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‘…startled by his furry shorts!’
‘…startled by his furry shorts!’
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‘…startled by his furry shorts!’

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7:30 a.m.

Had a dream about Masimo last night, only he wasn’t speaking in a nice Pizza-a-gogo land accent; he was saying things like, “That is well good” and “Shut it, my son”. And most alarmingly he was in a band called the Blunder Boys. I was at the gig and he came over to me and said, “Get your tracksuit top, you’ve pulled.” And as we rode off on his scooter, he started singing, “The Funky Moped” by Jasper Carrot. I’ve woken up in a cold sweat. What can it mean?

Wednesday June 22nd

6:00 p.m.

How long can this torture go on? On one hand the days seem very very long, like creeping along snaily days; on the other hand it’s only a matter of hours until Friday. How many hours exactly? Well, it’s 6:00 p.m. now, so that means plus six tonight and then plus twenty-four for tomorrow, and then… er, well, what time will he phone on Friday? Will he count from the hour he told me he would tell me in a week’s time? I would. It was 5:45 p.m. last Friday when he told me, so a week would be 5:45 p.m. this Friday. But you never know with boys. What if he counts it from when he got home? Would that be 6:15 p. m? Or maybe he didn’t go straight home; maybe he went to the shops and got a few nibbly things, then bumped into someone, so he didn’t actually get home until 8:00 p.m. Oh God.

6:30 p.m.

Phoned Jas in sheer desperadoes.

“Jas, do you think he will phone me or come round?”

“Erm, I dunno.”

“Yeah, but what do you think? What would you do if you were going to tell me whether you wanted to go out with me?”

“Er… but I don’t want to go out with you. I would just tell you. In fact, I am just telling you now.”

“Jas, you are being what is technically known as a fool.”

She of course, classically, immediately for no reason, got the megahump. But I was in no mood for her humps. I said, “What does Tom think?”

She said, “Hang on, I’ll ask him.”

Good grief, are they joined at the hip?

She came back a few mins later and said, “Tom says he will do a bit of detective work and see if he can find out anything.”

I said thanks, but in my heart of hearts I don’t know if letting Radio Jas find out things is the best foot forward. Too late now.

8:30 p.m.

Tom is going to the snooker club tonight and the Stiff Dylans are playing in a tournament there. Ohgoddygodgod.

Midnight

Jas says she will tell me anything she finds out tomorrow because Tom is going to call her first thing. How am I supposed to sleep under these conditions?

Thursday June 23rd

Banging on Jas’s door

7:50 a.m.

Jas’s mum answered the door all washed and dressed normally. And smiling. Crikey. It’s so relaxing and normal round here; no wonder Jas has got a boyfriend and is not on the rack of love all the time. She has been brought up properly, not dragged up by fools like I have.

Jas’s mum said, “Would you like a piece of toast, dear, or maybe a boiled egg?”

A boiled egg!! Wow it was like being in a Famous Five book – the next thing you knew, Jas’s dad would come bounding in with a cheery smile and a newspaper.

One minute later

Jas’s dad came bounding in with a cheery smile and a newspaper. What is even more amazing is that although he smiled at me, he didn’t say anything. Nothing. How cool is that? He didn’t ask me anything or tell me a crap joke, he just went off to read his paper. Like a proper dad. He has probably got a pipe.

One minute later

He HAS got a pipe!!!

And he doesn’t even light it. He just sucks on it in a pleasant way and doesn’t annoy people with smoke, etc.

Amazing.

Walking along to Stalag 14

8:30 a.m.

Waiting for Jas to tell me about the snooker-hall thing. I’m not going to ask her; I have too much pridenosity. She was doing tuneless humming. Very annoying. Then she started talking about MacUseless and her part as Lady Macbeth. Who cares about her? She said, “Have you practised your crying for the bit when Macduff finds out his wife and children have been killed?”

I just looked at her. If she thinks it is me that should practise crying, she’s wrong; it’s her – if she carries on rambling about rubbish for a bit longer.


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