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

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      Sacré bloody bleu and triple merde.

      And poo.

      Oh Robbie, how could you leave me and go off to the other (incredibly crap) side of the world? What has Kiwi-a-gogo land got that I haven’t? Besides forty million sheep.

      I think I’ll play the tape he gave me again. It’s all I have left to remind me of him and our love. That will never die.

       2:20 p.m.

      Good grief, now I am really depressed. His song about Van Gogh, “Oh No, It’s Me Again”, has to be one of the most depressing songs ever written.

       2:30 p.m.

      Second only to track four, “Swim Free”, about a dolphin that gets caught in a fishing net, and every time we eat a tuna sandwich we’re eating Sammy the dolphin. Fortunately I never eat tuna, as Mum mostly stocks up on Jammy Dodgers and there is definitely nothing that was ever alive in them.

       2:35 p.m.

      If I am brutally honest, which I try to be, the only fly in the ointmosity of the Sex God was that he could be a bit on the serious side. Always raving on about the environment and so on. Actually, his whole family is obsessed with vegetables. Let’s face it, his brother Tom (otherwise known as Hunky) has chosen one to be his girlfriend!

      Hahahahahaha. That’s a really good joke about Jas that I will never tell her but secretly think of when she flicks her fringe about or shows me her Rambler’s badge.

      I will never forget Robbie, though. The way he used to nibble my lips. He will always be Nip Libbler Extraordinaire.

       2:50 p.m.

      Oh no, hang on. The Sex God used to snog my ears. It was Dave the Laugh who enticed me into the ways of nip libbling. Which reminds me. I wonder why he hasn’t phoned me? Did I remember to tell him that I was thinking about letting him be my unserious boyfriend?

      I should punish him, really. It was, after all, he who introduced me to the Cosmic Horn when I was happy just having the Particular Horn for the Sex God.

       2:55 p.m.

      Phoned Rosie.

      “RoRo.”

       “Bonsoir.”

      “I am having the cosmic droop.”

      “Well, fear not, my pally, because I have le plan de la genius.”

      “What is it, and does it involve the police?”

      Rosie laughed in a not-very-reassuring way if you like the sound of sane laughter. She said, “I’m having a party for Sven’s return from Swedenland next Saturday.”

      “What kind of party is it going to be?”

      “Teenage werewolf.”

      “Oh no.”

      “Oh yes.”

      “Good grief.”

      “Bless you.”

      “Rosie, what has Sven been doing while he’s been away working for Santa Claus on a reindeer farm?”

      “He hasn’t been to Lapland.”

      “How can you be sure? Geoggers is not your best subject, is it?”

      “Well, excuse me if I’m right, but it isn’t yours either, Gee. You missed out the whole of Germany on your world map.”

      “Easily done.”

      “Not when you’re copying from the atlas. Anyway, I must go. I have a costume to make. See you at Stalag 14 on Monday.”

       Bathroom 3:00 p.m.

      Sometimes I amaze myself with my courageosity. Even though I have been through the mangle of love and beyond, I can still be bothered to cleanse and tone.

       3:30 p.m.

      But the effort of a high-quality beauty regime has made me exhausted. I am going to go to my room and read my book on my inner dolphin or whatever it’s called. Anyway it is to do with peace and so on. I may even make a little shrine to Robbie to celebrate our undying love. Even though he hasn’t bothered to write to me since he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land.

       3:45 p.m.

      Hmm. I have covered all the cosmic options with my shrine: I’ve put a photo of Robbie in the middle of some shiny paper, it has a figure of Buddha on one side of the beloved Sex God, and one of Jesus and a little dish for offerings on the other. Also, when I was accidentally going through Mum’s knicker drawer, I found some incense stuff. I don’t like to think what she and Vati do with it: some horrific snogging ritual they learned in Katmandu or something.

       3:50 p.m.

      I had to BluTack Jesus on to my dressing table because Libby has been using him as a boyfriend for scuba-diving Barbie and one of his feet is missing.

       4:00 p.m.

      Phoned Rosie.

      “RoRo, explain this if you can with your wisdomosity. I only had the Particular Horn for SG before I met Dave the Laugh and then Dave the Laugh lured me into the web of the General and Cosmic Horns.”

      RoRo said, “He’s groovy, isn’t he, Dave the Laugh?”

      “Yeah… sort of.”

      “Shall I ask him on Saturday?”

      “It doesn’t matter to me, because I am eschewing him with a firm hand.”

      “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind badger.”

      What in the name of Miss Wilson’s moustache is she talking about?

       My bedroom, in my bed of pain (quite literally) 10:00 PM

      Libby’s bottom is bloody freezing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been sitting in a bucket of frozen mackerel. Still, she has been round to Grandad’s, so anything could have happened; he is, after all, the man who set fire to himself with his own pipe.

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