‘… and that’s when it fell off in my hand.’. Louise Rennison

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СКАЧАТЬ you say, ‘me explodes every fifteen minutes’?” “Yes… keen, isn’t he?”

       In bed 7:00 p.m.

      It wasn’t in code. It was just a really, really crap letter.

      Nothing can be worse than how I feel now.

       7:30 p.m.

      Wrong. I cannot believe my vati. He has sold our normal(ish) car and bought a Robin Reliant. You know, one of those really really sad cars that only the very mad buy? It has got three wheels. It is a three-wheeled car. I shouted down to Vati, “Why?”

      He was all preened-up and dadish.

      He shouted back up, “It’s an antique.”

      I tried logic with him. “Vati, sometimes antiques are interesting – the crown jewels, for instance, they interest me – but this is just a really old crap car that only has three wheels.”

      He was polishing it. It’s red and it has a racing strip.

      Vati said, “Hop in and I’ll take you fora spin.” As if.

      Dad started rustling around in the boot and shouted to Mum, “Connie, come on, I’ll take you and Libby fora ride in the Sexmobile.”

      He is so ludicrously pleased with himself.

      And Mutti was as bad. All dillydollyish and also she had a tiny skirt on. At least she had on a skirt though, unlike Libby, who was in the nuddy-pants.

       8:00 PM

      In the end they all went off, including Angus, who I actually thought was driving the car at first. He had his paws on the steering wheel and was looking straight ahead. Even though I am on the rack of love, it did make me laugh. Then Vati’s head popped up. Not content with the humiliatorosity of the Robin Reliant clown car, Vati also bought a Second World War flying helmet and goggles.

      As they drove off, he wound down the window and shouted, “Chocks away!!!”

      What does Mutti see in him? He must have been like this when she met him. Which means, in essence, that she likes porky blokes with badgers on their chins who are clearly mental.

      At this rate I am going to spend the rest of my life with them, so I should get used to it, I suppose.

       8:05 p.m.

      I can’t. I would rather plunge my head into a basket of whelks.

       8:10 p.m.

      What is it with boys?

      I may do some research on them for my part in MacUseless or The Och Aye Play.

      I may as well, as my so-called mates can’t be bothered to ring me.

       8:30 p.m.

      Phone rang.

      If it’s Dave the Laugh, I am going to give him the full force of my glaciosity. I hate boys.

      It was Rosie.

      “Gee?”

      “Oh hi, I’m glad you rang because I am sooo—”

      “Did you hear about the dog who went into a pub and said to the barman, ‘Can I have a pint and a bag of crisps please?’”

      “Rosie, I don’t-”

      “The barman said, ‘Blimey, that’s brilliant. There’s a circus in town. You should go and get a job.’”

      “Rosie, I have-”

      “And the dog said, ‘Why? Do they need electricians?’”

      And she slammed down the phone.

      I am seriously worried about her dwindling sanity. I’d just got back upstairs to my bed of pain when the phone rang again. Why can’t we have a portable fandango thing or, alternatively, a servant called Juan who answers it?

      Is it so much to ask?

      This time it was Ellen.

      “Georgia, it’s me. I was, you know… for the party. Well, do you… think I… well, if you were me, would you or would you just kind of, you know… or not?”

      What in the name of Hitler’s pants and matching bra set is she on about?

      “Ellen, how can I put this? What in the name of arse are you talking about?”

      “Dave the Laugh, should I, you know, well, would you?”

      Oh marvellous, I have to be Wise Woman of the Forest for my mates. Also it reminded me that if Ellen found out about the Dave the Laugh snogging scenarios, there might well be fisticuffs at dawn.

      Still, I am not God and also I am very very busy with my own problems. My lurking lurker has to be dealt with before it makes a surprise appearance. Not that I will ever be going out again anyway. My lurker could grow to the size of my head if it wanted to. Erlack, now I feel sick.

      Ellen was rambling on and on about Dave the Laugh and how to entice him and so on. In the end, in sheer desperadoes, I said, “Look, do you know why Dave the Laugh is called, you know, Dave the Laugh?”

      Ellen said, “Er. No, why is that?”

      I am being pushed to the limits of my nicosity, but I tried, God knows I tried.

      “He’s called that because he likes a laugh, and well, to be frank, Ellen, you are a bit lacking vis-à-vis the laughometer scale.”

       9:00 p.m.

      I wish when I am speaking complete and utter bollocks people would not take me seriously. It’s not my fault that I have advised Ellen to develop an infectious laugh, is it? Oh, I am so tired.

       9:30 p.m.

      By the time the Circus Family came home, I was tucked up in my bed with the lights off. Not that it makes any difference whatsoever.

      Sure enough, it was tramp, tramp up the stairs. Open door, blinding light as Mutti switched it on. Swiss Family Mad came and sat on my bed. Angus now had the goggles on and a scarf round his neck.

      Mutti said, “Oh, it was really good fun, Georgie.”

      Libby got in bed with me and started prodding my lurker, going, “Spottie bottie boy.”

      Then СКАЧАТЬ