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Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.
She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”
I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.
“It will be a laugh.”
“No it won’t. When did we last have a laugh as a family? Apart from when Grandad’s false teeth went down that woman’s bra?”
1:00 p.m.
The “lovebirds” went off to the pencil factory. They only got Libby to go with them because she thinks they are going to go and see the pencil people.
And I do mean pencil people. Not people who make pencils. Pencil people. People who are pencils. She’ll go ballistic when she finds out it’s just some boring Scottish bloke making pencils.
Oh I am SO bored. Hours and hours of wasted snogging opportunities.
1:20 p.m.
I’d go out but there is nothing to look at. It just goes trees, trees, water, hill, trees, trees, Jock McTavish, Jock McTavish. What is the point of that?
On the plus side, I am going out with a SEX GOD!
1:36 p.m.
Oh Gott in Himmel! What is the point of going out with a Sex God if no one knows? Not even me at this rate.
4:00 p.m.
I wonder if I should phone him?
4:30 p.m.
I was even nearly pleased to see James and Grandad arrive with Uncle Eddie.
For about a second. Uncle Eddie had hired a van specially. He probably had to get a special kind that accommodates the very bald.
James’s voice has gone all weird. It’s sort of deep and then all squeaky. How normal is that? He is by no means a lurker-free zone either, I notice. Tout au contraire.
Dad said, “Cum awa’ in!” in a really crap Scottish accent and Grandad started to jig around “dancing”, and had to be helped into the cottage.
Uncle Eddie said, “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I’ve brought supplies of large Union Jack underpants!” What in the name of Louis the Fourteenth is he on about?
7:00 p.m.
Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.
I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”
Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?
This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.
11:00 p.m.
Despite the incredible crapness of my life my nunga-nungas have made me laugh.
Nunga-nungas is what Ellen’s brother and his mates call girls’ basoomas. He says it is because if you pull out a girl’s breast and let it go … it goes nunga-nunga-nunga. He is obviously a touch on the mental side.
11:10 p.m.
But quite funny though.
11:20 p.m.
I wonder what size nunga-nunga-holder Mum wears?
11:30 p.m.
Perhaps I could make some nunga-nunga protectors by electrifying my sports bra with a battery type thing. That would give Cousin James the perv a shock if he attempted to “accidentally” molest my nungas.
11:35 p.m.
But it would also give me a shock, which is la mouche in the ointment.
Midnight
Angus has rediscovered his Scottish roots. Apparently they are in the middle of some bog because he had bits of horrible slimy stuff in his whiskers. He came into my bed purring and all damp and muddy. Still, he soon got nice and dry by wiping himself on my T-shirt.
God he smells disgusting. I think he’s been rolling in fox poo again. He thinks it’s like a sort of really attractive aftershave.
12:10 a.m.
It isn’t.
Monday October 25th10:00 a.m.
Why oh why oh why has the SG not called me? Oh hang on, I know why he hasn’t, it’s because we haven’t got a phone in our fantastic cottage. I couldn’t believe it when we first arrived. I said to Mutti, “There has been some mistake. I’m afraid we must go back to civilisation immediately. I’ll drive.”
Dad raved on about “tranquillity” and the simple life.
I said, “Vati, you can be as simple as you like, but I want to talk to my mates.”
He grumbled on about my constant demands. As I pointed out to him, if he would buy me a mobile phone like everyone else on the planet I wouldn’t have to bother speaking to him at all.
2:00 p.m.
I can’t stand much more of this. The whole “family” has gone on a forced march. Well, Vati called it “a little walk in the woods”. But I know about his little walks. I know exactly what will happen: the Loonleader will be all bossy and “interested” in stuff like cuckoo spit. Then he’ll lose the way and argue with Grandad about the right way home. Grandad will fall over something and Uncle Eddie will be attacked by sheep. And that will only be the high spots.
I pretended I had a headache.
Vati said to me as I lay in my pretend bed of pain, “You’ve probably given yourself eyestrain looking in that bloody mirror all the time.”
I said, “If I develop a brain tumour you will be the first person I will come to because of your great kindness and sympathosity.”
4:20 p.m.
On the edge of sheer desperadoes. Decided to go for a walk.
