argue with facts, and I do know what I’m talking about because Libby has made me watch it twelve times.”

“It was set in Austria.”

“Yes…and?”

“Last term you said that Germans were obsessed with goats and cheese.”

“Yes…and?”

“That was because you had read Heidi, and that was set in Switzerland.”

“Jas, what in the name of Beelzebub’s stamp collection are you going on about?”

“You are crap at geoggers.”

Oh, rave on, fringey nitwit. (I didn’t say that bit aloud because I am grooming her to be my sidekick on the Road to Romance.)

Still, in the interests of world peace I might be forced to get the old atlas out and look at where Memphis is and so on.

Work work work, I’m so vair tired. And I still have to walk all the way home.

I wonder if Jazzy will give me a piggyback?

4:30 p.m.

No.

5:00 p.m.

I’ll be bloody glad when Gordy is allowed out. When I arrived home he had the rubber plant on his head. I’ve put the stump back in the plant pot and superglued some of the leaves back on. With a bit of luck it will be all right till we go away, and then I can blame it on whatever fool cat-sits for us.

In my bedroom

How can I find out exactly where Masimo is?

Five minutes later

I can’t trust Radio Jas to ask Tom to find out where Masimo has gone in Hamburger-a-gogo land. Anytime I ask her anything private it’s usually on the Radio Jas airwaves in about two and a half minutes. Her idea of being subtle and finding out things is that she goes out into the street and shouts, “Anyone know anything about this secret thing I am never going to mention?”

Hmmmmmmmm.

I hate to admit it, but I need the assistance of Dave the Laugh.

Donner and Blitzen!

If I could just accidentally bump into him on the way home then I wouldn’t have to phone him.

Ten minutes later

Because if I phone him and Rachel is there I will feel like a facsimile of a sham. I mean he is officially (ish) going out with her.

Five minutes later

Even though he keeps snogging me.

Ten minutes later

Anyway, how can I trust anything he says – it was him, after all, who said he fancied my mum!

But then he is also my mate and official Hornmeister.

Also, he said that I have accidentally done the right thing and become Mystery Girl with Masimo.

Tuesday May 10th

on the way home

Jas and me were ambushed by four Foxwood lads. Two of them deliberately ran into my legs on their bikes, fell off, got back on backwards and started circling us really fast yelling, “You slags!!”

Why?

We were just looking at them and then they fell off their bikes again, this time down a ditch. While they were climbing out we set off walking. After a couple of minutes we noticed they were lurking along behind us, pretending not to follow us. Then Dave the Laugh and his mates appeared round the corner. Dave smiled. He has a great smile and he looked as if he was really glad to see me. He has grown his hair a bit since I last saw him and it looked very cool. Oh shutupshutup, voice of the Horn.

He said, “Hello, Sex Kitty and pal.”

Then he saw the boy bloodhounds following us.

“Well, if it isn’t Tosser Thompson and his band of trainee tossers. On your way kids.”

Dave really is quite well built and he was just standing looking at them.

One of the trainee tossers said, “Come on, it’s not worth it.” and they shuffled off, shoving each other and making pretend farting noises.

Wow! It was a bit like Gladiator. But not set in Roman times, and Dave was wearing his school trousers and not a goatskin…More’s the pity. Shutupshutup.

Dave put his arm around me.

“You entice them, you know, with your sparkling personality and magnificent nungas.”

He is soooo annoying. And rude. I tried to have a strop, but he is notoriously difficult to do that with.

As we walked along Jas said, “S’later” and went off home. Dave’s mates all said “S’later” until it was just me and Dave.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m surpressing my red bottom, but he does seem to be getting better-looking all the time. But no, no, he is not the only one and only. He is yesterday’s news. Last week’s snog. Anyway, I said to him, “Aren’t you rushing to meet your GIRLFRIEND? Won’t your GIRLFRIEND be upset if she sees you with me?”

And he started that, “Are you mad?” thing. I managed to stop myself joining in, otherwise it would have developed into tickly bears and then possibly number six. Who knows?

Who knows what goes on in my mind? I will be the last to know. Even when I am totally and without doubtosity in luuurve, absolutely wouldn’t dream of being with anyone else, etc. etc., still the Cosmic Horn rears its ugly head. And there is something about Dave and his special lip-nibbling technique. In fact he is one of the best snoggers I have come across, and I haven’t even snogged Masimo yet. What if Italian boys are useless in the snoggosity department? What if Masimo looks cool but is a nunga-pouncer like Mark Big Gob? Or kisses all wet and sucky like Whelk Boy?

Dave interrupted my brain, thank the Lord.

“So, how are you, chicklet?

I said, “Fab fanks. I’m going to Hamburger-a-gogo land for a clown-car convention.”

Dave looked at me.

“YOU are going to a clown-car convention? Mad as a hen.”

I got quite huffy.

“I am very interested in old cars, as you know, and—”

Dave said, “You would rather snog Spotty Norman than go to a clown-car convention.”

Fair point well made.

I said, “Well, there is another reason…”

Dave raised one of his eyebrows. Which was quite amusing.

We were passing Luigi’s and Dave said, “Come on, let’s do coffee, man.”

