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The Taming Of The Tights
Louise Rennison
The tights run wild and free in this hilarious new novel from the Queen of Comedy!Tallulah Casey is putting all thoughts of wild boy Cain behind her. He is literally an animal in trousers… oo-er. Not like nice boy Charlie (who she’s totally not thinking about either).The Tree Sisters are chasing those golden slippers of applause at performing arts college but Dr Lightowler seems hell-bent on spoiling everything for Tallulah.And with all her mates loved up, can Tallulah resist the call of her wild boy?
Copyright (#ulink_1fd09708-3f09-531f-9176-1610f010ba2b)
First published in Great Britain in hardback
by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2013
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
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Copyright © Louise Rennison 2013
Source ISBN 9780007323920
Ebook Edition © July 2013 ISBN: 9780007476404
Version: 2018-07-16
Dear Eagle-eyed mates,
Some of you may remember that in ‘A Midsummer Tights Dream’
I hilariously (in my opinion) mentioned that my mum and sister
would not let me have the dead rabbit in Cain’s hand wave its
paw bye-bye to Tallulah.
I said at the time (and I’m not wrong) that it is a tip-top comedy idea.
But oh no – my so-called family said it would make me seem ‘childish’ – which clearly I am not. Anyway, I hid this book from them so
the crying rabbit is in, see here (#ulink_a498d4b7-f1bc-51d0-8a9b-2b014448a552).
So ha ha ha ha for calling me childish.
Peace.
To my Family Tree and my Tree Sisters and Tree Brothers and
to the various saps – I mean – saplings. Also to the naughty
Skipton Flossies (Katie and Eve).
And of course to the Tree Doctors with their Tree pruning,
Tree mulching and their Tree hugging: Gillie, Lizzie, Tara,
Elorine, Clare, Cassie (actually officially a sap) and Gillon xxxx
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u7bf01355-2fc4-53fe-8588-a2f994733565)
Copyright (#u2d01843a-82bd-5796-86a0-3b66c05c769e)
Dedication (#u47ad8f04-2432-592f-862f-6b07b541deab)
Chapter 1: Filling my tights again
Chapter 2: Lullah’s Lulu-luuuve List
Chapter 3: Return of the lunatic twins
Chapter 4: Snogs ahoy!
Chapter 5: The Blubberhouses Large Ladies Who Pole Dance For Fun Society
Chapter 6: Boy Ambush
Chapter 7: You don’t want to do any more winking back
Chapter 8: The fire escape of desire
Chapter 9: I’ve eaten snail shells
Chapter 10: Snogging and Jazzles
Chapter 11: The magic of puppetry
Chapter 12: Return of the beast in trousers
Chapter 13: See you there, cheeky miss
Chapter 14: My inner snogger
Chapter 15: Naughty bumberskite
Chapter 16: The church bells of doom
Chapter 17: Should I put nail varnish on my hoofs?
Chapter 18: The Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite
Chapter 19: He’s got the right amount of lip
Chapter 20: Praise the knees!
Chapter 21: Fir-cone earrings and knitted onesies
Chapter 22: The Taming of the Tights
Extract: The Corker-holding with winter socks scene
Georgia’s Ace Gang Snogging Scale
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 1 (#ubc3cfcec-62d4-5d61-97ef-455067d783e5)
Filling my tights again (#ubc3cfcec-62d4-5d61-97ef-455067d783e5)
Woo-hoo! And chug-a-lug-a-ding-dong. I’m on the train, chugging back to Dother Hall, the Theatre of Dreams.
Once more getting ready to fill my performance tights! Chasing the golden slippers of success! Preparing to let my feet bleed if necessary. That’s what Sidone Beaver, our headmistress, says we must do if we want to be stars in the thea-tah, dahlings!!! And this term I’m going to fill my tights as much as is humanly possible!!!!
Who would have thought that I, me, Tallulah Casey, a gangly Irish person, would be back here for the autumn term at a Performing Arts College in the heart of the famous Dales of Yorkshire? Ooh, I think we’re stopping at Skipley station. I’ll get my case down and hop off.
Uuuumph. Jumping Jehosophat and his dad, it’s bouncing down. Skipley is famous for its otters. I’m not surprised. If this rain keeps up, I’ll be part otter by Wednesday.
Skipley is so proud of its otters that the station sign reads Skipley Home of the West Riding Otter.
But last time I was here some Yorkshire hooligan altered the sign so it read Skipley Home of the West Riding Botty.
Honestly …
I am squelching across towards it. That’s where Cain was standing when I left at the end of last term. Cain Hinchcliff. Local bad boy made … er, bad.
I remember him winking at me as the train pulled out. With his dark hair whipping around his face and his dark eyes looking and looking at me. Licking his lips. Holding a dead rabbit in his hand. Making the dead rabbit he had in his hand wave its paw at me. And rub its eye with its paw as if it was crying.
