‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’. Louise Rennison

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      xxxxx

      Of course there is always a dog in the manger of life. Jas wrote back and said it was silly and childish. Hilarious, really, coming from someone who practically snogs owls.

      Ellen was dithering about. Even in her notes. She wrote:

      Hi everyone, it’s me,

      Erm, about the snot disco, well, you know, I don’t know. Like, er, what if we, er, get into, er, like, trouble? What do you think… or something?

      Er… Ellen

      xxx

      On our way to French

      Jas and Ellen have formed their own little breakaway gang and they are living in a snot-free zone. They should grow up.

      French

      Drat and dratty drat drat! Rosie is catching up pointswise by letting her bogey dangle over Madame Slack’s head as she was checking her homework. We were all trying not to laugh and Madame Slack must have sussed something because she unexpectedly looked up and nearly got the pretend bogey in her eye. As she was looking at Rosie, Rosie casually popped the “snot” into her mouth and started chewing. Madame Slack went ballisticisimus and Rosie has got detention.

      4:10 p.m.

      Home time for some. As we went by the hall we saw Rosie’s face at the window. She pressed her nose against the pane of glass so that it spread out like a trapped piglet. Vair funny. She mouthed “I love you all” and then disappeared from view.

      In my bedroom

      6:00 p.m.

      Lying on my bed. No phone calls or anything from any of my so-called maybe perhaps boyfriends. I’m all aloney on my owney. Even Dave never rings me these days, not even as a matey-type mate, which he is. And the Swiss Family Mad are out at some sad tea party, wrecking people’s lives with their weird ideas and Dad’s huge bottom.

      6:30 p.m.

      I may as well go to bed early and get as much beauty sleep as I can. Just in case all my boyfriends come home to roost at once.

      I wonder what they are all doing?

      Maybe I’ve imagined it all. Maybe Masimo didn’t mean he wanted to be my one and only one. Maybe he just wanted a snog. Or maybe he thinks I still like Robbie and that’s put him off. Maybe he’s right – maybe I do still like Robbie. Maybe… I should just call him.

      6:40 p.m.

      Boom crash bang. Yowl yowl. Now what?

      Then I heard the lovely tones of my father: “Bloody hell, that furry bastard has stuck its claws into my arse.”

      How delightful my home life is. It’s practically like living in Pride and Prejudice it’s so elegant. I will pretend to be asleep. Not that anyone cares. I have asked them to respect my privacy, but I bet they—

      Ah, yes. My door crashed open.

      I said, “Mum, I am asleep, actually.”

      Mum said, “Don’t you want your letter then?”

      I sat up in bed. “What letter?”

      She held out an envelope. “This one. It was on the doormat before you got home from school. I put it in my bag and forgot about it. It must have been hand delivered, because it’s only got your name on it.”

      I said, “Quick, give it to me, it is a criminal offence to tamper with Her Maj’s mail.”

      “Who do you think it’s from?”

      “Er, Father Christmas. Possibly someone from beyond the grave. Mum, I don’t know because you have got it and I therefore have not opened it.”

      Ten minutes later

      At last she has gone. She hung about a bit hoping I would let her know who it was from, looking at my things and saying meaningless stuff like, “What is my black leather jacket doing in your wardrobe? And my Chanel bag?” Utterly pointless things. Tutting and carrying on like a tutting thing in a tut shop. But I just looked at her until she left.

      Five minutes later

      I am so nervy that I can’t open the letter. My name is written in capitals so I can’t even recognise the handwriting.

      What if it is from Masimo to say that having seen me scamper off at high speed like a prat he has decided he is not a free man for me?

      Or what if it is from Robbie, saying that he has always loved me and will I be his?

      Or what if it is from Oscar, trainee Blunder Boy, asking me on “a date” to go skateboarding? Or what if it is… Oh, shut up, shut up.

      Two minutes later

      When you are having a tizz in Nervy B. Central, Call-me-Arnold the vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”

      One minute later

      I don’t know why, though, because clearly Jesus’s dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in it already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do?

      Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It’s a bit like mime, isn’t it? Why do we have to guess what is going on? Why can’t Big G just tell us and get it over with?

      Five minutes later

      What if the note is from Masimo and it just says, “Arrivederci”?

      Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy, Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It is called ‘You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, you make me happy when skies are grey, you’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take your furry face away’.”

      Ten minutes later

      I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave the Laugh.

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