Withering Tights with Bonus Material

by Louise Rennison

  Mrs. Rochester was Mr. Rochester’s secret wife in Jane Eyre that he kept in a cupboard upstairs. She was mad as a snake and would only wear her nightie.

  In the end it all finished happily because she set fire to the house, went up on the roof for a bit of a dance about, and tripped over her nightie and fell to her death.

  Leaving Mr. Rochester blind.

  This is one of Em, Chazza, and Anne’s more comic novels.

  dunderwhelp

  A polite Yorkshire way of saying: “You are an absolute disgrace of a person. Look at your knees.”

  egg cozies

  Little knitted hats for keeping boiled eggs warm.

  fogwear

  Yes. What is fogwear?

  A car headlight strapped to your cap perhaps?

  A foghorn handbag?

  It doesn’t matter. No one is going to see it anyway.

  garyboy

  Anyone called Gary is a gay person. By that I mean Cain, Seth, and Ruben Hinchcliff say this. And even if someone called Gary wasn’t gay at first, he would be by the time he had been told he was for fourteen years.

  get a cob on

  To have the monk on.

  You don’t know what that means either, do you?

  Erm . . .

  To have a face like a smacked arse.

  Does that help?

  Well, I’m trying to help, don’t get a cob on.

  ginnel

  Now this is Viking. It is. I do know this.

  A ginnel is a narrow passageway that runs between two sets of terraced houses. So there is a wall on either side. And it’s narrow.

  I don’t know why the Vikings had anything to do with it, though, because terraced houses weren’t invented when they were in Yorkshire pillaging stuff.

  gogglers

  Eyes.

  To goggle is to look at stuff.

  If you couldn’t see anything then you would need gogs.

  golden slippers of applause

  Sidone, the revered and possibly mentally unstable principal of Dother Hall, has her own unique view of the world.

  Especially the showbiz world.

  In this world she is obsessed by feet.

  So her opposite of the “golden slippers of applause” is “the bleeding feet of rejection.”

  heavens to Betsy

  An expression of astonishment like . . .

  “Gosh!”

  Or, “Crikey!”

  Or, as they say in Yorkshire:

  “Well, I’ll go to the top of our stairs!”

  I know it makes little sense but believe me it’s best not to argue about these things with Yorkshire folk. Or they will very likely get a cob on.

  (see previous)

  Heathcliff

  The “hero” of Wuthering Heights. Although no one knows why.

  He’s mean, moody, and possibly a bit on the pongy side.

  Cathy loves him, though. She shows this by viciously rejecting him and marrying someone else for a laugh. Still, that is true love on the moors for you.

  hiddly diddly diddly

  The sound of all Irish songs (and dances). It fits them all.

  Try it.

  Iron Man group

  An all-men’s group that hangs around with other men so that they can find their inner man-iness.

  Usually they knit a lot.

  In caves.

  jazz hands

  Sidone loves jazz hands.

  Essentially it’s sticking your hands out a lot while lurching around to jazz.

  lawks-a-mercy

  “Crikey” but longer.

  loosey-goosey

  You know. All floppy. Like a floppy—er—goose.

  manky pillock

  “Manky” means “smelly,” and “pillock” . . . well, “pillock” is a combination of “dunderwhelp” and “barm pot” with just a hint of the “garyboy.”

  mardy bum

  Someone who is so bad-tempered and “mardy” that even their bottom is annoyed.

  Like Beverley when she found out that although she was engaged to Cain (she bought her own ring), he had two other girlfriends.

  Which is why she flung herself in the river.

  And ruined her dress because the river was only two inches deep.

  Mummers play

  Not a mummy’s play, which is what I thought at first. Because a mummy’s play would be quite dull. People all wrapped up in bandages and dead.

  No, a Mummers play was in medieval times, when actors would dress up in rags with their faces painted blue and go into pubs to entertain people.

  They would do this by pretending to fight and hit the audience over the head with sheep’s bladders.

  Much like The Blind Pig at the weekend.

  nobbliness

  I’m on firmer ground here.

