‘Stop in the name of pants!’

скачать книгу бесплатно


I said, “Er… yes.”

“It’s a bit late to start, isn’t it?”

I said, “Er, well, it’s emergency baking. It has to be done by tomorrow.”

He said, “Oh, what are you making?”

How the hell did I know? I was lying. And also the only kind of confectionery I knew were the cakes I had got from the bakery of love. The Robbie éclair, the Masimo cream horn and then I remembered the Dave the Tart scenario and quickly said, “Erm, we’re making tarts. For the deaf. It’s for charity.”

He said, “Tarts for the deaf? That’s a new one on me. I’ll have to go down to the storeroom for some packets.” And he ambled off.

And that is when Junior Blunder Boy and full-time twit came in. Oscar.

He looked at me and said, “Yo, wa’appen, bitch?”

What was he talking about and also what was he wearing? He had massive jeans on about fifty sizes too big for him. He had to sort of waddle about like a useless duck to keep them from falling down. And pull them up every five seconds. How spectacularly naff and sad he was. I just looked at him as he waddled over to the kitchen counter. He reached up to get a can of Coca-Cola from a shelf and momentarily forgot about his elephant jeans. They fell to his ankles. Leaving him standing there in his Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers.

I said to him, “Oscar, you are wearing Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers. I know this because, believe it or not, your trousers have fallen off.”

He said, “Yes man, me mean to do that. Be cool, it is righteous.” And he shuffled off, still with the trousers round his ankles.

I will never, ever tire of the sheer bonkerosity of boydom.

11:00 p.m.

It took us nearly half an hour to get Mr Bucket off Libby. We greased as much of her bottom as we could reach, like a little suckling pig. Eventually we cut through the top of her panties and managed to make a bit of leeway and free the bum-oley.

For some toddlers, being greased up and pulled by brute force out of a metal bucket might have been a traumatic experience. But then not all toddlers are insane. Libby laughed and sang through the whole episode, amusing herself by gobbling stray bits of butter and smearing other bits on my head. Oh, how I joined in the merry times. Not.

In addition, Gordy and Angus lolloped in to lick at the leftover butter on her botty. Soooo disgusting. Libby was shouting, “They is ticklin me!!! Heggy heggy ho!!!”

Back in bed

It is like the botty casualty department in here. My bottom, which I have had no time to attend to, is being supported by Libby’s swimming ring and I have a buttered-up child rammed in next to me.

Also, have I got a boyfriend or not?

Midnight

And I am still thinking about the Dave the Laugh accidental snogging in the forest incident.

12:10 a.m.

Perhaps this is God’s little way of saying, “She who lives by the red bottom gets to lie in a rubber ring.”

Once more into the huffmobile (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Monday August 1st

8:00 a.m.

Oww oww and double owww!! I think my botty has taken a turn for the worse. I wonder if it is swollen up?

Looking in the mirror

It does look a bit on the swollen side. Oh marvellous. I will have to ask Jas if I can borrow some of her enormous winter pants. She will have got them out of her winter store by now. She starts ironing her school pants about a month before we are forced back to Stalag 14. Which reminds me, we only have about four weeks of holiday left. Sacré bleu and merde.

Libby has already scarpered off to get ready for nursery, so I can just have a little dolly daydream about snogging the Luuurve God. If I make a mental picture of us snogging, I might attract him to me through the psychic ethery stuff.

Ten minutes later

I can hear the postman coming up the drive. Ah, the postie. It’s a lovely job being a postie; you see it in all ye olde films that ye olde parents watch. Mr Postie coming up the drive with a cheery whistle and a handful of exciting letters for the family. A “Good morning, ma’am” to the mistress of the house and then—

“I’ve got a bloody stick, you furry freak, and I’m not afraid to use it!!!”

Charming. Utterly, utterly charming.

I looked out of the window. Angus was sitting on the dustbin showing off to Naomi, his mad Burmese girlfriend and slag, by taunting the postie – hissing and doing pretend biffing, sticking his claws in and out. The postie had to get by the dustbin to get to the door and he was waving a big stick about in Angus’s direction. Angus loves a stick. The larger the better. He lay down and started purring so loudly I could hear it in my bedroom. I don’t know why he loves sticks so much, but he does. Almost as much as he loves cars.

He thinks cars are like giant stupid mice on wheels. That he can chase after.

He brought a stick home the other day that was so big, it took him half an hour to figure out how to get it through the cat flap. He did it, though, because he is top cat.

Two minutes later

It was the same with the ginormous dead pigeon. Angus backed his way through the cat flap dragging the feet first, and then Gordy heave-hoed the head bit through.

It was an amazing double act. Father and son were very impressed with themselves. Although slightly covered in feathers. They even arranged the pigeon so that it was looking towards the door and propped up so Mum could get the full benefit when she came in.

She did get the full benefit and went ballistic, jumping on a chair and screaming etc. Angus and Gordy and the dead pigeon all looked at her.

“Bloody murdering furry thugs!!!” she yelled.

I said, “Look, you are really hurting their feelings.”

And then she threw the washing-up bowl at me. That is the kind of mothering I have to put up with.

