Angus, thongs and full-frontal snogging. Louise Rennison

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СКАЧАТЬ “Yes, certainly, Uncle Eddie, I would like to go in your pre-war sidecar and with a bit of luck all of my friends will see me with some mad, bald bloke and that will be the end of my life. Thank you.”

      4:00 p.m.

      Jas came round. She said it took her ages to get out of her catsuit after the fancy dress party. I wasn’t very interested but I asked her why out of politeness.

      She said, “Well, the boy behind the counter in the hire shop was really good-looking.”

      “Yes, so?”

      “Well, so I lied about my size – I got a size ten catsuit instead of twelve.”

      She showed me the marks around her neck and waist: they are quite deep. I said, “Your head looks a bit swollen up.”

      “No, that’s just Sunday.”

      I told her about the Cosmo article and so we spent a few hours recalling the fancy dress party (i.e. the painful incident) and experiencing the emotions in order to heal them.

      I blame Jas entirely. It may have been my idea to go as a stuffed olive but she didn’t stop me like a pal should do. In fact, she encouraged me. We made the stuffed olive costume out of chicken wire and green crêpe paper – that was for the “olive” bit. It had little shoulder straps to keep it up and I wore a green T-shirt and green tights underneath. It was the “stuffed” bit that Jas helped with mostly. As I recall, it was she that suggested I use Crazy Colour to dye my hair and head and face and neck red... like a sort of pimento. It was, I have to say, quite funny at the time. Well, when we were in my room. The difficulty came when I tried to get out of my room. I had to go down the stairs sideways.

      When I did get to the door I had to go back and change my tights because my cat Angus had one of his “Call of the Wilds” episodes.

      He really is completely bonkers. We got him when we went on holiday to Loch Lomond. On the last day I found him wandering around the garden of the guest house we were staying in. Tarry-a-Wee-While, it was called. That should give you some idea of what the holiday was like.

      I should have guessed all was not entirely well in the cat department when I picked him up and he began savaging my cardigan. But he was such a lovely looking kitten, all tabby and long-haired, with huge yellow eyes. Even as a kitten he looked like a small dog. I begged and pleaded to take him home.

      “He’ll die here, he has no mummy or daddy,” I said plaintively.

      My dad said, “He’s probably eaten them.” Honestly, he can be callous. I worked on Mum and in the end I brought him home. The Scottish landlady did say she thought he was probably mixed breed, half domestic tabby and half Scottish wildcat. I remember thinking, Oh, that will be exotic. I didn’t realise that he would grow to the size of a small Labrador only mad. I used to drag him around on a lead but, as I explained to Mrs Next Door, he ate it.

      Anyway, sometimes he hears the call of the Scottish highlands. So, as I was passing by as a stuffed olive he leaped out from his concealed hiding-place behind the curtains (or his lair, as I suppose he imagined it in his cat brain) and attacked my tights or “prey”. I couldn’t break his hold by banging his head because he was darting from side to side. In the end I managed to reach the outdoor brush by the door and beat him off with it.

      Then I couldn’t get in Dad’s Volvo. Dad said, “Why don’t you take off the olive bit and we’ll stick it in the boot.”

      Honestly, what is the point? I said, “Dad, if you think I am sitting next to you in a green T-shirt and tights, you’re mad.”

      He got all shirty like parents do as soon as you point out how stupid and useless they are. “Well, you’ll have to walk, then... I’ll drive along really slowly with Jas and you walk alongside.”

      I couldn’t believe it. “If I have to walk, why don’t Jas and I both walk there and forget about the car?”

      He got that stupid, tight-lipped look that dads get when they think they are being reasonable. “Because I want to be sure of where you are going. I don’t want you out wandering the streets at night.”

      Unbelievable! I said, “What would I be doing walking the streets at night as a stuffed olive... gatecrashing cocktail parties?”

      Jas smirked but Dad got all outraged parenty. “Don’t you speak to me like that, otherwise you won’t go out at all.”

      What is the point?

      When we did eventually get to the party (me walking next to Dad’s Volvo driving at five miles an hour), I had a horrible time. Everyone laughed at first but then more or less ignored me. In a mood of defiant stuffed oliveness I did have a dance by myself but things kept crashing to the floor around me. The host asked me if I would sit down. I had a go at that but it was useless. In the end I was at the gate for about an hour before Dad arrived, and I did stick the olive bit in the boot. We didn’t speak on the way home.

      Jas, on the other hand, had a great time. She said she was surrounded by Tarzans and Robin Hoods and James Bonds. (Boys have very vivid imaginations... not.)

      I was feeling a bit moody as we did the “recall” bit. I said bitterly, “Well, I could have been surrounded by boys if I hadn’t been dressed as an olive.”

      Jas said, “Georgia, you thought it was funny and I thought it was funny but you have to remember that boys don’t think girls are for funniness.”

      She looked annoyingly “wise” and “mature”. What the hell did she know about boys? God, she had an annoying fringe. Shut up, fringey.

      I said, “Oh yeah, so that’s what they want, is it? Boys? They want simpering girly-wirlys in catsuits?”

      Through my bedroom window I could see next door’s poodle leaping up and down at our fence, yapping. It would be trying to scare off our cat Angus... fat chance.

      Jas was going on and on wisely. “Yes they do, I think they do like girls who are a bit soft and not so, well... you know.”

      She was zipping up her rucksack. I looked at her. “Not so what?” I asked.

      She said, “I have to go, we have an early supper.”

      As she left my room I knew I should shut up. But you know when you should shut up because you really should just shut up... but you keep on and on anyway? Well, I had that.

      “Go on... not so what?” I insisted.

      She mumbled something as she went down the stairs.

      I yelled at her as she went through the door, “Not so like me you mean, don’t you?!!!”

      11:00 p.m.

      I can already feel myself getting fed up with boys and I haven’t had anything to do with them yet.

      Midnight

      Oh God, please, please don’t make me have to be a lesbian like Hairy Kate or Miss Stamp.

      12:10 a.m.

      What do lesbians do, anyway?

      Monday August 24th

      5:00 СКАЧАТЬ