And we went in.

Oh, buggering bums buggering bum. Sitting down at one of the tables were Wet Lindsay and Astonishingly Dim Monica. Sacré bloody bleu.

Perhaps they were doing reverse stalking.

Wet Lindsay almost threw up when she saw me with Dave. But she covered it quickly and was all dillydollyish with him. He said “Hi” and she batted her eyelashes and flicked her hair. She must have read that book, How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You. If she tried toffee eyes on Dave, I would have to kill her.

Even though Dave was slightly behind me, she looked straight through me and said to him, “Oh, Dave, it was really groovy at Late and Live, wasn’t it? Mas and me had a great time. Did you and Rachel?”

I hate her double with knobs on.

Dave was coolosity personified. “Yeah, it was cool.”

And then he deliberately pulled a chair out for me at a table not too near the grotesque twins. As I sat down he said loudly enough for them to hear, “Now then, even though you treat me bad, what would you like, Ms Gorgeous?”

He is soooo nice. I really like the way he is…you know…so nice to me.

Five minutes later

As Lindsay and ADM went out, Lindsay gave Dave what she probably thinks (wrongly) is her attractive smile. She said, “Bye, Dave, maybe see you when Mas gets back.” Then she stick-insected out of the door, without leaving a slimy trail on the floor, surprisingly.

I said to Dave, “I hate her, I hate her. She called him ‘Mas’. How crap is that?”

Dave looked at me.

“You don’t like her, then?”

As we drank our coffee (me trying to avoid the foam moustache fandango) I wanted to ask Dave if he could find out where Masimo was. But I didn’t think I could just launch in, so I thought I would ask some limbering-up questions first.

“Dave, you know those boys…well, just before you got there, they ran into my legs on their bikes, then they rode off backwards. Then they called us slags.”

Dave said, “Ah, the old running into your legs, riding off backwards and calling you slags thing. Ah hum. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“They fancy you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Uh-huh. Clear as daylight.”

“But why don’t they say ‘I fancy you’?”

“Because you might reject them in front of their mates.”

“So they think running into my legs on their bikes is better?”

“Yep.”

“And calling us slags?”

“Yep.”

“And they think that after they’ve done that, I will say, ‘Gosh, yes, I would love to go out with you and be your slag. Once my legs heal up.’”

“Yep.”

“But that is mad. Boys are mad.”

Dave looked all wise and did his eyebrow thing again.

We slurped a bit more, then I said, “But, why? How does it work? You know at break at school, when you talk about personal stuff, well…”

Dave said, “Let me interrupt you there, Kittykat. Lads don’t talk about ‘stuff’ at break. They play footie or that other well-known game, ‘Do you know any good dentists?’”

I said, “What?”

“You know: ‘Do you know any good dentists? Because you’re going to need one in a minute when I have to deck you.’”

Blimey.

Dave went on. “Of course, lads have the same feelings, we just communicate in a different way. Sometimes it does get personal though.”

I looked at him. This was better.

“Yeah, for instance, yesterday one of the fifth form hung his girlfriend’s knickers out of the science-block window.”

5:30 p.m.

Walked home after my session with the Hornmeister still in a bit of a daze. When we said s’later, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and didn’t attempt tickly bears or anything. Perhaps he is going straight. Who knows? But, on the plus side, he has said he’ll find out all he can about Masimo for me. He is such a good boy-type pal. He didn’t mention Rachel, which is a bit odd as she’s supposed to be his girlfriend.

5:35 p.m.

Crossing the High Street I bumped into Tom. I like Tom, even though I think he’s mad to go to Kiwi-a-gogo land. And go out with Jas. And go on camping fiascos. And go on about food produce. Other than that, I like him.

He seemed to have a touch of sadnosity about him when he said, “All right, Gee?”

“Yes, fanks all right as an…all-right thing. And you?”

He was unusually silent for him and eventually just said, “You’ll look after Jas for me, won’t you?”

I said, “You bet your goddamn bottom dollar, mister. I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He just looked at me. Like I was talking complete rubbish or something.

6:00 p.m.

Home in my room, covered in unguents for tip-top beautosity.

I will say this: mashed banana is vair vair good for the luuurve complexion, which is not easy to say when you have a face full of mashed banana.

I wish I had a photo of Masimo. I hope I don’t forget what he looks like. I’ll just lie down in my (unusually empty) bed and have a mental snog with him.

6:25 p.m.

Oh, buggering God’s bum. Angus and Gordy have come in and started playing the mouse-disguised-as-a-foot game. They attack my feet for a bit really viciously until I pull my feet up under my bum, then they lie down and go to sleep. But they are not really asleep, they are just doing pretend asleep. As soon as I snuggle down to snooze off into Masimo land, they leap on my foot underneath the blankets and wrestle it. Then they “go to sleep” again. They don’t really think my foot is a mouse and that it will creep out when it sees they are asleep, do they?

6:40 p.m.

How did Ms Furry Tart, aka Naomi, get past the armed warden (Vati) and into my bed?

Blimey, I am quite literally lying in a cat basket.

6:45 p.m.

