Startled by His Furry Shorts

by Louise Rennison

  However, as I could be accused of only really chatting to God when I want something, I had better practice humility before I get there.

  As I walked along, I tried silent inward prayer:

  “God, you are so big. And omnipotent, not impotent like I once said by mistake. I would just like to say how we’re all really impressed down here by your many wonderous deeds. In particular that turning the wine into, oh no, I mean changing the water into the wine thing, and the walking on the water. I know that was Baby Jesus, but deep down it is you that is behind it all. I know that. You just do not blow your own trumpet. Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to. I bet you can blow anything you like. Forgive me my trespasses and also my dreadful toadying, but you are just so super.”

  home again in my room

  12:30 p.m.

  What a complete waste of time.

  And also weird.

  The lady organist (who didn’t look to me like an ordinary lady, unless you think being six foot tall wearing a twinset and having four days’ growth of beard is ordinary) played a selection of songs from the shows. I don’t think the elderly insane who made up most of the congregation noticed, but personally I didn’t go to God’s house to hear “Chittychittybangbang.”

  And we had to join in with the chorus. With actions.

  Call-me-Arnold did his sermon seated at our feet on a beanbag. I think it was mostly about ice cream.

  evening

  Maybe even the effort of me going to his pad has in some mysterious way made God think I’m not such a bad person, because I have sort of cheered up. Well, not cheered up, I am still miz, but I have decided to look on the positive side as much as I can. Masimo didn’t actually say he didn’t like me, in fact he said he did like me. He just doesn’t want a girlfriend. That is not my fault, it is just the way it is. Also Dave likes me, and I have good mates and I am not a starving African baby. (In fact, I think I have eaten a bit too much cannelloni.)

  Sooo. I am girding my loins with a firm hand.

  motto of the day: girdey loins

  monday june 27th

  8:30 a.m.

  Speaking of loin girderers, Jas was waiting for me. Her knickers truly in a twist.

  She was going, “Well? Well???”

  I said, “Well, what?”

  “You know, what happened with Masimo? What did he say? I rang about a zillion times.”

  “I know.”

  “All the gang phoned you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it just now, it’s all a bit personal.”

  “He dumped you, then? Well actually, he couldn’t really officially dump you because you weren’t officially going out with him. So technically you are not a dumpee. Which is good, pride-wise.”

  What?

  assembly

  All the ace gang kept looking at me, but I just held myself with with great dignitosity. Maybe I held myself a bit too firmly because Ro Ro whipered, “What’s the matter with you? Why are you standing like that? Have you been to the poo parlor division in your knick-nacks?”

  No sign of Wet Lindsay, so I haven’t had to do pretendy cheeriness yet.

  break

  I told the ace gang what had happened.

  Everyone was really nice to me. You know, telling me wise stuff and giving advice. Rosie said, “Eat as many of my cheesy snacks as you like.”

  And undoing my crisp packet for me and so on. Everyone was really really good pals to me.

  Apart from Elvis, who came whinging along telling us to pick up our wrappers and put them in the bins. I said to him, “Just think, Mr. Attwood, when you go to that Big Caretaking Home in the Sky you can collect rubbish all day long. You could build a little shed made entirely out of rubbish and knit clothes made of…”

  He went off complaining and moaning.

  As I said to Jools, “Even in the middle of my tragicosity I can still spread a little sunshine into other people’s lives.”

  blodge

  Is it really necessary to schlep all the way to school to learn that we are lugging about 400 different types of bacteria in our tummies?

  And that farts are made up of five different gases?

  That will be useful when someone lets fly a knee-trembler. We can all sniff deeply and say, “Yes, yes, I think I got distinct tones of sulfur there with just a hint of baked bean.”

  games

  swimming pool

  What you have to remember in times of poonosity is that there is always someone worse off than yourself. I mean, of course, Nauseating P. Green.

  I don’t want to be mean about her, but it has to be said she is very unfortunate looking. And she really does nothing to help herself. In the swimming pool today she was wearing this swimming costume type thing that was, well, not normal. It was all frilly and had a sort of skirt on it.

