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Dave said, “You would rather snog Spotty Norman than go to a clown-car convention.”
Fair point well made.
I said, “Well, there is another reason…”
Dave raised one of his eyebrows. Which was quite amusing.
We were passing Luigi’s and Dave said, “Come on, let’s do coffee, man.”
And we went in.
Oh, buggering bums buggering bum. Sitting down at one of the tables were Wet Lindsay and Astonishingly Dim Monica. Sacré bloody bleu.
Perhaps they were doing reverse stalking.
Wet Lindsay almost threw up when she saw me with Dave. But she covered it quickly and was all dillydollyish with him. He said “Hi” and she batted her eyelashes and flicked her hair. She must have read that book, How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You. If she tried toffee eyes on Dave, I would have to kill her.
Even though Dave was slightly behind me, she looked straight through me and said to him, “Oh, Dave, it was really groovy at Late and Live, wasn’t it? Mas and me had a great time. Did you and Rachel?”
I hate her double with knobs on.
Dave was coolosity personified. “Yeah, it was cool.”
And then he deliberately pulled a chair out for me at a table not too near the grotesque twins. As I sat down he said loudly enough for them to hear, “Now then, even though you treat me bad, what would you like, Ms Gorgeous?”
He is soooo nice. I really like the way he is…you know…so nice to me.
Five minutes later
As Lindsay and ADM went out, Lindsay gave Dave what she probably thinks (wrongly) is her attractive smile. She said, “Bye, Dave, maybe see you when Mas gets back.” Then she stick-insected out of the door, without leaving a slimy trail on the floor, surprisingly.
I said to Dave, “I hate her, I hate her. She called him ‘Mas’. How crap is that?”
Dave looked at me.
“You don’t like her, then?”
As we drank our coffee (me trying to avoid the foam moustache fandango) I wanted to ask Dave if he could find out where Masimo was. But I didn’t think I could just launch in, so I thought I would ask some limbering-up questions first.
“Dave, you know those boys…well, just before you got there, they ran into my legs on their bikes, then they rode off backwards. Then they called us slags.”
Dave said, “Ah, the old running into your legs, riding off backwards and calling you slags thing. Ah hum. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“They fancy you.”
“Pardon me?”
“Uh-huh. Clear as daylight.”
“But why don’t they say ‘I fancy you’?”
“Because you might reject them in front of their mates.”
“So they think running into my legs on their bikes is better?”
“Yep.”
“And calling us slags?”
“Yep.”
“And they think that after they’ve done that, I will say, ‘Gosh, yes, I would love to go out with you and be your slag. Once my legs heal up.’”
“Yep.”
“But that is mad. Boys are mad.”
Dave looked all wise and did his eyebrow thing again.
We slurped a bit more, then I said, “But, why? How does it work? You know at break at school, when you talk about personal stuff, well…”
Dave said, “Let me interrupt you there, Kittykat. Lads don’t talk about ‘stuff’ at break. They play footie or that other well-known game, ‘Do you know any good dentists?’”
I said, “What?”
“You know: ‘Do you know any good dentists? Because you’re going to need one in a minute when I have to deck you.’”
Blimey.
Dave went on. “Of course, lads have the same feelings, we just communicate in a different way. Sometimes it does get personal though.”
I looked at him. This was better.
“Yeah, for instance, yesterday one of the fifth form hung his girlfriend’s knickers out of the science-block window.”
5:30 p.m.
Walked home after my session with the Hornmeister still in a bit of a daze. When we said s’later, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and didn’t attempt tickly bears or anything. Perhaps he is going straight. Who knows? But, on the plus side, he has said he’ll find out all he can about Masimo for me. He is such a good boy-type pal. He didn’t mention Rachel, which is a bit odd as she’s supposed to be his girlfriend.
5:35 p.m.
Crossing the High Street I bumped into Tom. I like Tom, even though I think he’s mad to go to Kiwi-a-gogo land. And go out with Jas. And go on camping fiascos. And go on about food produce. Other than that, I like him.
He seemed to have a touch of sadnosity about him when he said, “All right, Gee?”
“Yes, fanks all right as an…all-right thing. And you?”
He was unusually silent for him and eventually just said, “You’ll look after Jas for me, won’t you?”
I said, “You bet your goddamn bottom dollar, mister. I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”
He just looked at me. Like I was talking complete rubbish or something.
