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

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СКАЧАТЬ might have a cold botty and be mad as a snake, but she looks so lovely when she’s asleep and she is my little sister. I really love her. I kissed her on her forehead and without opening her eyes she slapped me and said, “Cheeky monkey.” I don’t know what goes on in her head. (Thank God.)

       10:15 pm

      Do the Prat Poodles deliberately wait until I’m drifting off before they start their yowling fest? What is the matter with them? Have they been startled by a vole?

      I looked out the window. Mr and Mrs Next Door have put a kennel outside in the garden for the Prat Poodles, but the poodley twits are too stupid and frightened to go into it. They are barking at it and running away from it. How pathetic is that? It’s only a kennel, you fools. What kind of dog is frightened of a kennel?

       10:20 pm

      Oh, I get it!! Angus is in their kennel. I just saw his huge paw come out and biff one of the Prat Poodles on the snout. Supercat strikes again!!!

      Hahahaha and ha di hahaha, he is a très très amusant cat. He has set up a little cat flatlet in the Prats’ kennel. It’s his pied-à-terre. Or his paw-de-terre.

       10:25 PM

      Uh-oh. Mr Next Door is on the warpath. Surely it must be against the laws of humanity to sell pyjamas like his. He looks like a striped hippopotamus, only not so attractive and svelte.

      He’s trying to poke Angus out with a stick. Good luck, Mr Hippo.

      Angus thinks it’s the stick game. He LIKES being prodded with a stick, it reminds him of his Scottish roots. Next thing is, he will get hold of it and start wrestling with Mr Next Door to try to get it away from him.

       10:28 PM

      Yes, yes, he’s clamped on the end! Mr Next Door will never get him off by shaking it around. He will be there going round and round the garden for the rest of his life.

       10:33 PM

      Sometimes for a laugh Angus lets go of the stick and Mr Next Door crashes backwards. Then Angus strolls over and gets hold of the stick again. I could watch all night long… uh-oh, Mr Next Door has seen me. He is indicating that he would like me to step downstairs. Although I think shouting and saying “bugger” at this time of night is a bit unneighbourly.

      Honestly, I am like a part-time game warden and careworker for the elderly mad. I should get a net and a badge.

       Mr Next Door’s garden 10:40 p.m.

      Mr Next Door was sensationally red as he tried to shake Angus off the end of his stick.

      He said, in between wheezing and coughing, “This thing is demented, it should be put down!!”

      Oh yeah, fat chance – Angus nearly had the vet’s arm off the last time he was in surgery. The vet has asked us to not come back again.

      However, I used my natural talents of diplomosity with Mr Mad. I spoke clearly and loudly. “You need another broom to beat him off with.”

      I said again, “YOU NEED ANOTHER BROOM TO BEAT HIM OFF WITH.”

      He said, “There’s no need to shout, I’m not deaf.”

      And I said, “Pardon?”

      Which is an excellent display of humourosity in anyone’s book. Except Mr Mad’s. In the end, I lassoed Angus with the clothesline and dragged him home and locked him in the airing cupboard. Dad’s “smalls” (not) will be in tatters by morning, but you can’t have everything.

       Sunday March 6th

      Dreamed about the Sex God and our marriage. It was really groovy and gorgey. I wore a long white veil, and when I was at the altar SG pushed it back and said, “Why… Georgia, you’re beautiful.” And I didn’t go cross-eyed or speak in a stupid German accent. I even remembered to put my tongue at the back of my teeth to stop my nostrils flaring when I smiled. The church was packed with loads of friends, and everyone looked nice and relatively normal. Even Vati had shaved the tiny badger off his chin, and Uncle Eddie had a hat on so that he didn’t look quite so much like a boiled egg in a suit.

      The choir was singing “Isn’t She Lovely?” and for some reason the choir was made up of chipmunks and Libby was in charge of them. It was sweet, even if the singing was a bit high-pitched.

      And then the vicar said, “Is there anyone here who knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony?”

      I was gazing into the dark blue of Sex God’s eyes, dreamy dreamy. Then from the back, Jackie Bummer (smoking a fag) shouted, “I’ve got a reason: Georgia has got extreme red-bottomosity.”

      And Alison Bummer (smoking two fags) joined in, “Yeah, and the Cosmic Horn.”

      And I could feel myself getting hotter and hotter, and I couldn’t breathe. I woke up crying out to find Libby sitting on my nungas with Charlie Horse and singing, “Smelly the elepan bagged her trunk and said goodguy to the circus.”

       8:15 a.m.

      It’s only 8:15 a.m. On Sunday. I want to sleep for ever and ever and never wake up to life as a red-bottomed spinster.

       8:30 a.m.

      Maybe if I make a special plea to Baby Jesus for clemency he will hear me. If I promise to put my red bottom aside with a firm hand, he might send the SG back to me.

       8:35 a.m

      I can’t pray here – Baby Jesus won’t be able to hear a thing above Libby’s singing. Maybe I should make the supreme sacrifice and go to God’s house. Call-me-Arnold the vicar would be beside himself with joy; he would probably prepare a fatted whatsit… pensioner.

       9:05 a.m

      What should I wear for church? Keep it simple and reverential, I think.

       9:36 a.m.

      My false eyelashes are fab.

       9:37 a.m

      Maybe I shouldn’t wear them, though, because it might give the wrong impression. It might imply that I’m a bit superficial. I’ll take them off.

       9:38 a.m

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