The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10. Louise Rennison

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      “Mum, it’s the best fun I’ve had since … er … since Libby dropped my make-up into the loo.”

      She tutted, but not even in her usual violent tutting way. Just like, nice tutting.

      Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.

      She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”

      I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.

      “It will bea laugh.”

      “No it won’t. When did we last have a laugh as a family? Apart from when Grandad’s false teeth went down that woman’s bra?”

       1:00 p.m.

      The “lovebirds” went off to the pencil factory. They only got Libby to go with them because she thinks they are going to go and see the pencil people.

      And I do mean pencil people. Not people who make pencils. Pencil people. People who are pencils. She’ll go ballistic when she finds out it’s just some boring Scottish bloke making pencils.

      Oh I am SO bored. Hours and hours of wasted snogging opportunities.

       1:20 p.m.

      I’d go out but there is nothing to look at. It just goes trees, trees, water, hill, trees, trees, Jock McTavish, Jock McTavish. What is the point of that?

      On the plus side, I am going out with a SEX GOD!

       1:36 p.m.

      Oh Gott in Himmel! What is the point of going out with a Sex God if no one knows? Not even me at this rate.

       4:00 p.m.

      I wonder if I should phone him?

       4:30 p.m.

      I was even nearly pleased to see James and Grandad arrive with Uncle Eddie.

      For about a second. Uncle Eddie had hired a van specially. He probably had to get a special kind that accommodates the very bald.

      James’s voice has gone all weird. It’s sort of deep and then all squeaky. How normal is that? He is by no means a lurker-free zone either, I notice. Tout au contraire.

      Dad said, “Cum awa’ in!” in a really crap Scottish accent and Grandad started to jig around “dancing”, and had to be helped into the cottage.

      Uncle Eddie said, “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I’ve brought supplies of large Union Jack underpants!” What in the name of Louis the Fourteenth is he on about?

       7:00 p.m.

      Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.

      I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”

      Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?

      This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.

       11:00 p.m.

      Despite the incredible crapness of my life my nunga-nungas have made me laugh.

      Nunga-nungas is what Ellen’s brother and his mates call girls’ basoomas. He says it is because if you pull out a girl’s breast and let it go … it goes nunga-nunga-nunga. He is obviously a touch on the mental side.

       11:10 p.m.

      But quite funny though.

       11:20 p.m.

      I wonder what size nunga-nunga-holder Mum wears?

       11:30 p.m.

      Perhaps I could make some nunga-nunga protectors by electrifying my sports bra with a battery type thing. That would give Cousin James the perv a shock if he attempted to “accidentally” molest my nungas.

       11:35 p.m.

      But it would also give me a shock, which is la mouche in the ointment.

      Midnight

      Angus has rediscovered his Scottish roots. Apparently they are in the middle of some bog because he had bits of horrible slimy stuff in his whiskers. He came into my bed purring and all damp and muddy. Still, he soon got nice and dry by wiping himself on my T-shirt.

      God he smells disgusting. I think he’s been rolling in fox poo again. He thinks it’s like a sort of really attractive aftershave.

       12:10 a.m.

      It isn’t.

      Monday October 25th

      10:00 a.m.

      Why oh why oh why has the SG not called me? Oh hang on, I know why he hasn’t, it’s because we haven’t got a phone in our fantastic cottage. I couldn’t believe it when we first arrived. I said to Mutti, “There has been some mistake. I’m afraid we must go back to civilisation immediately. I’ll drive.”

      Dad raved on about “tranquillity” and the simple life.

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