Arrow tried to round me up as I came out of the gate. So to make him happy I let him herd me into a hedge for a bit. Then I set off down the lane. Ho hum. Birds singing, ferrets ferreting, probably. Jock McThicks McThicking around. Good grief. Then I came across a phone box.
Uh-oh. Temptation.
The phone box was saying to me, “Come in and use me, you know you want to.”
I have been practising maturiosity by not phoning the Sex God. It seems like a lifetime since he last snogged me. My lips have definitely got snog withdrawal. I found myself trying out kissing techniques on scuba-diving Barbie last night. Which is truly sad. I wonder if Rosie is right? Her theory is that if you snog a lot your lips sort of swell up and get bigger. It makes you wonder what in the name of Slim’s pantaloons Mark the Big Gob has been doing.
I must pass by the phone box with complete determinosity.
4:30 p.m.
Brring brring.
Please don’t let it be Robbie’s mum or dad. Please don’t let me have to be normal.
Oh thank goodness, SG answered the phone. Jellyknickers all round.
He said, “Hello,” in a Sex Goddy sort of a way.
Wow!!
Then he said, “Hello,” again.
Wow.
Then I realised that normally when you phone someone you are supposed to say something. And that something is NOT “I love you, I love you!” or “gyunghf”. So I took the bullet by the horns and said, “Hi, Robbie … it’s me. Georgia.”
(Very good, I had even said the right name!!!)
He sounded like he was really pleased to hear from me. “Gee! How are you, gorgeous!”
Gorgeous, he, me called, gorgeous. Me, I.
Georgia to brain, Georgia to brain! Shut up shut up shut up!!!!!
He said again, “Gee, are you there? Are you having a good time?”
“Fantastic, if you like being bored beyond the Valley of Boredom and into the Universe of the Very Dull.”
He laughed. (Hurrah!!!)
Oh, it was so dreamy to talk to him. I told him about everything. Well, apart from being molested by my cousin. He says some talent scouts are coming to see the next Stiff Dylans gig!!
Then he said, “Look Gee, I’m really sorry but I have to go. I could talk to you all day but I have to go off to a rehearsal and I’m late now.”
Ho hum. Well I suppose this is the price I must pay for being the GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD POPSTAR!!! YESSS!!
He said, in his groovy voice full of gorgeosity, “See you later. I’d like to snog you to within an inch of your life. I’ll phone you when you get back.”
OOOhhhhhh.
After he had put the phone down I stroked my T-shirt with the receiver, pretending it was him. But then I saw that one of the Jock McTavishes was waiting outside the telephone box, looking at me, so I had to pretend I was cleaning the receiver.
4:45 p.m.
Phew. To make Jock go away I have said I will go to Alldays later. Jock seemed to believe me because he said, “Awa’ the noo hoots akimbo,” or something. After he had done wheelies(!) and gone off on his bike I popped back into the telephone box to phone Jas.
“Jas, it’s me!!!! God it’s good to speak to you! What’s been happening???”
“Er … well … I got this fab new foundation; it’s got gold bits in it that make you …”
“Jas, no, no, no, be quiet, I have to tell you something.”
I told her about talking to the Sex God. “It was SO dreamy. He is going to be a HUGE popstar and then I will be richey rich rich. But still your best pal, Jas.”
She said, “Tom is thinking about doing Environmental Studies.”
I nearly said “Who cares?” but you have to be careful with Jas because she can turn nasty if she thinks you are not interested in her. I tried to think of something to say.
“Oh … er … yeah … the environment … er, that’s great, erm, there’s a lot of … er … environment here – in fact, that is all there is.”
Then I told her about the James fandango.
She said, “Erlack-a-pongoes. Did you encourage him? Maybe you gave out the wrong signals.”
“Jas, I was not in the nuddy-pants.”
“Well I’m just saying, he must have thought he could rest his hand on your basooma. Why is that? He has never rested his hand on my basoomas, for instance.”
“What are you rambling on about?”
“I’m just saying, this is not the first time this has happened to you, is it? There was Mark the Big Gob—”
“Yeah but—”
“You say it just happened. That just out of the blue he put his hand on your basooma. No one else was there so we will never really know for sure.”
“I didn’t … it was—”