He thinks that kind of thing is funny.
I dragged my case along the platform towards the sign. I hope it’s been cleaned up because it doesn’t give a very good impression of the … Hang on a minute, the hooligan has been at it again! Now the sign reads Skipley Home of the Brest Riding Otter.
That is just wrong.
That shouldn’t be allowed.
What if American people were on the train? They have a seizure if you say prat.
I left the station and trundled across the bridge to catch the bus to Heckmondwhite. Brrr, I am absolutely soaking now. The rain has got in through the front of my anorak and jumper and into my new bra. Or new ‘corker holder’ as me and my friends say. I hope my corkers don’t shrink.
Hahahaha. What larks! I’m going to put ‘corker shrinking’ in my Performance Art Diary, or as I call it, my ‘Darkly Demanding Damson Diary’. Under ‘Ideas for Modern Dance’.
A bus flew round the bend and screeched to a halt. The warm, welcoming bus opening its welcoming doors to welcome me back to my …
A cloud of smoke billowed out. The driver was smoking a pipe. Uh-oh, I recognised that balaclava. It belonged to Mrs Bottomley. She did part-time bus driving as well as cage fighting in Leeds. I said, “Single to Heckmondwhite, please.”
Mrs Bottomley repeated ‘single to Heckmondwhite, please’ in a horrible posh simpering way as she slammed the ticket down. Then she said, looking down at my legs, “Keep those bloody legs off my seats AND mind how you go!”
She accelerated violently before I had time to sit down and I fell onto the lap of a bloke with a guide dog.
I said, “I’m really sorry but the bus …”
He said, “Is it full then, the bus? Is there nowhere else to sit? You’re a bloody big lad. My legs’ll be numb by the time we get to Heckmondwhite.”
At a red traffic light I staggered to a spare seat.
Everyone on the bus was looking at me and grumbling. “From that bloody Dither Hall”, “simpleton, I think”, “they’re allus messing about in beards and tights. Sitting on blind people’s knees … bloody daft.”
It was raining so hard you couldn’t see the road ahead. It didn’t make Mrs Bottomley slow down though. There was a bump and I thought I saw a sheep fly past the window, but I can’t be sure. Then as we passed Grimbottom Peak it stopped raining and a watery sun came out and a little rainbow appeared.
Ooooooh, maybe the rainbow was a sign.
A sign that everything was going to be all right. All of my hopes and dreams would come true. I’d become a star but, more importantly, get a proper boyfriend. Oh, and also I’d have a corker growth spurt. Not just one corker. Both, I mean.
When we stopped at my bus stop, Mrs Bottomley was cleaning her nails with a penknife. She didn’t look up as I got off but she said, “Our Beverley dun’t like thee, so that meks me not like thee. Watch your sen, lady. Walls have ears and radishes repeat.”
I got my case down from the bus and there before me was Heckmondwhite in all its glory! The autumnal light shining on the bus stop! The village green! The shop! The church! And the pub – The Blind Pig.
My substitute parents the Dobbins, who I lodge with in term time, are away on a Young Christians’ Foraging weekend in Blubberhouses.
Harold and Dibdobs and the lunatic twins are nice but possibly the maddest people I have ever met. They’re away till tomorrow so I’m staying the night with my little mate Ruby at The Blind Pig. I’m really looking forward to seeing my fun-sized pal and her bulldog Matilda. Ruby told me that out of eighty breeds given an intelligence test, bulldogs come seventy-eighth. But that’s the intelligence-o-meter test not the love-o-meter test which Matilda would definitely win paws down.
What I am not looking forward to is seeing Mr Barraclough, Ruby’s dad. He’s the landlord of the pub but mostly chief tormentor of me and my legs – which I must admit sometimes have a life of their own. When I am nervous or excited they, my legs, well, they initiate Irish dancing. All by themselves. My brain has nothing to do with it. Also, because of my skinniness, Mr Barraclough keeps pretending I am a long lanky lad. In a dress.
In a nutshell, Mr Barraclough and most of the village people think that Dother Hall is for fools. That’s why they call it Dither Hall.
I went quietly in through the front door of the pub. There’s a real racket coming from the bar so I’ll just creepy creep up the stairs to Ruby’s room.
“Well, well, well, thank the Lord the thespians are back!!! I haven’t known WHAT to do with myself since tha left. By ’eck, is there a giant gene in your family, young man? You’ve sprung up again, haven’t you, lad! What are you practising being today? Dun’t tell me! Let me guess.” Oh dear. There he was. Ruby’s dad. In his leather trousers and Viking helmet.
He was looking at me, stroking his chin.
“Hmmm. Green trousers, rain hat, anorak. Big boots. Are you a Hobbit, is that it?”
I said, “Hello, Mr Barraclough.”
