‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’. Louise Rennison

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      She got a bit nervous then. “What do you want now? I’ve got my homework to do and…”

      “Jas, Jas my petite amie do not avez-vous une spaz attack, I’m just saying that you are my number-one and tip-top pal of all time.”

      “Am I?”

      “Mais oui.”

      “Thanks.”

      “And what do you want to say to me?”

      “Er…goodbye?”

      “No, you want to say how much you love me aussi.”

      “Er…yes.”

      “Yes what?”

      “Er…I do.”

      “Say it, then.”

      There was a really long silence.

      “Jas, are you there?”

      “Hmm.”

      “Come on, ours is the love that dares speak its name.”

      “Do I have to say it?”

      “Oui.”

      “I…love you.”

      “Thanks. See you later, lezzie.” And I put down the phone. I am without a shadow of doubtosity VAIR amusant!!!

      4:30 p.m.

      Just enough time for a beauty mask to discourage any lurking lurkers from rearing their ugly heads, then in with the heated rollers for maximum bounceability hairwise. And finally, a body inspection for any sign of orang-utanness.

      4:45 p.m.

      Now, then, a few soothing yoga postures to put me in the right frame of mind for snogging. (Although I bet Mr Yoga says, “Avoid headstands while using hair rollers, as this causes pain and crashing into the wardrobe.” Only he would say it in Yogese, obviously.)

      Uh-oh, I feel a bit of stupid brain coming on. Think calmosity.

      5:00 p.m.

      Fat chance. I was just doing “down dog” when Libby burst in and started playing the drums on my bottom, singing her latest favourite, “Baa Baa Bag Sheet”, that well-known nursery rhyme. About a bag sheet that baas. “Baa Baa Bag Sheet” has replaced “Mary Had a Little Lard Its Teats Was White Azno”, which she used to love best.

      5:05 p.m.

      No sign of Angus. The loons are still having a world summit cat meeting downstairs. I heard clinking from the kitchen, which means that the vino tinto is coming out, so there will probably be fisticuffs later when they get drunk.

      Usual dithering attack about what to wear. It’s officially dark by five o’clock so I need to go from day to evening wear. Also it’s a bit nippy noodles.

      5:10 p.m.

      So I think black polo-neck and leather boots…(and trousers of course). And for that essential hint of sophisticosity I might just have to borrow Mum’s Paloma perfume. She won’t mind. Unless she finds out, of course, in which case she will kill me.

      5:15 p.m.

      Mum has got a plastic rainhat in her bag! How sad it would be to see her in it.

      Still, on the plus side it means that she is taking a more reasonable attitude towards her age. Hopefully it means that she will be throwing away her short skirts and getting sensible underwear.

      Oh, hang on, it’s not a rainhat, it’s a pair of emergency plastic knick-knacks for Libbs. Fair enough, you can never be too careful vis-à-vis emergency botty trouble and my darling sister.

      5:30 p.m.

      Sex God, here I come!!!

      I didn’t bother to interrupt the loon party; I just left a note on the telephone table:

      Dear M and V,

      I hope the cat-lynching party is going well. I have found a bit of old toast for my tea and a Jammy Dodger to avert scurvy and gone out. Remember me when you get a moment.

      Your daughter,

      Georgia

      p.s. Gone to meet Jas about froggy homework back about 9 p.m.

      Hahahaha très amusant(ish).

      6:00 p.m.

      As I came into the main street I could see the Sex God was waiting for me by the clock tower. I ducked into a shop doorway for a bit of basooma adjusting and lip gloss application. Also, I thought I should practise saying something normal so that even if my brain fell out (as it normally does when I see him) my mouth could carry on regardless. I thought a simple approach was best. Something like, “Hi,” (pause, and a bit of a sexy smile, lips parted, nostrils not flaring wildly) and then, “Long time no dig.”

      Cool – a bit on the eccentric side, but with no hint of brain gone on holiday to Cyprus.

      I came out of my shop doorway and walked towards him. Then he saw me. Oh heavens to Betsy, Mr Gorgeous has landed.

      He said, “Hi Georgia” in his Sex-Goddy voice and I said, “Hi Dig.”

      Dig???

      He laughed. “Always a bit of a tricky thing knowing what you are talking about at first, Georgia. This usually makes it better…” And he got hold of my hand and pulled me towards him. Quick visit to Number Four on the snogging scale (kiss lasting three minutes without a breath). Yummy scrumboes and marvelloso. If I could just stay attached to his mouth for ever I would be happy. Dead, obviously, from starvation, but happy. Dead happy. Shut up, shut up!! Brain to mouth, brain to mouth: do not under any circumstances mention being attached to his mouth for ever.

      The Sex God looked at me when he stopped his excellent snogging. “Did you miss me?”

      “Is the Pope a vicar?” I laughed like a loon at a loon party (i.e. A LOT).

      He said, “Er no, he’s not.”

      What are we talking about? I’ve lost my grip already.

      Luckily SG wanted to tell me all about London and The Stiff Dylans. We went and had a cappuccino at Luigi’s. As I have said many times, I don’t really get cappuccinos. It’s the Santa Claus moustache effect I particularly want to avoid. Actually, I have perfected a way СКАЧАТЬ