  She jumped in the deep end to ironic applause and the voluminous skirty type fiasco filled up with water and she sank without trace.

  Whistles were blown, someone set off the fire alarm, and in the mayhem Elvis was hit by a rogue life belt, don’t ask me how. Well, you can ask me how. In the excitement of the rescue attempt, Rosie got carried away and started chucking the life belts about with gay abandon and je ne sais quoi. Elvis as usual was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Which incidentally he always is. How come he is on lifeguard duty for swimming, anyway? I bet he volunteered and Slim was too stupid to understand his pervy tendencies. Serves him right that he got smacked in the face with a bit of rubber tubing. It was only a glancing blow to his hooter, but what a fuss he made. And is it alright for a caretaker/pervguard to say “buggering” in front of minors with impressionable minds? Then the scariest thing in the universe happened. When the Sports student had fished Nauseating P. Green up to the surface and was dragging her to the poolside, Miss Stamp ripped off her trackiebums and dove in yelling, “Keep breathing, Pamela.”

  As we sat on the side watching them trying to hook Nauseating P. Green out, I said, kindly, “It will take more than four of them to get her out of the pool, the costume alone must weigh four tons.”

  Rosie said, “Why is Miss Stamp wearing mohair tights?”

  She isn’t wearing mohair tights. The mohair tights ARE her legs. I have never seen the orangutan gene so rampant. If there had been any first formers in the pool they would have been running into the changing rooms scarred for life and yelling, “Run away, run away. It’s a manlady, the manlady is coming.”

  3:00 p.m.

  Still no sign of Wet Lindsay.

  I’m sort of relieved and worried at the same time.

  Where is she?

  Maybe she is even now doing ear nuzzling with the Luuurve God. Despite my loins being as girded as is humanly possible, I did feel a bit of a blubbing extravaganza coming on.

  4:10 p.m.

  On my way to late rounders praccy I passed the sports cupboard and in it were the two little first form titches I had seen being given a severe ear bashing by Wet Lindsay. They were sorting out hockey sticks. Astonishingly Dim Monica was there telling them how to do it. Sadly I think she actually really cares how the hockey sticks are stacked. In a perfect life she would be married to Elvis. (Not the one who dared to rock, the one who should have been hit by a rock.) As the littlies lugged things around I said to ADM in a casualosity at all times way, “On your own then, Monica? Lindsay got a touch of bubonic plague, I hope?”

  ADM said, “Not that it is any business of yours, but Lindsay has been to a conference today, so I am taking over her duties. If that is alright with you?”

  “Perfectly alright, Monica. I am sure that you will shove around little first formers as well as the next man.”

  home

  I’ve said it before and I will say it again, whacking things about does really calm your nerves down. Late rounders practice did cheer me up to whack the ball and see all the fielders scampering after it like mad bunnies in knickers. Once again, Nauseating P. Green hit the heights comedywise. She has d
efinitely had a bumper bundle day entertainmentwise. I may make her some sort of award. When it was her turn at batting she hit the ball enthusiastically, missed it, lost her balance, and fell backward knocking over Katie Steadman the backstop, who then fell backward into Miss Stamp. It was like watching elephant tenpin bowling (with an elephant as the bowl).

  6:30 p.m.

  The whole loon contingency in for once.

  Dad said, “This will cheer you up, Georgia.”

  I looked at Mum, Mum looked at him and gave him her worst look and he said, “Not…that you have anything to be not…er…cheered up about. But…great news! Maisie has been knitting again! I believe you will find something lovely and thoughtful in your bedroom. For myself, I don’t know how I have lived without this.”

  And he stuck his feet in the air. At least they should have been feet, but they were sort of one big sock thing with both his feet in. An enormous footwarmer sock in a subtle shade of purple and yellow.

  Mum had got off lightly with a knitted powder compact holder, or so I thought until she showed me her crochet vest. She said, “I think it’s, er, quite, well, I might wear it later.”

  I said, “Please don’t.”

