‘Knocked out by my nunga-nungas.’. Louise Rennison

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СКАЧАТЬ me about. Angus is the only good thing about this trip. He’s really perked up. I know he longs for Naomi the sex kitten inside his furry brain but he is putting a brave face on it. In fact, he is strutting around like he owns Scotland. This is, after all, his birthplace. He can probably hear the call of the Scottish Highlands quite clearly here. The call that says, “Kill everything that moves.” There were four voles all lined up on the doorstep this morning. Mum said she found a dead mouse in her tights. I didn’t ask where she had left them. If I ask her anything she just giggles and goes stupid. Since Dad came home her brain has fallen out.

      Angus has made a new furry chum. None of the other local cats will come near our cottage. I think there was a “duffing up” challenge last night. The black and white cat I saw in the lane yesterday has quite a bit of its ears missing now. Angus’s new mate is a retired sheepdog called Arrow. I say he is retired but sadly he is too barmy and old to know that he is retired, so he keeps rounding things up anyway. Not usually sheep though … things like chickens, passing cars … old Scottish people doing their haggis shopping. Angus hangs out with Arrow and they generally terrorise the neighbourhood and lay waste to the wildlife.

       9:30 p.m.

      It’s quite sweet and groovy walking along with Angus and Arrow. They pad along behind me. At least I have got some intelligent company in this lonely Sex Godless hell-hole.

      9:35 p.m.

      When the three of us got to Alldays, Scotland’s premier nightspot, I couldn‘t believe it.

      Alldays turns out to be a tiny twenty-four-hour supermarket.

      Not a club or anything.

      A bloody shop.

      And all the “youth” (four Jock McThicks on bikes) just go WILD there. They hang around in the aisles in the shop, listening to the piped music! Or hang about outside on their pushbikes and go in the shop now and again to buy Coca Cola or Irn-Bru!

      Sacré bloody bleu and quel dommage.

      Midnight

      That was it. The premier nightspot of Scotland.

      I said to Mutti, “Have you noticed how exceptionally crap it is here?” and she said, “You have to make your own fun in places like this. You have to make things happen. Anyway, you do exaggerate.”

      Vati said, “Your cousin will be here tomorrow.”

      Double merde. Vati reaches alarming levels of bonkerosity sometimes. Why does he think I will be pleased to see my cousin James, also known as Pervy Jimjams, pervert extraordinaire?

       12:30 a.m.

      Hoot hoot. Scuffle scuffle. Root root. Good grief, it’s like a badger party out there … Oh no, no, hang on, I forgot – I am enjoying my lovely holiday. Mum was right. I am exaggerating. Something did happen at Scotland’s premier hotspot. One Jock McThick lit up a fag and had such a coughing fit that he spilt his Coke on his trousers and had to go home.

       1:00 a.m.

      Honestly.

      I am not kidding.

       1:30 a.m.

      I wonder if it would be uncool to walk the forty-eight miles into town and phone the SG?

       1:35 a.m.

      Or walk home to England?

       Sunday October 24th 10:20 a.m.

      Still in Och-aye land. Tartan trousers for as far as the eye can see.

       10:31 a.m.

      How many hours has it been since I saw Robbie now? Hmmm, ninety hours and thirty-six minutes.

       10:46 a.m.

      How many minutes is that?

       11:04 a.m.

      Oh God, I don’t know. I can’t do multiplication very well; it’s too jangly for my brain. I’ve tried to explain this to Miss Stamp our maths Oberführer (and part-time lesbian). It is not, as she stupidly suggests, that I am too busy writing notes to my mates or polishing my nails to concentrate, it is just that some numbers give me the mental droop.

      Eight for instance.

      It’s the same in German. As I pointed out to Herr Kamyer, there are too many letters in German words.

      The German types say Goosegot in the morning; how normal is that? In fact, how can you take a language like that seriously? Well you can’t, which is why I only got sixty per cent in my last German exam.

       11:50 p.m.

      I’m just going to lie in bed conserving my strength for a snogging extravaganza when I get home.

      Midday

      Mutti came into my room with a tray of sandwiches. I said, “Goosegot in Himmel, Mutti, have you gone mad? Food? For me? No, no, I’ll just have my usual bit of old sausage.”

      She still kept smiling. It was a bit eerie actually. She was all dreamy. Wafting around in a see-through nightie. Good Lord.

      “Are you having a nice time, Gee? It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it?”

      I looked at her ironically.

      She raved on. “It’s fun, though, isn’t it?”

      “Mum, it’s the best fun I’ve had since … er … since Libby dropped my make-up into the loo.”

      She tutted, but not even in her usual violent tutting way. Just like, nice tutting.

      Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.

      She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”

      I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.

      “It will be СКАЧАТЬ