Away Laughing on a Fast Camel

by Louise Rennison

  Jas said I am being all mean and moody because of Dave the Laugh, but what she doesn’t know is that it’s not just Dave the Laugh, it’s Oscar, and now Mark Big Gob as well. I feel all ashamed somehow. Like I am tainted love.

  break

  Rosie and I managed to escape the storm troopers (Wet Lindsay and her pathetico pals). Jas wants to read her book about twig houses, so she has gone off to the five’s court with the other girlie swots. Hawkeye insists that we have windows open, even in Antarctic conditions. She says it is good for us but she also says reading absolute bollocks is good for us, so I don’t trust her. It is, after all, she who thinks that Blithering Heights, as we call it, is a “classic.” When in fact it is a load of Yorkshire people hurling themselves around a moor in the wind singing “Heathcliff, it’s me Katheeee come home again.” And so on. We’ve only read three pages and already I want to slit my wrists. Anyway, where was I before I so rudely interrupted myself? Oh yes, so because Hawkeye has windows open all over the school, we could get in through the Science block window.

  Once we got in, we lit a few Bunsen burners for warmth. Voley is still here in his little pickling jar forever waving at us. I said, “Hello, Voley, my dad fell down a badger hole.”

  I thought he would like to know the news from the forest, even though he has been pickled for years.

  Rosie was trying to toast a bit of banana over the naked flame of a Bunsen burner. I sensed a burning-down-the-Science-block situation but I didn’t want to spoil her girlish high spirits by saying anything. Also I had just got myself all snuggled up in some science overalls. I decided to tell Rosie about Mark Big Gob.

  She listened and said, “He is clearly a knob head, but you knew that. Forget it; we have more important things to think about. There is a lot of work to do at school, and this is a very important term.”

  I looked at her in amazement. “Rosie, please tell me you are not talking about exams and it’s not the way you run the race but the winning that counts.”

  She gave me the famous cross-eyed look. “Do not be a twit and a fool and a prat. I’m talking about our plans for Mr. Attwood’s leaving do.”

  hockey

  I did actually cheer up in games. There is nothing like socking a bit of concrete about a pitch and smacking shins with my hockey stick to get the juices flowing. Additionally, Nauseating P. Green was goalie, which is a guaranteed laugh. It is funny enough seeing her lumbering around in huge pads picking the ball out of the back of the net but the pièce de résistance was when she fell over on her back and couldn’t get up. Like a big tortoise waving her shin pads about. She finally managed to get up after about ten minutes and just as she was on her feet a ball whizzed in and hit her in the tummy and down she went again.

  Cruel, but funny.

  jas’s place

  5:00 p.m.

  Jas and Hunky are going on this wilderness thing this weekend, so Jas made me go up to her room and look at the stuff she is taking with her. Good grief, the things I do for friendship.

  Her room is ludicrously tidy, all her soft toys arranged in size order. Very sad. I said that as I looked around. “Very very sad.”

  But the Wild Woman of the Forest was too busy rooting around in her wardrobe. She was all enthusiastic.

  “Look at these. They are my special army-issue waterproof trousers; even if I like, accidentally fell into a swamp I would still have dry legs.”

  I looked at the hideous yellow things. “Are you sure those are not just massive incontinence knickers, Jas?”

  She was just rambling on as if I wasn’t there, which actually in my mind I wasn’t.

  On and on, completely gone off to Jas land.

  “You should get yourself a hobby, Gee, and then you wouldn’t end up throwing yourself at boys and losing your dignity.”

  How annoying is she?

  Vair vair and thrice vair annoying.

  6:00 p.m.

  After about a million years of looking at really dull bits of Wellington boot, etc., I slouched off home.