  Nobbly bits are usually bony bits that look, well, nobbly.

  I have loads of it.

  In the knee area.

  noddy niddy noddy

  A person who doesn’t have much furniture upstairs.

  Or to make it clearer: A person who has the lights on, but no one is home.

  northern grit

  Umph and determination. If you say to a northern person:

  “Don’t go out in that storm, you barm pot. The rain is coming down so hard you will be reduced to half your height.”

  The Northerner would say:

  “What rain?”

  And go out in his underpants.

  “On Ilkley Moor Bar T’at”

  A song about someone who goes out on Ilkley moor without a hat.

  Yes it is.

  There is probably another one that goes, “Went down t’shops to get some lard.”

  quakebottom

  Someone who is so nervous and frightened that even their bottom is shaking.

  sjuuuge

  When toddlers don’t have many teeth (or brains) they can’t say words properly. So this means “huge.”

  Either that or they do know how to say “huge” and are just being annoying.

  Maybe toddlers can really secretly talk from birth.

  I bet they can read as well.

  They are just having a laugh.

  And being lazy.

  Sled-werk

  An artistic term used to describe the “Sled-ists” of Norway, who painted with sledges.

  So Georgia tells me.

  rufty tufty

  tough (tuf)

  and

  rough (ruf)

  and ty (ty)

  shuffle–ball change

  A tap-dancing technique, i.e., hopping.

  splice the mainbrace

  A bit like “Swab the poop deck!”

  A nautical term of astonishment.

  Like “Shiver my timbers” and “Left hand down a bit.”

  yarooo!

  “Hurrah” only spelled wrong.

  Yeppity doo dah

  I think this can be laid firmly at the feet of the American nation.

  It was the Americans who invented a song called “Zip-ADee-Doo-Dah,” and because that made little sense we now say “Yeppity doo dah.”

  To mean “yes.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Louise Rennison’s book A Midsummer Tights Dream

  Back on the showbiz express

  PERFORMING ARTS COLLEGE, HERE I come again! Hold on to your tights! Because I am holding on to mine, I can tell you. Which makes it difficult to go to the loo, but that is the price of fame. And fame is my game!

  Once more I am chugging back to Dother Hall. Or “the theater of dreams” as Sidone Beaver, the principal, calls it. I am truly on the showbiz express of life.

  Well, the stopping train to Skipley, the Entertainment Capital of the North. Or home of the West Riding Otter, as some not-showbiz people call it. (I don’t think they mean that only a big fat otter lives in the town, although you never know!)

  Hooray and chug-a-lug-a-doo-dah!!!

  I feel like shouting out to the heavens. I think I will.
I can now because the grumpy woman with the stick got off at the last stop. Oh, the Northern folk with their jolly Northern ways. She was so grumpy about her gammy leg. She said the stick had worn down on one side so that she fell over in strong winds. I didn’t ask her any of this—she just told me. But hey-nonny-no, as Shakespeare said. I am going to pull down the window and shout out loud:

  “The name is Tallulah. Tallulah Casey!!! And I’m back. I’m moving up! Moving on up! Nothing can stop me! Yes, I used to be shy and gangly with nobbly knees and no sticky-out bits. No corkers. I was corkerless. I didn’t even wear a corker holder. But now even my corkers are on the move!”

  Especially when the train keeps stopping unexpectedly. What now? Maybe the West Riding Otter is on the line. The tannoy is crackling but I can only hear heavy breathing and snuffling. Lawks a mercy, the wild otter has hijacked the train!

  I don’t care about the otter driver! Live and let live, I say.

  Uh-oh, the tannoy is crackling again.

  “Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, I momentarily lost hold of my pie. Next stop Skipley.”

  We’re just passing Grimbottom Peak. Brr. It looks so dark and forbidding up there on the crags. I’m surprised it’s not pouring down with rain and . . . It is pouring down with rain.