  She went off laughing into the kitchen. Why is everyone so cheerful? They are probably drunk. Or it’s early senility. Marvelous. I’ll be just old enough to go and live in my groovy pad in Notting Hill Gate and Mutti and Vati will start being brought home by the police because they have been having a picnic on a traffic island. They will want all their food mashed up. Noooooooooo. Shut up, brain.

  Anyway I won’t care about them when I am older because I will have given myself to the Lord and will be in a lesbian monastery fiddling with my beards…er…I mean beads.

  ten minutes later

  in my bedroom

  Oh lovely. Just what I have always wanted, and so suitable for a long hot summer. How did Grandad’s girlfriend know the size of my head to knit me a balaclava?

  five minutes later

  She didn’t, is the answer.

  Also, shouldn’t balaclavas normally have a hole in the front where your face looms out? Otherwise, to be frank, what she has knit is not a balaclava, it’s a head sock. Still, let no one say that I do not know how to enjoy life.

  one minute later

  I stumbled down the stairs with my head sock on to show my parents my lovely gift.

  Mum said, “It is the thought that counts.”

  And I said, “I know, which is why I am ringing the authorities right now. Anyone who thinks like she does should be locked up out of harm’s way.”

  When I took the comedy balaclava off, I saw that Mum had her crochet top on. With just her bra under it. The crochet holes were so big that the whole of one of Mutti’s nungas stuck out through it. That is how big the holes were.

  Dad said, “Cor Connie, you sexpot.”

  And then lurched to his “foot” and hopped like a fool over to Mum before crashing on top of her. How very disgusting. I went out into the hall to find Libby in her new knitted ear warmers. She had them over her eyes and was saying, “Naaaice and warmy.”

  Doorbell rang.

  Mum said, “Gee, get that, will you. Your dad thinks his back has gone again.”

  Typico.

  I went to the door.

  It was Uncle Eddie.

  Oh the fun times just go on and on. His head was glinting in the moonlight and he was dressed from top to toe in leatherette, a lovely look for a boiled egg. He scruffled my hair and said, “Never eat anything bigger than your head.”

  And lurched into the front room to join the other loons.

  in the kitchen

  Mutti has just been in to get some vino tinto for the elderly loons. She is still wearing her crochet top. I tutted at her and she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  Huh.

  one minute later

  Miracle of miracles, there is something to eat! Macaroni chiz. Yum yum. Bonkerosity gives me an appetite. I was scarfing it down when I heard the “music” begin.

  They are all laughing and cackling in the front room. I know this mood, the next thing it will be…yes, I was right, “Dancing Queen” by Abba.

  Why are they so cheerful? Give them a gaily colored plastic bag and they’d be beside themselves with happiness. I wonder if I am adopted. I am so different from them.

  Vati yelled out, “Georgia, snacks!”

  Of course I’m not adopted. Vati is far too lazy to bother with the paperwork.

  I was just going to go up to my room when Vati said, “Gee, if you bring snacks I will consider giving you a couple of squids.”

  three minutes later

  When I came back into the front room with the crisps, I was not amazed to see the horrific sight of Mum sitting on Dad’s lap. Wearing her prostitute’s crochet top in front of Uncle Eddie. Uncle Eddie was resting his wineglass on his tummy and saying, “I was in the curry shop and the waitress came over, to ask me how the biriyani was. I was eating my curry and she was practically resting her boobs on my shoulder.”

  I said, “Oh God, you said boobs, that is soooo disgusting.”

  Uncle Eddie said, “I only said boobs out of respect for your mother, normally I say tits.”

  I went up to my room. I feel physically sick.

  8:30 p.m.

  What kind of people have an impromptu mid-week vicars-and-tarts party? To celebrate the fact that Dad and his mates who play football lost by only ten goals at their last match?

  My parents, that is who.

  Vati burst into my room like a red-faced loon in a dog collar and black tights. Sadly he does in fact look quite a lot like Call-Me-Arnold. He was quickly followed by Uncle Eddie, also in black tights and T-shirt. He has drawn a fringe with eye pencil all round his bald head like a mad monk. Good grief.