  I am so sick of walking. Walk, walk, walk that’s all I ever do. I’ll wear my legs out at this rate. To pass the time I did what I used to do as a kid. I pretended to be riding a horse. I galloped along tossing my head about and saying “Giddyup” and flicking a pretend whip. The bit between the bottom of Jas’s road and my house was very quiet, so I really let my horse (Dark Star) have his head. I flicked at his haunches with my whip and felt the wind on my face and the freedom of the hills. “Yes, yes, ride on my beauty!” I pulled Dark Star to a halt so that we could cross the road, which was just as well, as across the road was Cad of the Universe. Dave the Laugh. Oh brilliant. Thank you, God. My head was practically dropping off from redness and I hadn’t any lip gloss on because I had given up on boys.

  I crossed the road and walked past him. I treated him with total glaciosity. He said, “Come on, Georgia, talk to me.”

  “What can you possibly have to say to me?”

  I walked on. At least I haven’t got ginger hair. Although with my luck, I probably have hair that is sticking out at right angles after my galloping fiasco. As usual, though, Dave kept on. He tends to ignore me ignoring him, which is annoying. He put his arm through mine.

  “Georgia, look at me, come on, Sex Kitty, don’t get the megahump. We weren’t going out officially, were we? You couldn’t make your mind up, then I met Rachel and she was keen…well, she is after all only human…”

  I looked at him with a “don’t even bother” look. He smiled.

  “Can’t we be friends? We’ve always had a laugh together.”

  I felt my heart melting. He was right really, we hadn’t been officially a couple, and he was a laugh to have around. I found myself going for a coffee with him and telling him all about Mark Big Gob. Dave the Laugh said, “He really is an enormous twit of the first water.”

  It sort of made it better when he said it. I know that Rosie had said the same, but it seemed different when a boy-type person said it. As we left the coffee bar and walked along arm in arm, he stopped and took my chin in his hand. (I don’t mean he snapped it off my face and held it.) He just sort of lifted my face up to his and gave me a little kiss really gently on the lips. I could feel the jelloid knees coming on. Damn!

  As I walked off, he called back to me, “Don’t worry about Mark Big Gob. I’ll have a word.”

  home

  Oh joy unbounded, Cousin James is coming to stay overnight. I said to Mutti, “Why?”

  And she said, “He’s family.”

  I said reasonably, “Mutti, what does that mean—does it mean that if Hitler was my cousin we would have to have him around?”

  She got all parenty. “Now you are being ridiculous. Go and do your homework. Oh, and don’t have a bath—Gordy has done a cat poo in there. I’ll have to clean it up.”

  Gordy has done a cat poo in the bath??!! Why would he scramble all the way up the sides of the bath just to do a poo, when he has his own personal cat poo tray in the outhouse? Anyway, how could he get up the sides of the bath? Either Libby gave him a leg up, or Angus helped him. I bet it was Angus. When I went into my bedroom Angus was curled up on my cardigan cleaning himself. I wish he wouldn’t do botty grooming on my things. I said to him, “You are quite literally a crap dad, Angus. You wait until Gordy starts staying out all night creating mayhem; you’ll be sorry.”

  Angus fell into a light doze as I was telling him off. Anyway, why would he be worried about Gordy staying out all night creating mayhem? That’s what he does himself. It’s his job.

  9:00 p.m.

  Doorbell rang.

  No one answered it, of course. Mum and Libby (and I think from the yowling, Angus and Gordy) are all in the bath. I don’t know how they can bear to go in there. I personally will never be having another bath in this lifetime, not even if Mum has cleaned it with nitroglycerin.

  Ring, ring on the bell.

  9:10 p.m.

  I shouted out.

  “Don’t w
orry, I’ll get it, I’ve only got exams in two weeks, but you just lie around and relax.”

  Tramp tramp.

  If I get all the way down and it’s Cousin James and I have to speak to him I will have a nervy spaz.

  9:11 p.m.

  I opened the door and it was Mark Big Gob. Crikey. He looked a bit shifty and nervous.

  “Georgia, I’ve got something to say about the other night.”

  He wasn’t going to have another attempt at storming my nunga-nunga holders, was he?

  I said warily, “Oh yes, what is it?”

  “Well, I’m, I’m…”

  I’m what? The Count of Monte Cristo? Stupid? Wearing false lips? What???

  Mark said, “I’m sorry, I apologize.”

  Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers. Then I noticed he had a swelling on his mouth and a split lip. Cripes, was his mouth expanding even more, like the Incredible Hulk?

  He said, “Do you accept my apology?”

  How weird was this? I felt like I was in a film. One of those really old-fashioned films where everyone wears pantaloons. Like Gone with the Wind. Maybe I should say, “Why sir, thank you kindly for apprising me of your feelings. I do declare I have never seen tighter pantaloons!!”

  But I didn’t get into the film thing because Mark is not the brightest button on the cardigan. I said, “Er…yes, well yes.”

  As he shuffled off, Mark turned round and said, “Will you let your mate know I’ve been round?”

  “What mate?”

  “You know, Dave.”

  Then he went off.

  Wow!

  And three times wow. In fact wowzee wowzee wow.

  What had Dave the Laugh done?

  9:15 p.m.

  Phoned Rosie and told her.

  She was very impressed; she loves the smack of violence.

  She said, “Hmmm, my kind of guy. It’s a good job Sven wasn’t involved; a boy at a party I went to pushed into the loo line ahead of me and Sven threw his trousers into next door’s garden.”

  “Why would Sven chuck his trousers into next door’s garden? Was it a fit of pique?”

  “Georgia, he threw the boy’s trousers into next door’s garden…and the boy was still wearing them.”

  “Sacré bleu.”

  “Mais oui.”

  9:35 p.m.

  In theory and especially given my special relationship with Jesus I am against violence. However, there is a time and place for everything, and I think Dave biffing Mark is one of those exceptions that make the rule.

  9:40 p.m.

  It slightly gives me the Horn, actually.

  Unlike Cousin James, who unfortunately has arrived. He is reading Tolkien’s The Hobbit and goes on and on about it.

  He said, “It’s very interesting, but did you know that even now people go on a pilgrimage to Tolkien’s grave and they speak in Elfin.”

  James has a bit of trouble with the word “interesting.” In fact sad sacks chatting in Elfin over some dead bloke’s grave is not “interesting,” it is “stupid.”

  Still, at least he is reading rubbish and not trying to play tickly bears with me.

  midnight

  What is it with boys and elfs?

  thursday march 17th

  Phoned Dave the Laugh and thanked him vis-à-vis the duffing-up incident. He said, “It’s a pleasure, gorgeous.”

  But he didn’t say “see you later” or anything.

  saturday march 19th

  At one time I had boys snogging my ears and so on, and now I am alone for the rest of my life. How did that happen? How come I have peaked already?

  11:00 p.m.

  Started a letter to SG.

  Dear Robbie,

  It’s raining here and we are doing a crap play about some Scottish fools who…

  11:30 p.m.

  I can’t talk about school to him, otherwise he will remember that I am still at school.

  friday april 1st

  all fools day

  You are not kidding.

  friday april 8th

  I have tried to write to Robbie so many times, but the sadness is that I don’t have anything to say to him. He doesn’t want to be my boyfriend and I just have to accept it.

  I am going to take down my shrine to him.

  11:00 p.m.

  Mum came in after I had taken down my shrine and she caught me crying.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair, which is normally a killing offence but it’s all scrubbled up and greasy anyway. She said, “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry you are so upset, but you will have fun again and you will have nice boyfriends because you are lovely and funny and my darling daughter.”

  That made me cry more.

  Then Libby toddled in and came up on the bed beside me.

  “Look, Ginger, nice.”

  She had what I think was probably once a biscuit in one hand and Gordy by the neck in the other. She put him on my bed and he started attacking my knees under the bedclothes.

  midnight

  Mum made me a milky pops drink like she did when I was little and ill. Which was nice. Except that I put it down on my bedside table and Gordy plunged his head in it. He has been having a sneezing attack for about ten minutes.

  snog factor 25 and a half

  monday april 11th

  school

  Hot news straight off the press. The Stiff Dylans have got a new lead singer to replace the Sex God. Ellen was full of it in the loos. We were all holed up there at break. If any storm troopers come in we have to stand on the loo seat so they can’t see our feet. The trick is to leave the door a bit open and stand right to the other edge of the loo seat, so the cubicle looks empty. We are clearly geniuses, because it works.