  Crumbs, it’s like the lights have been turned off. You can hardly see Grimbottom. The locals say that when daytrippers are up there the fog can come down in minutes. Mr. Bottomly at the post office once told me and Flossie:

  “One minute t’day-trippers are up there on’t top, playing piggy in’t middle like barm pots. The next it’s so dark they can’t even see t’ball. And it’s in their hand. Hours later the grown-ups stumble home but the little’uns are nivver seen no more.

  “Sometimes late at night tha can hear ’em up there wailing, ‘Mummeee . . . Dadeeeee . . . ’ All them lost bairns, speaking from beyond the grave.”

  Flossie had said to Mr. Bottomly, “That’s rubbish. I think there’s a massive wild dog up there called Fang. Half dog, half donkey, and it comes out in the fog and takes the children and raises them as its puppies.”

  In my opinion, even though I haven’t known her for long, my new friend Flossie is what is commonly known as “mad.”

  But mad or not, I am really, really excited about seeing her and my new mates again. Vaisey and Flossie and little Jo and Honey, who can’t say her “r”s but knows everything about boys. She says she always has “two or thwee on the go.”

  We can go into the woods near Dother Hall again, to our special place! And gather round our special tree. Our special tree where we met the boys from Woolfe Academy when they surprised us doing our special dance that Honey taught us. She said we had to be proud of all of ourselves, even the bits we didn’t like. It was a “showing our inner glory” dance. Or “inner glowee” as Honey called it. Which in my case was hurling my legs around shouting, “I love my knees, I love them!”

  Not quite as embarrassing as Vaisey waggling her bottom at the tree, but close.

  The Woolfe Academy boys, well, Charlie and Phil, call us the “Tree Sisters.”

  Charlie said to me . . .

  Well, I won’t think about Charlie. Not after what happened after he kissed me.

  Where was I in my performing life? Oh yes, last summer when I got to Dother Hall I couldn’t do anything. The others could sing and dance and act, but all I could do was be tall and do a bit of Irish dancing.

  I was convinced that I would never be asked back and that I would never wear the golden slippers of applause. Things changed when Blaise Fox, the dance tutor, saw my Sugar Plum Bikey performance. My ballet based on the Sugar Plum Fairy—only done on a bicycle. The one when my ballet skirt got caught in the back wheel, and I accidentally shot off my bike and destroyed the backstage area. I remember what she said.

  She said: “Tallulah Casey, watching you is like watching someone whose pants are on fire.” Then she asked me to play Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights at the end of last term. And the rest is showbiz legend.

  Heathcliff’s Irish-dancing solo was a triumph! And, also, not so easy in tight trousers.

  I still don’t know why she cast me as Heathcliff though.

  Perhaps I really do look like a boy?

  If I look down and squint my eyes a bit, I can definitely see pimply bumps in the corker area.

  No one can argue with that. The front of a jumper never lies.

  My jumper is one of the ones Cousin Georgia and her Ace Gang chose for me. It’s green and she says it goes with my eyes and gives me je ne sais quoi.

  Well, she actually said, “It says ‘ummmmmmm’ but not ‘oooohhhh, look at me, I’m a tart.’”

  I can’t wait to get to Skipley. I’m so excited. This is going to be my Winter of Love, I can tell.

  I stayed with Cousin Georgia on my way back from summer school and it was brilliant. I haven’t really spent a lot of time with her before because of being in Ireland and having crap parents who actually do stuff. Not just bake tarts or DIY like everyone else’s parents. Not good old boring stuff. My mum goes off and paints and my dad goes off exploring to find endangered things. He collects mollusks mostly but last time he found a rare hairy potato. He’s like a cross between David Bellamy and . . . a Labrador. That is not a proper dad in anyone’s language.

  That’s a Labradad.

  Hee. I think that might very nearly be a joke.

  I’m going to put it into my performance-art notebook that I will be keeping.

  I’ve got a special new notebook with a black glossy cover and some plums on the front of it.

  It’s really arty, and er . . . fruity.

  I’ve already made my first entry.

  It says:

  Winter of Love.

