Louise Rennison_Georgia Nicolson 08 (4 page)

two minutes later

When you are having a tizz in nervy b. central, Call-Me-Arnold the Vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”

one minute later

I don't know why, though, because clearly Jesus' dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in the letter already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do? Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It's a bit like mime, isn't it? Why do we have to guess what is going on, why can't Big G just tell us and get it over with?

five minutes later

What if the note is from Masimo and it just says,
“Arrivederci.”

Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It goes “You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, you
make me happy when skies are gray, you'll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don't take your furry face away.”

ten minutes later

I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie, when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave the Laugh.

two minutes later

I wish I could phone the Hornmeister up now. This is when his Horn advice would be really good. Things have been a bit weird between us since he started seeing Emma. She's so nice, it's depressing.

Maybe that's why he's going out with her—because she's so nice, he doesn't know how to dump her.

Or maybe he likes nice people. Even her hair is nice. And her nose. How annoying is that?

And she's nice to me.

I hate that.

ten minutes later

Perhaps I can sort of sense what the words say by
looking at the envelope and using my psychedelic powers. I saw some geezer in a frilly shirt on TV who said that we all could tap into our clairvoyant side if we just concentrated.

I am looking at the envelope and concentrating.

five minutes later

My eyes have gone all blurry. Oh excellent, I am going blind. That's perfect, isn't it? Now even if I open the letter, I won't know what it says or who it's from.

one minute later

I can see a bit now. However, I think this is a lesson for us all…never trust blokes who wear frilly shirts and they are not doing it for a laugh.

one minute later

OK, this is it. I am opening the letter.

7:40 p.m.

The letter said:

Blimey. I am still as full of confusiosity. Is this good or bad? Am I glad it is from Robbie? Why hasn't Masimo got in touch? What does Robbie mean by “going for a coffee”? That is as bad as “See you later” in boyspeak.

one minute later

Does “going for a coffee” mean, you know, “going for a coffee”? Or does it mean, “Let us start with coffee and end up at No. 7”?

I must phone Jas.

Jas's dad answered. Blimey. I'd never heard him speak on the phone before, I'd only seen him sucking on his pipe, reading his paper or going out in sensible welligogs. Which is what you want in a dad, pipe sucking, silence and going away, but can you tell my vati that? No, you can't.

Jas eventually came to the phone.

She said, “What?”

“Why did you say ‘what' like that?”

“Like what?”

“Don't start, Jas, I have just had a letter from Robbie.”

“Oh, did he dump you?”

“No.”

“Really? Blimey. I thought he might have been put off by your running. It's really weird, you know.”

“Well, he wasn't, and he wants me to go for a coffee.”

“Blimey.”

“I don't know what going for coffee means.”

“Blimey.”

“Jas, can you say something else besides ‘blimey'?”

“Gee, I have to go now because Tom is leaving and I won't see him again for seventeen and a half hours.”

Oh dear Gott in Himmel.

four minutes later

Back in bed trying to keep my mind on higher things.

I wonder what number Jas'n'Tom have got up to on the snogging scale.

I have been very lax about finding out.

For the sake of science I think I had better do a survey of the ace gang and see if anything needs to be added since ear nibbling.

ten minutes later

I don't know why I am bothered, though. There might as well not be a snogging scale as far as I am concerned. I am well and truly a snog-free zone, which is unusual when you are supposed to be a boy magnet and have two or more Luuuurve Gods in your handy pandies.

In fact, when was the last time I snogged anyone, man or beast? (Not counting accidental tonguesies with my sister.) I may have forgotten all my skills, which I had better polish up on in case I have to pucker up for the Sex God.

What is that ludicrous thing that Jazzy Spazzy does? Oh yes, pucker, relax, pucker, relax.

five minutes later

I am full of snogging practice exhaustosity.

two minutes later

I hope doing this puckering malarkey is not going to mean I end up looking like Mark Big Gob. I had better not overdo it; no one wants to go out with a whale.

When was the last time I snogged the Sex God? Also, where is the last letter he wrote to me from Kiwi-a-gogo land?

one minute later

Oh, I know, I hid it on the top of my wardrobe in the only snooper-free zone in my so-called room.

one minute later

Why would a cat eat a letter? Why? It can't be hunger. But if you start asking questions about cats, you'd end up with the rest of the loons in the twilight home. Why do they eat spiders, that would be another one. There is not much nutrition in a spider, is there? And also, Angus doesn't really eat them, he just lets them loll out of the corner of his mouth in a disgusting way.

two minutes later

I've managed to read bits of the chewed-up letter.
And also found my missing fountain pen. Also heavily chewed. Don't tell me Angus and Gordy are cowriting a book.
Cat Tips on How to Really Annoy Your Baldy Owners
.

1. Hide their things and chew them.
   
2. If you are soaking wet from the rain, here is a top tip: Leap into your owner's lap and get nice and dry there.
   
3. Sit on walls and just look at them.
   

five minutes later

The only sense I can make from Robbie's chewed-up letter is, “Tom told me about your excellent dancing to ‘Three Little Boys'…and you are, in the nicest possible way, quite possibly clinically insane.”

This does not give the impression of sophisticosity that I want.

8:20 p.m.

I think I will just play the special CD he recorded for me before he went to Kiwi-a-gogo, to get me back in the mood.

8:45 p.m.

I tell you what I will not be doing: I will not be
lying with my head in his lap whilst he sings “I'm not there” to me. I have just remembered doing that in the park the summer before he went away. And I could see right up his nose. If I had been looking. Which I wasn't because I had my eyes closed and was nodding my head along in time to the music.

two minutes later

I've just remembered something else. I had a lurking lurker. Oh brilliant, now I have thought about lurkers, I am almost bound to get one.

one minute later

I must not get stressed out, that is the kind of thing that lurkers love.

