‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’. Louise Rennison
Casualosity. Can you say that, Jas?”
Jas got into her huffmobile. “I know how to be casual, Georgia.”
“Wrong.”
In bed
5:00 p.m.
I am absolutely full of exhaustosity. How difficult can it be to be casual? We coached Jas for four hours. It was like talking to a lemming in a skirt.
First of all, we tried it her way. Always a mistake in my humble (but right) opinion. Her idea of casualosity essentially means that she says: “Does Robbie fancy Georgia? Or is he normal?”
I had to use clevernosity to get Jas to do what I wanted in the end. I said, “I’ve got an idea. You know how good you were as Lady MacUseless and everything, Jas?”
Jas said, “Yes, it took quite a lot out of me, actually. Do you remember the bit when I had the dagger and…”
Oh no, three million years were going to go by while she relived her big moments in the school play.
I interrupted her by hugging her so hard that her head was buried in my armpit and said, “Yes, yes, now this is my idea.”
I asked her to act out what she was going to do in an improvised scene, like in drama. She loves that sort of thing as she is such a teacher’s bum-oley kisser.
Rosie volunteered to be Tom. She said, “I’ve got the legs for it.”
Incidentally I’m a bit worried that she was able to whip out a false beard from her rucky. I said that to her, I said, “Rosie, do you carry a beard around with you at all times?”
And she said, “Well, you never know.”
The Viking bride-to-be gets madder and madder. We are definitely entering the Valley of the Unwell.
Anyway, Jas was mincing around like a mincing thing, warming up, flicking her fringe at Tom (or Rosie in a beard, as we know him). It was incredibly irritating. I was on the edge of a mega nervy b. and supertizz as it was. I said, “Jas what in the name of arse are you doing?”
And she said huffily, “I am getting into character.”
I said, “But you are being you.”
She looked at me like I had fallen out of her nose. “I am finding the inner me.”
Good grief. Her “inner me” is bound to be an owl.
Eventually she was ready and came pratting girlishly up to Rosie and twittered, “Oh, Tom, I found some vole spore down by the woods.”
Tom/Rosie said (in a French accent, for no apparent reason – it must be the beard), “Ah, did you, my liddle pussycat? Would you like to, how you say… kiss my beard?”
Jas actually blushed and said, “Well, you know I would, Tom… but maybe, you know, in private, not in front of everyone.”
I had to put a stop to this. It was like watching some pervy film, like Two Go Mad in Bearded Lezzie Land. I said, “Will you get on with it?”
Jas predictably lost her rag immediately over the slightest thing and said, “I was just getting in the mood, actually, and anyway this is stupid, practising to be casual. I know how to be casual.”
I said, “Well, why don’t you BE casual then?”
She gave me her worst look, but eventually after Mabs gave her a Midget Gem they started again. Jas said to Rosie, who now had a pipe, “Tommy-wommy?”
“Oui.”
“Well, I was just, you know, thinking about Robbie. It’s nice he’s back, isn’t it?”
“Mais oui – très très magnifique.”
It was pointless objecting about the Froggyland language, especially as Ro Ro was now plaiting her beard.
Jazzy said, “Did he come back, you know, because he missed England and his mates? Do you think he will join the Stiff Dylans again?”
I looked at Jas in amazement. She had asked an almost good question in a quite subtle way and not mentioned me. Blimey.
And it only took four-and-a-half hours of torture. We had to leave it there because Sven came along yodelling through the trees (no, I am not kidding).
5:30 p.m.
When would be a good time to call Radio Jas? Surely she must have had time to talk to Tom by now? I should exercise discipline and patience, of course.
5:31 p.m.
Phoned Jas.
“Jas.”
“What?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, well, this is me, too.”
“Jas, don’t start.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“Good.”
And I put the phone down. That will teach her.
Two minutes later
“Jas, what have you found out?”
“I’ve found out that I am having scrambly eggs for tea. Byeeee.”
And she put the phone down.
Damn.
I have my pride, thank goodness. No one can take that away from me. I won’t be bothering Jas again, not while she is so busy stuffing her gob with eggy.
6:00 p.m.
This is torture but I will never give in. Never, never. The Eggy One will never get the better of me.
6:10 p.m.
Phoned Rosie. I’ll get her to phone Eggy and casually ask her, but not on my behalf.
6:20 p.m.
Rosie is out with Sven at the “pictures”, her mum says. Oh yeah, as if. And the film they are watching is, Number Seven on the Snogging Scale.
I daren’t ask Ellen, Jools or Mabs to phone Jas as they are bound to spill the beans to Eggy. The tragedy is that all three of them are such crap liars; it’s a curse, really.
7:30 p.m.
She is soooooo annoying. She will never phone me if she has got the hump.
7:35 p.m.
Masimo hasn’t called or anything. Maybe he really does think I am insane. Or maybe he thinks I caught the train from the shopping centre and have gone away for a few days. In which case he is insane.
If I have an early night I can do skincare – cleanse and tone, and get everything ready for tomorrow just in case I have a chance encounter with one of my many maybe boyfriends on the way to Stalag 14.
8:15 p.m.
Blimey, I look about two and a half, I am so shiny faced and clean. Also, I am nice and baldy everywhere, except on my head, of course. I do not want to have an Uncle Eddie hairstyle.
Actually, my hair is a bit of a boring colour. It hasn’t got je ne sais quoi and umph.
Bathroom