‘… then he ate my boy entrancers.’

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I said to her, “Did you tell them about the mice cream incident?”

Of course she has, so she has only herself to blame.

6:30 p.m.

Sadly I have also shown off about Angus and Gordy’s “adventures” and alluring little habits vis à vis woodland animals, pooing, etc. So none of my friends will have anything to do with them. Rosie said that Sven said he’d look after Angus and Gordy in a cave he has found. But the whole idea of that is far, far too weird.

Vati said, “What about a cattery, then?”

That’s when Angus came in with a spade. We all just looked at one another.

Vati said, “Well, there is only one thing for it. I’m going to have to ask for a bit of neighbourly support.”

7:15 p.m.

Dad went to Mr Next Door first. As he went through the door he said, “Alfred and I have always had a bit of an understanding, although I know we’ve had our differences vis à vis the damage Angus has done to his rhododendrons—”

I said, “And when he rounded the Prat Poodles up and trapped them in the greenhouse.”

“Yes, well…”

“And then rode them round like little horsies.”

“Yes, well…”

“And the dog psychiatrist having to come in.”

Dad took his coat off.

7:25 p.m.

Dad said, “I’ll just pop across the road to Colin and, you know, see if maybe he could just keep an eye on feeding them.”

7:28 p.m.

Dad’s back.

He said, “He laughed.”

Dad has slammed off to the pub to talk to Uncle Eddie and see if he knows any fools who might help us out.

7:33 p.m.

Doorbell rang. I looked down the stairs from the safety of my bedroom.

Mutti answered. Uh-oh. It was one of our beloved boys in blue. And as policemen go, he didn’t look pleased. Now what?

I scampered down the stairs to give my mutti moral support. Although, as it happens, basooma support would have been more appropriate. Hasn’t she got one single piece of clothing that doesn’t reveal far too much flesh?

I put an interested look on my face. It’s the one I use when Hawkeye asks me where my homework is. It usually results in double detention, but you can’t have everything. The constable looked at me, and it wasn’t his guardian-of-the-community-and-servant-of-the-people look.

He said to Mum, “Good evening, madam, can you tell me if you know this person?” And he held up Grandad’s O.A.P. card, the one with the photo of him with the earring in.

Don’t ask.

Mum said, “Yes, it’s my father…Oh My God, is he all right?”

The officer said, “Yes, he is, madam, but he is a danger to himself and others.”

I said, “You can say that again, officer. I don’t need a helmet and truncheon to figure that out.”

Mum said, “Shut up, Georgia.”

Which I think is probably abusive behaviour, but I let it go.

It turns out that, for once, the officer was the bearer of glad tidings. Grandad had set out on his six-hundred-mile bike ride to the Lake District and fell off at the end of his street. But not before he knocked the policeman off his new community bike.

“I’d only had it for a week, madam.”

I tried to look concerned.

The policeman opened his notebook. “The gentleman we have now positively identified as your father was wearing Lycra shorts and kept falling off his bike. I asked him to walk a straight line.”

Mutti said, “Oh my goodness, had he been drinking?”

The officer said, “I don’t know, madam, but he refused to walk the line on account of an old war wound. Then he said…” The officer looked down at his notes again. “…‘Do you want to come back to my place, constable, and have one for the road?’”

You have to give Grandad full marks on the lunacy scale.

8:00 p.m.

The policeman radioed into his station and Grandad was released from chokey after being charged with careless biking and not having a bell. Apparently the budgie bell he had Sellotaped on to the handlebar doesn’t count.

He now has a criminal record.

Mum was all flustered and kept apologising to the policeman as he went off. “I am so sorry, officer. I hope you can mend your bike and you haven’t been hurt at all.”

The policeman said, “No, well, I’m quite tough, madam.”

“Yes, well you do seem very fit. I do a bit of aerobics myself; it’s awfully good for keeping in shape.”

The policeman winked at her (honestly!) and he said, “Yes, I can see that. Anyway, madam, I’d better be on my way.”

And then he said that classic thing that you think you’d only see on TV. He said, “Mind how you go, it’s a jungle out there.”

Mum practically wet herself with laughing. She is so so sad and embarrassing. After the policeman had gone I just looked at her, and she said, “What? What?”

I said, “You know what. You were practically slavering over him.”

“Well, he was a nice young man – of course, far too young for me.”

Unbelievable!!!

In my bedroom

How very embarrassing my family is.

Midnight

Still, on the plus side, Grandad’s cycling days are over and he can now be on house-burning-down duties for when we go to Hamburger-a-gogo land. Hurrah! And also zippety doo dah!!

Tuesday May 17

Five days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Evening

Oh, I just can’t stand this hanging around waiting to go on the Luuurve Plane.

Come on come on!!!

I’ve been trying out arrival outfits. Boots or shoes? It’s hard to know what to do weatherwise. Also, I may have to go from day wear to evening wear, depending on the timezone business.

I am practising speaking Hamburgese, even in my own head. The key seems to be to add stuff, so instead of weather you say weatherwise. Timewise. Daywise. Luuurvewise, etc.

But on a more seriouswise note, this time business is v.v. aggravating fashionwise.

I said to Jas on the phone (she is opting for sensible sports casual for travelling)…I said to her (Mistress of the Time Lords), “Are we flying backwards in time, or what?”

“Yeah, they are six hours behind us.”

“Why are they? Why can’t they just keep up with us? Didn’t we invent time?”

“What?”

“You know, Greenwich Mean Time – didn’t we invent it? So why can’t they just be the same as us?”

“Because they would be getting up in the middle of the night.”

“So?”

But you can’t reason with Jas.

Wednesday May 18

Four days to Hamburger-a-gogo land Evening

Grandad has come round for instructions about looking after the house and cats.

I am still in a ditherspaz about what to wear. I’ve been through all of my clothes about a million times.

Still, on the plus side, I have definitely decided what to wear nailwise. I’ve chosen Pouting Pink.

I am absolutely full of exhaustiosity.

8:15 p.m.

Dragged myself downstairs for a reviving snack.

In the front room

Grandad started fiddling about in his pockets.

“I’ve got something for you.”

Oh, joy unbounded. A boiled sweet.

I love him and everything, but why does he have to be so, you know…so…grandadish?

The TV was on, with my extremely unfit vati lolling around in front of it. As I sat down to try and get my tights away from Gordy, Vati said, “Now then, Georgia, why don’t you tell me how much spending money you expect for the holiday. Then we’ll have a good laugh and go from there.”

Vair vair amusing. Sadly though, I have to humour him. I said, “Well, it’s only for a week, isn’t it? And we’ve got the hotel rooms and food and so on, so actually, all in all, I think a thousand quid would just about cover it if I don’t buy anything extravagant.”

Mum said, “Don’t be silly, Georgia.”

Grandad said, “Do you remember when you took Georgia to the doctor’s surgery when she was a couple of weeks old?”

Mum ruffled my hair (very annoying) and looked all nostalgic. “I remember every single thing about your life, darling girl. You’ve been a pleasure and joy to me from the moment you were born.”

Dad said, “Bloody hell, Connie! Calm down.”

But Mum had gone off into Mumland, “Do you know you had no hair when you were born – all baldy, like Uncle Eddie. So sweet.”

Oh God.