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

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СКАЧАТЬ wears even more make-up than those scary circus people. You know when you go to the circus and you accidentally see a trapeze artist close up and they are orange.

      Alison Bummer, unusually spot free, just the one gigantic boil on her neck, shouted over to us as they headed for the back fields and town, “Bye, bye, little girls, have a nice time doing your lessons.”

      I said, “Honestly, I don’t know how they get away with it. They turn up for register, hang around torturing P. Green for a bit, have fifty fags in the loos and then bog off to town at lunchtime, to see their lardy boyfriends.”

      We had a tutting outbreak as we shared our last snacks.

      Rosie was shivering. “It is vair vair nippy noodles. I think I have got frostbite of the bum-oley.”

      Eventually, in between Nazi patrols led by Wet Lindsay (who may be head girl, but is still: a) wet and b) boyfriendless), we managed to sneak into the science block.

      Science block On our usual radiator

      Ellen said, “It was a groovy fish party, wasn’t it?”

      Rosie said, “Magnifique. I found bits of fishfinger everywhere, though. Sven got a bit carried away.”

      I said, “He should be.”

      Jas said to Ellen, “What happened at the end? With you and Dave the Laugh, you know, when he walked you home?”

      Ellen went all red and girlish. “Oh, you know.”

      I was prepared to leave it at that, but not old Nosey Knickers. She rambled on. “Did you and Dave the Laugh…do anything?”

      Ellen shifted around on the knicker toasting-rack (radiator) and said, “Well…”

      I said, “Look, if Ellen wants to have some personal space, well…”

      But Ellen was keen as le moutarde (keener) to talk about my dumpee. “He did, er, walk me home and…”

      The Ace Gang were all agog as two gogs, apart from me. I was ungogged. In fact, I was doing my impression of a cucumber (and no, I do not mean I was lying on some salad…I mean I was being cool).

      They all said, “Yes…AND???”

      “Well, he, you know, well he, well…”

      God’s shortie pyjamas, I was going to be a hundred and fifty at this rate.

      Ellen went red and started playing with her piggies (very annoying) and went on. “It was cool, actually. We got, well, we sort of got to Number Three and a bit.”

      What is “sort of Number Three and a bit” on the snogging scale? Perhaps I should “sort of” give her a good slapping to make her talk some sense. But no, no, no, why did I care? I was a mirage of glaciosity.

      As the bell went for resumption of abnormal cruelty (maths), Ellen said to me, “Dave does this really groovy thing, it’s like, er…lip nibbling.”

      He had nip libbled with her!! The bloody snake in the tight blue jeans had nip libbled her. How dare he??

      Ellen was rambling on. “We should add lip nibbling to our snogging scale.”

      Jas said, “We already have, it’s Six and a Quarter.”

      Ellen said to Jas, “Oh, have you done lip nibbling, then? With Tom?”

      Jas went off into the dreamworld that she calls her brain. “No, because Tom really respects me and knows that I want to be a prefect, but Georgia has done it. And she’s done ear snogging.”

      Then they all started. “Is that what the Sex God does?” “Does it make you go deaf?” and so on. Triple merde.

      As we went into maths, Ellen said, “You know when we played that game and you were supposed to snog Dave, well…did you?”

      I went, “Hahahahahahahahahahaha.” Like a hyena in a skirt. And that seemed to satisfy her.

      Once again I am in a state of confusiosity. In fact, I can feel my bottom throbbing again when I get a picture of Dave the Laugh nibbling my lips.

      And now Ellen’s.

      He is a serial nip libbler. I am better off without him.

      French

      Mon Dieu. Fabulosity all round. We are going on a school trip to le gay Paree next term. We were yelling, “Zut alors!” and “Mon Dieu!” and “Magnifique!!!” until Madame Slack threw a complete nervy strop. The fabby news is that Gorgey Henri is going to take us. The unfabby news is that Madame Slack and Herr Kamyer, dithering champion for the German nation, are also going. Still, that will be a bit of light relief. Herr Kamyer is almost bound to fall in the Seine at some time over the weekend.

      I wrote a note to Rosie: How much do you bet we can do the famous “Taking a souvenir photograph” of Herr Kamyer on the banks of the seine and he falls in when we say, “Just step back a bit, Herr kamyer, I haven’t quite got your lederhosen in yet.”?

      4:20 p.m.

      Walking home with Jas. I was trying to use her as a windbreak, but she kept dodging away from me. She is unusually full of selfishosity for someone who loves me.

      I said, “Thank Cliff Richard’s y-fronts that nobody knows about my accidental snogging incident.”

      “What snogging incident?”

      “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret I’m taking to my grave.”

      Oh sacré bleu. What is the matter with Jas (besides the obvious)?

      When I accidentally told her my secret that I will never tell, even in my grave, she went on and on about how I should be ashamed. She is so annoyingly good, like Mother Teresa with a crap fringe.

      Home

      Mutti in an unusually good mood. She had even bought a pie for us on the way home. Scarily like a real mum – apart from the ludicrously short skirt. She’s not going to tell me that I’m going to have another little brother or sister, is she?

      Still, I can’t think of everyone else. I am not God, I have enough to worry about thinking about myself.

      8:00 p.m.

      I am so worried about school tomorrow. I have so much to do.

      8:10 p.m.

      I can do my nails and foundation and eye stuff during RE – Miss Wilson won’t notice, as she will be sadly rambling on about the Dalai Lama or yaks or whatever it is she does talk about. But I suppose even she might notice if I took my curling tongs into class. СКАЧАТЬ