A Midsummer Tights Dream. Louise Rennison

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СКАЧАТЬ end of last term. And the rest is showbiz legend.

      Heathcliff’s Irish dancing solo was a triumph!!! And also, not so easy in tight trousers.

      I still don’t know why she cast me as Heathcliff though.

      Perhaps I really do look like a boy?

      If I look down and squint my eyes a bit I can definitely see pimply bumps in the corker area.

      No one can argue with that. The front of a jumper never lies.

      My jumper is one of the ones Cousin Georgia and her Ace Gang chose for me. It’s green and she says it goes with my eyes and gives me je ne sais quoi.

      Well, she actually said, “It says ‘ummmmmmm’ but not ‘oooohhhh, look at me, I’m a tart’.”

      Nearly at Skipley. I’m so excited. This is going to be my Winter of Love, I can tell.

      When I stayed with Cousin Georgia on my way back from summer school it was brilliant. I haven’t really spent a lot of time with her before because of being in Ireland and having crap parents who actually do stuff. Not just bake tarts or DIY like everyone else’s parents. Not good old boring stuff. My mum goes off and paints and my dad goes off exploring to find endangered things. He collects molluscs mostly but I think last time he found a rare hairy potato. He’s like a cross between David Bellamy and… a Labrador. That is not a proper dad in anyone’s language.

      That’s a Labradad.

      Hee. I think that might very nearly be a joke.

      I’m going to put it into my performance art notebook that I will be keeping.

      I’ve got a special new notebook with a black glossy cover and some plums on the front of it.

      It’s really arty, and er… fruity.

      I’ve already made my first entry.

      It says:

      Winter of Love.

      I’ll just add my “Labradad” idea.

      Labradad. A portrait of a dad who is half pipe smoking bloke and half Labrador. He’s confused between the two worlds. Between pipes and sticks. I’m thinking an improvised dance piece. Perhaps the Labradad fetching sticks. Or pipes?

      Or ducks?

      Hmmmmm.

      I love my parents but they’re not normal. Or around much. But they have let me come back to Dother Hall – even though I’m not allowed to board.

      It was great staying with Cousin Georgia. It was brilliant on the boy front as well.

      She got her Ace Gang round to teach me “wisdomosity” and also “snogging techniques”. We all tucked up in her bed, which was cosy.

      Georgia said, “Have a jammy dodger and give us the goss snogwise.”

      All the gang were wearing false beards to help me get into the mood.

      So… I told her about going to the cinema in Skipley with some boys from Woolfe Academy. I told her about my first kiss. With floppy Ben. And how it was like having a little bat trapped in my mouth.

      Her Ace Gang looked at me. Then Georgia said, “Are you a fool with just a hint of an idiot thrown in?”

      Then they gave me their wisdomosity about boys. And snogging.

      Gosh, Georgia knows a lot.

      About varying pressure of the lips, what to do with your tongue, (don’t waggle it about like a fool), the scoring system for snogging, (Number 1 to Number 10, I can’t remember all of them but I do remember Number 4 is “a kiss lasting over three minutes without a break”. You need a mate for that one, so that they can time it for you.).

      Honestly. I couldn’t believe it.

      I’m dying to try out my new skills.

      The amount she knew, she must have spent most of her time doing snogging research.

      I said that to her and she said, “I did, my strange gangly coussy. But I have put aside snogging to teach you the ways of boydom. I do it because I luuurve you. But not in a lezzie way.”

      Which is good.

      I think.

      What is a “lezzie way”?

      I think it’s to do with girl snogging.

      But I didn’t ask.

      Oh chuggy-chug-chug. Come on, train!!!

      I wonder what time the rest of the Tree Sisters will arrive tomorrow? I can ask Honey about the lezzie thing, she will know.

      Oh, here we are at the train station. Hurrah!!! There’s its sign swinging in the biting gale force wind. Just as I remember:

      Skipley Home of the West Riding Otter.

      Hang on a minute, some Northern vandal has painted a “b” and a “y” over the otter bit. So now it reads:

      I have just got off the showbiz express and now I am getting on the bus of hope. Which will transport me to… The Theatre of Dreams.

      I can see the bus driver through the closed door, sitting in the driver’s seat. I recognise him from last term. I wonder if he recognises me?

      As I hauled my bag on board up the steps he put the pipe to one side of his mouth and shouted, “Stop messing about and get on if you’re getting on, merry legs. It’s bloody parky with that door open.”

      I said, “Why did you call me merry legs?”

      He said, “Because you’re lanky and your legs are all over the shop.”

      I paid my fare and he said, “Come back to prat around like a fool at Dither Hall again, have you?”

      Before I could say, “It’s Dother Hall, actual—” he accelerated off so violently that I shot down to the end of the bus and almost ended up in a small child’s pushchair. Luckily there wasn’t a small child in it, just a pig.

      The woman with the pushchair said, “Mind my pig.”

      I am huddled up well away from her, but I think I can still smell pig poo.

      We bumped along the road to Heckmondwhite. The driver is careering along sounding his horn whenever there is anything in his way on the road. Pedestrians. Bicyclists. A cow pat. But he slowed down behind a lollipop lady who was walking home. With her sign. She tried to let him pass but he cheerily waved her on and drove slowly behind her. Then for no reason when we got to a sharp corner he revved up and blasted his horn and she fell into a hedge. He was laughing so much I thought he might swallow his pipe.

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