  Anyway, Ellen said, “He’s half Italian and half American and he’s called Masimo.”

  Jools said, “I’m going to learn how to speak American immediately.”

  “Mabs reckons he’s dishy and fit as a flea.”

  “Angela Richards saw him arrive at the Phoenix. She lives just across from it and she said he turned up on one of those really cool Italian scooters.”

  11:00 a.m.

  I listened to their girlish chatter with great sadnosity. It was alright for them; they could just replace one lead singer with another. They did not know the heartbreak I had gone through because the Sex God had chosen wombats and rogue bores instead of me.

  Jools said, “Angela said he is the coolest, fittest-looking boy she has ever seen. When he drew up and was parking his scooter this group of girls sort of gathered around just looking. Ogling him. He said ‘ciao’ to them.”

  I said, “How is he going to be able to be in the band if he can’t speak English?”

  Ellen said, “He can speak English, he’s half American.”

  I said, “Oh yeah, and that’s the same, is it? I’ll just say this…Americans don’t know who Rolf Harris is, and they call knickers panties. That is not really speaking English, is it?”

  Rosie said, “Yeah, you’ve got a point, Geegee, but perhaps in the spirit of neighborliness and red-bottomosity we could help him to speak properly.”

  Hmmm.

  swimming

  Herr Kamyer was “in charge” this arvie because Miss Stamp is doing some certificate or another.

  I said, “It’s probably in advanced lesbianism.”

  It probably is, actually.

  in the pool

  I swam under Jas’s legs and she squealed like a girl because I surprised her.

  She was very grumpy because in her panic she had got her fringe wet.

  My crawl style is quite stylish I think. Unlike Nauseating P. Green’s style. She really is a fiasco waiting to happen. She wears armbands and she still sinks without a trace every few minutes.

  Anyway, the funniest bit for me was when Herr Kamyer entered stage left. He came out in his swimming knickers and we all went “Whoaar,” which made him have such a dither attack that he stepped off into the deep e
nd by mistake. Without removing his glasses. He spent about a million years diving down to look for them. Herr Kamyer is the palest man known to humanity. His legs and arms are like a stick insect. He does a very amusing breaststroke (in my opinion), like a cross between a human being and a twit, with just a touch of blind beaver. I could watch him for ages.

  We were all having splashy fun when the fire alarm went off. Oh merde, now what? It can’t be a real fire, and even if it is, wouldn’t we be better off staying in forty-five million gallons of water, like where we are now?

  But oh no, that would be too simple. The lifeguard is Mr. Attwood. He came perving along with a whistle and started yelling at us to get out of the water and go to our mustering points. What mustering points? What are we, bucking broncos?

  I said to Ro Ro as we dragged ourselves up the swimming pool steps, “I can’t believe this.”

  When we tried to go and get changed, Elvis had locked the doors to the changing rooms. He said, “Come on, come on, follow the exit signs pronto.” Rosie, who was practically hitting Mr. Attwood in the spectacles with her nungas, said, “Yes but where do the signs lead?”

  And he said, “Outside to safety. Now get a move on.”

  “Outside??”

  Minutes later we were outside, in early April, in the car park. In our semi-nuddy-pants.

  We were shivering like mad when Mr. Mad came round with some bacofoil stuff. I said to him, “This is hardly the time to be roasting vegetables.”

  And he, in a rather surly way for someone who was supposed to be calming me down in the face of a towering inferno, said, “It’s to wrap round you.”

  Marvelous.

  Thank you.

  3:00 p.m.

  I will not easily forget standing in a car park wrapped in bacofoil next to Herr Kamyer, also in bacofoil.

  He was still trying to be normal. Not that he has the slightest idea what that is, as he is German.

  He said, “So girls, shall we sing a little song to practice our German? I know, let us do the funny camping one of when the Koch family go away and they forget many things which we must list.”