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

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СКАЧАТЬ having a cup of coffee at Hammy’s, the famous hamster coffee shop. Shut up, shut up!!!

      The Sex God told me all about an agent-type person offering them a record deal and them staying in this groovy hotel with room service and looking around London.

      I said, in between sips of hamster coffee, “Did you see the Changing of the Gourds?”

      He said, “Changing of the Gourds?”

      Oh no…I had forgotten to unpurse my hamster lips.

      “Guards. The changing of the Guards.”

      He really didn’t seem to mind that he had a complete idiot for a girlfriend because he leaned over the table and kissed me. In public!!! In the café!! Like in a French film. Everyone was looking. Of course then it meant that I had to nip off to the loos for emergency lip gloss application. It’s very hard work being the girlfriend of a Sex God; that is what some people might not know.

      We left Luigi’s and walked towards my house hand in hand. Thank goodness Robbie is tall enough for me. I don’t have to do the orang-utan lolloping along that I had to do with Mark Big Gob. I think that must mean that we are perfect partners, because our arms are the same length.

      10:05 p.m.

      When we reached the bottom of my street I said to the Sex God that it would be better if he wasn’t exposed to my parents because of the Angus fandango.

      He asked me what had happened and I said, “Well, in a nutshell, Naomi is pregnant and the finger of shame is pointing towards Angus, even though he is well, you know…not as other men in the trouser addendum department.”

      When I eventually managed to tear myself away SG gave me a really amazing Number Six with a dash of Six and a quarter (tongues with lip-nibbling). I managed to not fall over and I very nearly waved at him like a normal person when he went home. I like to think I handled the whole incident with sophisticosity.

      That is what I like to think.

      SG is meeting me on Tuesday after Stalag 14. Hurrah!!!

      Everything is going to be fabbity fab fab and also possibly bon. For evermore.

      10:32 p.m.

      Wrong. Vati had his usual outburst of insanity when I let myself in.

      “You treat this house like a bloody hotel.”

      As if. The sanitary inspectors would close the place down if they saw the state of my room. What decent hotel has a toddler pooing in its wardrobes?

      Kitchen

      Mutti was wearing what I think she imagines is a sexy negligée. I tried to ignore it and said, “What happened at the cat-lynching party?”

      “Well, even though Mr and Mrs Across the Road think in principle Angus should be made into a fur handbag, they had to admit that he must be innocent of Naomi’s pregnancy.”

      She seems to think it was all quite funny. But then this is the same woman who, when I asked if she had ever two-timed anyone, said, “Yes, it was great.”

      Poor Angus is an innocent victim of Naomi’s red bottomosity. This is a lesson for me about where blatant and rampant red bottomosity can lead. I have had a lucky escape.

      10:45 p.m.

      I’m so exhausted by the tension of life that I barely have the energy to cleanse, tone and moisturise, let alone tape down my fringe. I am so looking forward to lying down to rest in my boudoir of love.

      11:00 p.m.

      Libby has got all her toys in my bed AGAIN! All their heads are lined up on my pillow. And some of her toys are quite literally just heads. I don’t know exactly how beheading is going to be useful in her future career but she is bloody good at it.

      Libbs popped out from my wardrobe in the nuddy-pants, but wearing A LOT of mum’s eyeshadow, and not on her eyes.

      “Heggo, Ginger, it’s me!!!”

      “I know it’s you, Libbs – look, sweetheart, wouldn’t you like to go in your own snuggly, cosy bed and—”

      “Shut up, bad boy. Snuggle.”

      “Libby, I can’t snuggle; you’ve got too many things in my bed.”

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

      “Get in.”

      “Look, let me just take something out to make a bit of room…look, I’ll just take this old potato—”

      “Grr…”

      “Don’t bite!!!”

      Midnight

      If I have to sing “Winnie Bag Pool” to Mr Potato one more time I may have to kill myself.

      I went to my so-called parents’ bedroom door and talked to them from outside in the hall. I’ve seen Dad in his pyjamas before and it’s not a sight for someone as artistic and sensitive as moi.

      “Hello…it’s me. Georgia. Remember Me? Your daughter. And your other daughter, Libby, do you remember her? Two foot six, blonde, senselessly violent?? Ring any bells?”

      Vati yelled, “Georgia, what is it now? Why aren’t you in bed? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

      “Hello, Father, how marvellous to speak with you once again…”

      “Georgia, if I have to get out of bed and listen to more rubbish from you…well, you’re not too old to smack, you know!”

      Smack? Has he finally snapped? He’s never smacked anyone in his life. The last time he lost his rag with me, he threw his slipper and it missed me and broke his hilarious (not) mug in the shape of a bottom.

      Mutti opened the bedroom door unexpectedly as I was leaning against it and I nearly fell into her basoomas.

      She finally persuaded Libby to go into her and Dad’s bed. So thankfully Libbs clanked off with Mr Potato, Pantalitzer, Charlie Horse, scuba-diving Barbie and the rest of her “fwends”.

      I was just snuggling down to go off into boboland when I heard her pitter-pattering back into my room. Oh dear God, she hadn’t left something disgusting lurking in the bottom of my bed, had she?

      She came right up to me and whispered in my ear, “I lobe you, Ginger. You are my very own big sister.”

      Awww. I put my hand on her little head. Sometimes I love her so much I feel like I would plunge into a vat of eels to save her. If she fell in one, which in her case is not as unlikely as you might think.

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