  Uncle Eddie said, “Here’s a joke to cheer you up, Gee.”

  I said, “Father, Uncle Eddie, if you could just go away forever and be mad somewhere else, that would be lovely. Thank you.”

  But he just went madly on.

  “Anyway, this bloke goes up to this house and he is dragging a box behind him. And he says…and he says…”

  And then he started laughing and choking so much, I thought I might have to do the Heimlich maneuver, which actually I am in the mood for. Grabbing and shaking someone from behind might get rid of a lot of nervy spazmodosity. Sadly he recovered himself and went on: “Anyway, he says to the woman who answers the door, ‘Are you Mrs. Jones the widow?’ And she says, ‘Well, I’m Mrs. Jones, but I’m not a widow,’ and he says, ‘Ah well, you haven’t seen what I’ve got in the box.’”

  And then he had to sit down in his extremely snug tights, he was laughing so much. He will never ever get up again. That is a fact.

  10:30 p.m.

  The tart and vicars are in the garden. They’ve put the loudspeakers outside so that the whole world can enjoy the joy of Status Quo’s “Down Down Viva I’m Down.”

  five minutes later

  Dad has brought out a cake with a huge Roman candle in the middle of it.

  one minute later

  Dad is making a crap speech, which fortunately I can’t hear, but I can see his chins wiggling about, so he must think its funny.

  one minute later

  Now he is bending over and lighting the Roman candle.

  one minute later

  Absolutely top!!! Dad has set fire to his own mustache. Blazing!

  I think I can sleep easy now. Life does indeed have a bright side.

  tuesday june 28th

  Dad at breakfast today being very quiet. I notice he is clean shaven. I said to him, “Vati, what has happened to the little beaver that used to live on the end of your chin?”

  But he didn’t even bother to reply, just grumped around and went off to “work.”

  11:00 a.m.

  On my way to English I stopped off in the tarts’ wardrobe because I had an unexpected piddly diddly urge. When I came out by myself, I saw Li
ndsay.

  Octopushead is back. Will we never be free? She was walking along on her twiglike legs swishing her naff extensions around. I ignored her but she had something to say. “Georgia Nicolson, well, well, without your silly mates for once. I’m glad that you took my advice about Masimo, I’d like to say you were sadly missed at the club last night, but you weren’t. Anyway, we stayed up till way past your bedtime, it was gone 9:30.”

  She knows, she knows. Masimo must have told her what happened. Oh this is sooooo horrible, I don’t think I can stand it.

  english

  gym

  I can’t think of anything except the fact that Lindsay knows about what happened. Miss Wilson wants us to “get in the mood” for MacUseless, so we are having yet another workshop fiasco in the gym.

  Miss Wilson was rambling on in her sad pinafore dress. Yes, pinafore dress. She was saying, “Oh this is so exciting. Only days to go till the big night. Come on! Let’s get the energy really building. Let’s feel that energy, girls!”

  Whilst she did that, we all lay down on the gym mats. Or in Rosie’s case, hung upside down on the wall bars. Like a bat in frilly black knickers. Mr. Attwood will be in in a minute with his perv antenna on high alert.

  Miss Wilson was trying to get our attention by clapping. Good luck.

  She said, “Girls, can I…could I just get you to…er, Rosie would you mind coming down from the wall bars, and the girls under the vaulting horse, would you just come out now. I want us to begin today’s intensive workshop by getting into different characters physically.”

  I said to Jools, “Lord save us, we aren’t going to have to be vegetables again, are we? I’m not in the mood for cabbage dancing or whatever.”

  Eventually we all got up and Miss Wilson shouted stuff out and we had to do it.

  She said, “Macbeth is tortured by his actions, how does that feel? What does it look like? No, Rosie, I don’t think that Macbeth would, erm, hang himself with a skipping rope. Can you just put it down now. Right, first of all, imagine the weary walk of someone who is feeling very depressed.”