I must be calm. Ohm.

three minutes later

Ah, my little furry letter-eating pals Angus and his adolescent son Gordy have come to keep me company in bed. That will be nice and soothing having them purring beside me. They seem in a nice sleepy mood for once. So night night, world.

Sex Kitty signing off.

ten minutes later

Fat chance. Other people have pets and I've got the furry freak brothers. They've done the flattening the bed down, pacing round and round and now they are doing that really really irritating prodding with their paws, kneading me like a dough person.

I will be a hollow-eyed wraith at this rate if I don't get some beauty sleep. I must do some inner calming exercises. Ooohhhmmm ohmmmmm.

Ooooohhhhhmmmyyygod. Mum has slammed into my inner sanctum carrying the spawn of the devil in her nightime nappy and deelyboppers.

I said, “What? What is it you people want of me???”

Oh brilliant, Bibbs is being bunged into my bed with me because she won't go to sleep without me. I said to Mum, “Mum, I am sure there is some European law against this kind of overcrowding. Even in poor people's land, I bet they don't have as many people and stuff in bed with them as I do.”

She just said, “Don't be silly, Gee, read Bibbsy a little boboland story.”

Libby had a big book with her that she smashed me in the nose with in a loving way as
she snuggled in, pushing Gordy out of bed. He had just nodded off and crashed to the floor. He went ballisticisimus, yowling and shivering and attacking the bedside light before leaping back onto the bed and burrowing up from the bottom. His head popped up in between the book and me and he spat at me. Good grief.

Libby said, “Aaaah naaaaice and comfy. Readey book, Ginger. About Sindyfellow. Now.”

I am a slavey girl in this family of loons, furry or otherwise.

ten minutes later

Blimey O'Reilly, I thought that
Heidi
was boring, cheese and goats and old grumpy blokes for as far as the eye can see, but
Cinderella
takes the bloody bee's pajamas on the boring and depressing front. This is the story: Cinderella lives with her ugly stepsisters. They hate her because she is pretty, although I can't say I blame the uglies. Looking at the drawing of Cinders, I would be inclined to give her a bit of a duffing-up. She has a very irritating sticky-up nose.

I read the story as fast as I could to get it over with: “Cinders is doing cleaning cleaning, some
poncey bloke in a wig invites the sisters to a ball, Cinderella can't go because she is in rags and then some bint turns up in wings and changes her frock into a ballgown and some cats and mice and a pumpkin into a coach and horses. Moaning Minnie (Cinders) dances with some other poncey bloke in a wig (not the first one), leaves at midnight, tries on a shoe and marries Prince Wiggy. The end.”

Libby laughed like a loon the whole way through, I don't know why. I don't want to know why.

You see, this is the sort of story that irresponsible fools (my mutti) make their children read. No wonder they are all mad and covered in cat food like my sister is.

And of course the whole facsimile of a sham turned to violence because Libby wanted to change Angus into a horse like in the story and banged him with her “wand” (my tennis racket), and the rest is history. Well, the vase in the knitted coverlet that Grandad's girlfriend Maisie gave me is history, Angus leaped up (not exactly changed into a horse as such) onto the windowsill and careered about, scattering my CDs, photos and the vase all over the place.

How can I be expected to have a decent snogging relationship with anyone whilst my home life is so bonkers?

tuesday july 19th

stalag 14

I had to practically iron my face this morning. I had slept facedown because I was so exhausted from the nighttime shenanigins and ordure. My nose was flat like a plate, all across my head. I had to use hot flannels to smooth it into a reasonable(ish) state. The only positive thing is that we have German today so at least I will be able to do my premakeup makeup in peace.

in the cloakroom

Talking to Jassy about my letter from Robbie, I said, “How come you told Robbie that I hate wildlife?”

“You do.”

“That is not the point, you should tell him something about my finer points, not ramble on about rubbish.”

“What are your finer points?”

I may have to kill her, but I won't be able to do
it in Assembly because Hawkeye is on Seeing Eye dog duty this morning. She never seems to tire of hating us. I reckon she limbers up every morning at home, shouting, “I hate all girls, I hate them. What do I do? I hate them!!!”

fifteen minutes later

Oh for heaven sakes, why does Slim bother going on and on? What is she talking about now? Isn't it bad enough that we have to get up at the crack of eight o'clock, get dressed, turn up, hang around all day being bored and depressed and usually get detention for our trouble? But she wants to talk as well. Why? What can she possibly say that would…then I heard the dreaded words “Four A are going on an exciting field trip in the last week of term.” What? What??? I looked at the ace gang and they looked at me. Slim went on, in tip-top jelloid mode. Her nungas were practically doing the Charleston. Separately. She said, “I think it's marvelous, and just shows the kind of spirit that we foster in this school. Herr Kamyer came up with the idea after form Four A expressed interest in the camping trips that he used to go on in the German forests. I am sure that this is a lovely surprise for all of Four
A. Instead of normal lessons next Friday you will go by school bus to the lovely Cow and Calf Valley and camp there overnight. There are printed details for you to take home to your parents. Round and about the site there is an absolute cornucopia of wildlife, riverlife abounds, and in the evenings Miss Wilson, who has volunteered to accompany Herr Kamyer, will be teaching you some of the games and songs that she was taught herself as a young lady. The whole thing sounds like a real treat. I only wish that I were able to come myself.”