  I’ll just add my “Labradad” idea.

  Labradad. A portrait of a dad who is half pipe-smoking bloke and half Labrador. He’s confused between the two worlds. Between pipes and sticks. I’m thinking an improvised dance piece. Perhaps the Labradad fetching sticks. Or pipes?

  Or ducks?

  Hmmmmm.

  I love my parents but they’re not normal. Or around much. But they have let me come back to Dother Hall—even though I have to stay with the Dobbinses. My mum said I was too immature to board but she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m staying with a family where the mother is a Brown Owl and the father goes to “inner woman” groups. Which is not to mention the idiot twins.

  It was great staying with Cousin Georgia. It was brilliant on the boy front as well.

  She got her Ace Gang round to teach me “wisdomosity” and also “snogging techniques.” We all tucked up in her bed, which was cozy.

  Georgia said, “Have a jammy dodger and give us the goss snogwise.”

  The Ace Gang were wearing false beards to help me get into the mood.

  So . . . I told them about going to the cinema in Skipley with some boys from Woolfe Academy and about my first kiss. With floppy Ben. And how it was like having a little bat trapped in my mouth.

  The Ace Gang looked at me and Tallulah, Georgia said, “But are you a fool with just a hint of an idiot thrown in?”

  Then they gave me their wisdomosity about boys. And snogging.

  Gosh, Georgia knows a lot.

  About varying pressure of the lips, what to do with your tongue (don’t waggle it about like a fool), the scoring system for snogging. (Number 1 to Number 10, I can’t remember all of them but I do remember Number 4 is “a kiss lasting over three minutes without a break.” You need a mate for that one, so that they can time it for you.)

  Honestly. I couldn’t believe it.

  I’m dying to try out my new skills.

  The amount she knew, she must have spent all of her time doing snogging research.

  I said that to her and she said, “I do, my strange gangly cousy. But I have put aside snogging to teach you the ways of boydom. I do it because I luuurve you. But not in a lezzie way.”

  Which is good.

&
nbsp; I think.

  What is a “lezzie way”?

  I think it’s to do with girl snogging.

  But I didn’t ask.

  Oh chuggy-chug-chug. Come on, train!!!

  I wonder what time the rest of the Tree Sisters will arrive tomorrow?

  Oh, here we are at the train station. Hurrah!!! There’s its sign swinging in the biting gale force wind. Just as I remember:

  SKIPLEY

  HOME OF THE

  WEST RIDING OTTER

  Hang on a minute, some Northern vandal has painted a “b” and a “y” over the otter bit. So now it reads:

  Well, here I am, back where I really belong. I have just got off the showbiz express and crossed to the other side of the station and now I am getting on the bus of hope. Which will transport me to . . . The Theater of Dreams.

  I can see the bus driver through the closed door, sitting in the driver’s seat. I recognize him from last term. I wonder if he recognizes me?

  As I hauled my bag on board up the steps he put the pipe to one side of his mouth and shouted, “Stop messing about and get on if you’re getting on, merry legs. It’s bloody parky with that door open.”

  I said, “Why did you call me merry legs?”

  He said, “Because you’re lanky and your legs are all over the shop.”

  As I paid my fare he said, “Come back to prat around like a fool at Dither Hall again, have you?”

  Before I could say “It’s Dother Hall, actual—” he accelerated off so violently that I shot down to the end of the bus and almost ended up in a small child’s pushchair. Luckily there wasn’t a small child in it, just a pig.

  The woman with the pushchair said, “Mind my pig.”

  I am huddled up well away from her, but I think I can still smell pig poo.

  We bumped along the road to Heckmondwhite. The driver is careering along sounding his horn whenever there is anything in his way on the road. Pedestrians. Bicyclists. A cow pat. But he slowed down behind a lollipop lady who was walking home. With her sign. She tried to let him pass but he cheerily waved her on and drove slowly behind her. Then for no reason when we got to a sharp corner he revved up and blasted his horn and she fell into a hedge. He was laughing so much I thought he might swallow his pipe.