I wish she wouldn’t do that lying-on-her-back-with-her-legs-spread-open thing on my bed.

6:50 p.m.

Gordy is sniffing her bottom. This is disgusting!! In front of his dad. This is kitty-porn – surely there must be some sort of helpline for this. A kittykat helpline.

It could be called Paws for Thought.

7:30 p.m.

Oh, Masimo, soon we will be together and you can tell me all about Pizza-a-gogo land. The music. The art. The snogging. I wonder if they have special techniques that go with their passionate Latin temperament? I hope he doesn’t get carried away and nibble my lips off.

7:35 p.m.

No, I hope he does! Nibble away, Luuurve God!!

Wednesday May 11th

In my bedroom 7:07 p.m.

How many hours is it till we go to Hamburger-a-gogo? Jas will know. I’m not phoning her though.

Doorbell rang.

I went quietly to the top of the stairs and looked down. Crikey! Loon Alert! It was my grandad, and he was wearing shorts! Not his huge, all-encompassing grandad shorts that he wore during the Boer War, but cycling shorts. In Lycra. Good grief.

Please, please tell me he has not taken up cycling. Please.

I went back to my room quietly.

Maybe if I hide behind the door they will think I am out and JUST GO AWAY.

One minute later

Oh, yeah. Dream on.

Mutti called up, “Georgie, Grandad’s here!”

I kept silent behind the door. Naomi, Angus and Gordy were all in my bed – again – doing their idiot-cat-staring-at-me thing. They had better not give my position away. It would be all right if it was just Gordon – then I might have a one in two chance of not being caught; because although one of his eyes is fixed on me, the other is glancing out the window.

The advance loon party came clanking up the stairs.

“Gingey, Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee, Libbbbeeeeee…Where is you?”

I heard her huffing and puffing outside my door and doing her alarming laugh. “Hoggyhoggy. Here I come, reggy or nut.”

Then she kicked my door and it burst open, very nearly flattening my nose.

“Owwwwww.”

She put her mad little face around the door and smiled at me. When, and how, did she lose her front teeth? And why did she think it was attractive to push her tongue through the gap?

“Gingey, there you is! Cheeky monkey.”

She threw all the cats off the bed and started tucking scuba-diving Barbie and Jesus/Sandra up nice and comfy under the duvet. I tried to reason with her.

“Bibsy, that’s not really Barbie and…er…Sandra’s bed, is it? It’s my bed, and there’s no room for—”

She put her arms up to me and said, “Kiss.”

Oh, blimey. She is cute, though. I picked her up to give her a little cuddle, and she put her hand on my nose and was sort of squeezing it and twirling it around. It was quite painful, actually. Dear God I hope it doesn’t swell up.

Grandad was the next to arrive at the open-bedroom loon party.

He popped his head around the door and said, “Hello, love, I’ve just been to the doctor because I’ve got a steering wheel down my shorts. I said to him, ‘Doctor, will you do something about this steering wheel down my shorts? It’s driving me nuts!’ Do you see? ‘Steering wheel, driving me nuts!’ Do you get it? Do you?”

How DISGUSTING!!

He’s an octogenarian.

My ears feel like prostitutes.

8:00 p.m.

Thank the Lord, Grandad has gone. Unfortunately not before giving me a present from his “girlfriend” Maisie. I am sorry I ever suggested that Grandad was mad. His girlfriend has reached new and giddy heights of bonkerosity. Have you ever been given knitted toeless socks? In green, yellow and purple?

No, I thought not.

Grandad is going to house-sit the kittykats for the week we are away.

I said to Mutti, “Let’s just burn the house to the ground before we go. Because that’s what it will be like when we get back. Face it.”

Mum said, “You are so rude, Georgia. You’ll be old one day yourself.”

I was going to go put my toeless socks on to give her the gist of what I was saying about the elderly insane, but then I realised I was on a charm mission. Also, Jas’s parents were coming round in half an hour. So I said, “Shall I make some snacks for when Jas’s M and D come round?”

She looked at me as if I had turned into a talking egg.

Even Gordy stopped eating Mum’s mules and looked at me with one eye.

9:30 p.m.

Phew. Jas and I did secret thumbsie-upsies as she and her mutti and vati left. Yessssss! And thrice yesss! We are off to Hamburger-a-gogo land!!

Jas has got one hundred squids for spendies.

How far can Memphis be from where Masimo is? Wherever that is.

11:00 p.m.

All’s well that ends well. Libby is in her own bed with Barbie and Our Lord Sandra, and the big cats have been thrown outside to lay waste to the vole population. Gordy is in his basket in the kitchen. So I can get some wellearned beauty sleep. My nose doesn’t seem any more swollen than normal.

11:15 p.m.

Dad says that Elvis Presley lived in Memphis and he was a musician (not that you would know that from the crap songs that Dad sings). Anyway, he was a musician and Masimo is a musician, ergo Memphis must be somewhere that musicians hang out.

Midnight

Pray God that Dad doesn’t take his Elvis Presley quiff with him. Sometimes for a “joke” he sticks the quiff on and starts shaking his hips about. It’s disgusting – and also probably very dangerous hipwise for a man of his years.