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