Kitabı oku: «‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’»

She who laughs last laughs the laughingest
Sunday November 21st My bedroom Midday as the crow flies Throwing it down

I’ve just seen a sparrow be quite literally washed off its perch on a tree. It should have had its umbrella up. But even if it had had its umbrella up it might have slipped on a bit of wet leaf and crashed into a passing squirrel. That is what life is like. Well it’s what my life is like.

Once more I am beyond the Valley of the Confused and treading lightly in the Universe of the Huge Red Bottom. What is the matter with me? I love the Sex God and he is my only one and only, but try telling that to my lips. Dave the Laugh only has to say, “You owe me a snog,” and they start puckering up. Well, they can go out on their own in future.

12:30 p.m.

I wonder why the Sex God hasn’t phoned me? The Stiff Dylans got back yesterday from their recording shenanigan. Maybe he got van lag from travelling from London? Or maybe he has spoken to Tom and Tom has just happened to say, “Oh Robbie, we all went to a fish party last night and when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise your new girlfriend Georgia accidentally snogged Dave the Laugh. You should have been there, it was a brilliant display of red bottomosity. You would have loved it!”

Oh God. Oh Goddy God God. I am a red-bottomed minx.

12:35 p.m.

On the other foot, no one saw me accidentally snog Dave the Laugh, so maybe it can be a secret that I will never tell. Even in my grave.

12:45 p.m.

But what if Jas has accidentally thought about something else besides her fringe and put two and two together vis-à-vis Dave the Laugh, and blabbed to her so-called boyfriend Tom.

She is, after all, Radio Jas.

1:00 p.m.

I would phone Jas but I am avoiding going downstairs because it’s sheer bonkerosity down there. Mr and Mrs Across the Road have been over at least a trillion times saying, “Why? Oh why???” and, “How?” and occasionally, “I ask you, why? And how?”

At least I am not the only red-bottomed minx in the universe, or even in our street, actually. Naomi, their pedigree sex kitten is pregnant, even though she has been under house arrest for ages. Well, as I have pointed out to anyone who can understand the simplest thing (i.e. me and…er…that’s it), Angus cannot be blamed this time. He is merely an innocent stander-by in furry trousers.

2:05 p.m.

I was forced to go downstairs in the end to see if I could find a bit of old Weetabix to eat. Fortunately Mr and Mrs Across the Road had gone home. However, the Loonleader (Dad) was huffing and puffing about trying to be grown-up, twirling his ridiculous beard and adjusting his trousers and so on.

I said, “Vati, people might take you more seriously if you didn’t have a tiny badger living on the end of your chin.”

I said it in a light-hearted and trés amusant way, but as usual he went sensationally ballistic. He shouted, “if you can’t be sensible, BE QUIET!”

Honestly, the amount of times I am told to be quiet I might as well have not wasted my time learning to speak.

I could have been a mime artist.

2:15 p.m.

I mimed wanting to borrow a fiver but Mutti pretended she didn’t know what I wanted.

Back in my bedroom 2:45 p.m.

Mr and Mrs Across the Road came around again with the back-up loons (Mr and Mrs Next Door). I thought I had better sneak down and see what was going on. No sign of Angus, thank the Lord. I don’t think this is his sort of party (i.e. a cat-lynching party).

Mr Across the Road (Colin) is a bit like Vati, all shouty and trousery and unreasonable. He said, “Look, she’s definitely, you know, in the…er, family way. The question is, who is the father?”

Dad (the well-known cat molester) said, “Well, Colin, as you know, we took Angus to the vet and had him…er, seen to. So there is no question in that department.”

Mr Across the Road said, “And they were…dealt with, were they? His…well…I mean they were quite clearly…er, snipped?”

This was disgusting! They were talking about Angus’s trouser-snake addendums, which should remain in the privacy of his trousers. They rambled on for ages, but as Gorgey Henri, our French student teacher, would say, it is “le grand mystère de les pantaloons”.

Which reminds me, I should do some French homework so that I stay top girl in French.

2:55 p.m.

This is my froggy homework: “Unfortunately while staying in a gîte, you discover that your bicycle has been stolen. You decide to put an advert in the local paper. In French, write what your advert would say.”

3:00 p.m.

My advert reads, “Merci beaucoup.”

3:00 p.m.

I cheered up a bit because Grandad came round and set fire to himself with his pipe. He didn’t put it out properly and then put it in his trouser pocket. It was only my quick thinking with the soda siphon that prevented an elderly inferno.

4:05 p.m.

Still no call from SG. I am once more on the rack of love.

4:10 p.m.

Phoned Jas.

“Jas.”

“What?”

“Why did you say ‘what’ like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know sort of…funny.”

“I always say ‘what’ like that, unless I’m speaking French; then I say ‘quoi?’ or if it’s German I say…”

“Jas, be quiet.”

“What?”

“Don’t start again, let me get to my nub.”

“Oo-er.”

“Jas.”

“Sorry, go on then, get to your nub.”

“Well, you know when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise…”

She started laughing in an unusually annoying way, even for her – sort of snorting. Eventually she said, “It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well, apart from when you made me put all those vegetables down my knickers. There’s still some soil in them.”

“Jas, now, or any other time is not the time to discuss your knickers. This is a situation of sheer desperadoes, possibly.”

“Why?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from the Sex God and I thought maybe…”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you last night? He told me to tell you to meet him by the clock tower. He has to help his olds unpack some stuff for the shop this afternoon. Apparently they are going to sell an exciting range of Mediterranean vine tomatoes that–”

“Jas, Jas. You are obsessed by tomatoes, that is the sadnosity of your life, but what I want to know is this: WHAT TIME did Robbie say to meet him at the clock tower???”

She was a bit huffy with me, but said, “Six o’clock.”

Oh, thank you, thank you. “Jas, you know I have always loved you.”

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 of avoiding the foam moustache; what you do is drink the coffee like a hamster. You purse your lips really tightly and then only suck through the middle bit. Imagine you are a hamster 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!!!”