6:00 p.m.
Home in my room, covered in unguents for tip-top beautosity.
I will say this: mashed banana is vair vair good for the luuurve complexion, which is not easy to say when you have a face full of mashed banana.
I wish I had a photo of Masimo. I hope I don’t forget what he looks like. I’ll just lie down in my (unusually empty) bed and have a mental snog with him.
6:25 p.m.
Oh, buggering God’s bum. Angus and Gordy have come in and started playing the mouse-disguised-as-a-foot game. They attack my feet for a bit really viciously until I pull my feet up under my bum, then they lie down and go to sleep. But they are not really asleep, they are just doing pretend asleep. As soon as I snuggle down to snooze off into Masimo land, they leap on my foot underneath the blankets and wrestle it. Then they “go to sleep” again. They don’t really think my foot is a mouse and that it will creep out when it sees they are asleep, do they?
6:40 p.m.
How did Ms Furry Tart, aka Naomi, get past the armed warden (Vati) and into my bed?
Blimey, I am quite literally lying in a cat basket.
6:45 p.m.
I wish she wouldn’t do that lying-on-her-back-with-her-legs-spread-open thing on my bed.
6:50 p.m.
Gordy is sniffing her bottom. This is disgusting!! In front of his dad. This is kitty-porn – surely there must be some sort of helpline for this. A kittykat helpline.
It could be called Paws for Thought.
7:30 p.m.
Oh, Masimo, soon we will be together and you can tell me all about Pizza-a-gogo land. The music. The art. The snogging. I wonder if they have special techniques that go with their passionate Latin temperament? I hope he doesn’t get carried away and nibble my lips off.
7:35 p.m.
No, I hope he does! Nibble away, Luuurve God!!
Wednesday May 11
In my bedroom 7:07 p.m.
How many hours is it till we go to Hamburger-a-gogo? Jas will know. I’m not phoning her though.
Doorbell rang.
I went quietly to the top of the stairs and looked down. Crikey! Loon Alert! It was my grandad, and he was wearing shorts! Not his huge, all-encompassing grandad shorts that he wore during the Boer War, but cycling shorts. In Lycra. Good grief.
Please, please tell me he has not taken up cycling. Please.
I went back to my room quietly.
Maybe if I hide behind the door they will think I am out and JUST GO AWAY.
One minute later
Oh, yeah. Dream on.
Mutti called up, “Georgie, Grandad’s here!”
I kept silent behind the door. Naomi, Angus and Gordy were all in my bed – again – doing their idiot-cat-staring-at-me thing. They had better not give my position away. It would be all right if it was just Gordon – then I might have a one in two chance of not being caught; because although one of his eyes is fixed on me, the other is glancing out the window.
The advance loon party came clanking up the stairs.
“Gingey, Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee, Libbbbeeeeee…Where is you?”
I heard her huffing and puffing outside my door and doing her alarming laugh. “Hoggyhoggy. Here I come, reggy or nut.”
Then she kicked my door and it burst open, very nearly flattening my nose.
“Owwwwww.”
She put her mad little face around the door and smiled at me. When, and how, did she lose her front teeth? And why did she think it was attractive to push her tongue through the gap?
“Gingey, there you is! Cheeky monkey.”
She threw all the cats off the bed and started tucking scuba-diving Barbie and Jesus/Sandra up nice and comfy under the duvet. I tried to reason with her.
“Bibsy, that’s not really Barbie and…er…Sandra’s bed, is it? It’s my bed, and there’s no room for—”
She put her arms up to me and said, “Kiss.”
Oh, blimey. She is cute, though. I picked her up to give her a little cuddle, and she put her hand on my nose and was sort of squeezing it and twirling it around. It was quite painful, actually. Dear God I hope it doesn’t swell up.
Grandad was the next to arrive at the open-bedroom loon party.
He popped his head around the door and said, “Hello, love, I’ve just been to the doctor because I’ve got a steering wheel down my shorts. I said to him, ‘Doctor, will you do something about this steering wheel down my shorts? It’s driving me nuts!’ Do you see? ‘Steering wheel, driving me nuts!’ Do you get it? Do you?”
How DISGUSTING!!
He’s an octogenarian.
My ears feel like prostitutes.
8:00 p.m.