One minute later

The postie has bravely got past Angus and disappeared from view as he posts our letters through the letter box. Angus has disappeared as well. Oh, I know what he is doing!

He is doing his vair vair amusing trick of lurking in the top of the hedge to leap down on the postie’s head as he passes by. Tee-hee. Happy days. I wish I was a cat. At least I would get fed now and again.

I wouldn’t be quite so keen on all the bum-oley licking. Although as mine is so swollen now, it would probably be easier to reach.

Mum yelled up, “Gee, come down and have brekkie and say goodbye to your family.”

I said, “Have I still got one? I thought that Father had left us and would never be back. That is what he promised.”

Dad yelled up, “You think you are so bloody funny, but you won’t when I don’t give you your ten-quid pocket money. Nothing to spend on your eyeliner or nit cream or whatever else it is that you plaster yourself with.”

Nit cream? Has he finally snapped?

Mum said, “Stop it, you two. Oooh look, here is a foreign postcard addressed to Georgia – I wonder who it’s from?”

Oh my giddy god’s pyjamas!!! I leaped downstairs, putting the pain of my bottom behind me. Tee-hee. Oh brilliant, my brain has gone into hysterical clown mode.

Thirty seconds later

Dad had the postcard in his hand and was reading it!!! Noooooo!

He was saying in a really crap Pizza-a-gogo accent, “Ciao, Georgia, it is smee.”

I tried to get the postcard from him. “Dad, that is private property addressed to me. If it doesn’t say ‘to some mad fat bloke’, it isn’t yours.”

Dad just went on reading it. “I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family.”

Finally I ripped it out of his hand and took it upstairs.

Mum said, “You are mean, Bob. You know what she is like.”

Dad said, “Yes, I do. She’s insane like all the other bloody women in this family. Hang on a minute… what the hell happened to my car-washing bucket?”

Mum said, “We had to hit it with a hammer in the end. Libby got her bottom stuck in it.”

Dad said, “I rest my case.”

In my room

Oh God, I am sooooo excited, my eyes have gone cross-eyed. What does it say?

Twenty seconds later

Ciao, Georgia,

It is smee. I am, how you say, hair in Roma wive my family. I am hot. (You don’t have to tell me that, mate.) I am playing fun. Are you playing fun? I miss I you me.

I call on the telefono on Tuesday for you. Ciao, bellissima, Masimo xxx

An hour later

After about three thousand years and a half, the Swiss Family Mad all crashed off to ruin other people’s lives and I could get on the old blower.

I nearly dialled Wise Woman of the Forest before I remembered that she had practically called me the Whore of Babylon. She is so full of suspicionosity. And annoyingnosity. How dare she suggest in front of everyone that I had been up to hanky-panky and rudey-dudeys with Dave the Laugh? She knows very well that I am going out with a Luuurve God. Who is a) hot and b) playing fun.

What in the name of arse does “playing fun” mean?

I must consult with my gang.

But not her.

I am ignorez-vousing her with a firm hand and it serves her right. I hope she realises that I am ignorez-vousing her, otherwise it’s all a bit pointless.

Two minutes later

I may have to call her and let her know I am ignorez-vousing her, as she can be a bit on the dense side.

Phoned Jas.

Her mum answered. “Hello, Georgia. Gosh, you had a fabulous time camping, didn’t you? Jas said you sang and played games till all hours.”

I said, “Er yes…”

“You had a great time, I bet.”

“Er yes, it was very, erm, campey.”

“Good. I’ll just call Jas, dear. I think she’s in her bedroom dusting and rearranging her owls and so on.”

You couldn’t really write it, could you? If I wrote a book and I said: “I’ve got a mate who dusts her collection of stuffed owls and follows greater toasted newts about,” people would say: “I’m not reading that sort of stupid exaggeration. Next thing you know, someone will say they went to a party dressed as a stuffed olive. Or accidentally snogged three boyfriends at once.” Hang on a minute, everything has gone a bit déjà vu-ish.

Jas came on the phone. “Yes.”

“Jas, it is me, the Whore of Babylon, but I am preparing myself to forgive you.”

“What are you forgiving me for?”

“Because you are a naughty pally saying things about me being selfish and lax and having a million boyfriends.”

Jas said, “It’s up to you how many boyfriends you have. I am not my brother’s keeper.”

“Jas, I know you aren’t. You haven’t got a brother.”

“I mean you.”

“I haven’t got a brother either, thank the Lord. I do, however, have an insane sister, who by the way is now probably going to be done for TBH.”

“You mean GBH – grievous bodily harm.”

“No, I mean TBH. Toddler bodily harm. Josh’s mum has complained about her and she is suspended from nursery school. She is staying with Grandfarty and he is looking after her. She is the first person in our family to get a restraining order besides Grandad.”

Jas was not what you would call full of sympatheticnosity.

“I don’t think she will be the last person in your family to get a restraining order, Georgia. I am a bit busy actually.”

“Jas, please don’t have Mrs Hump with me. I need you, my dearest little pally wally. Pleasey please, be frendy wendys. Double please with knobs. And a tiny little knoblet. And—”

“All right, all right, stop going on.”