Shut up, brain. Now this minitio. Stoppio, nowio. It still wouldn’t stop it (io). I was quite literally tripping around on a cloud of luuurve. Sadly the four pints of Coke I had to keep me going before he phoned now wanted to come out and join me. I tried pressing my bottom against the stool but sooner or later something was going to give. I needed to go to the tarts’ wardrobe vair vair badly. But because my vati was too mean to get a modern phone that you could walk about with I was stuck. I didn’t want to say, “Oh, ’scuse me, I have to go to the piddly diddly department” because that would start another one of those international incidents.
So I said, “Oh no, someone is at the door, can you just hang on for a mo?”
He said, “Sì, cara, I wait.”
And then weirdly the doorbell did ring. How freaky-deaky is that? I wonder who it was. Well, whoever it was, they weren’t coming in. I nipped into the tarts’ wardrobe. Then the shouting began.
“Georgia, come on, open the door, we know you are in there.”
It was Grandad. And he wasn’t alone. I could hear Libby and Maisie. Dear God.
I can’t keep them out for long because they’ll probably start knitting a rope ladder and get through my bedroom window. Perhaps I could persuade them to go away. There was a bit of silence and then Grandad said, “We’ve got snacks,” and he posted a sandwich through the letter box. I think it was Spam.
I went back to the telephone.
“Masimo, I have to go now, my grandad is posting sandwiches through the letter box.”
He laughed. But he laughed alone.
Then he said, “Phone me when you can, the telefono is Roma 75556666121.”
He did kissing stuff down the phone and then he was gone.
I didn’t even remember to say “when shall we speak again” or anything because I was so flustered by the elderly loons. And I wanted to write the number down before I forgot it.
five minutes later
People will not believe this, I know, but Maisie has knitted Libby a miniskirt and matching beret for her bridesmaid’s outfit.
one hour later
They have gone, thank the Lord.
four minutes later
Hearing Masimo’s voice has made everything simple for me vis-à-vis the general Horn, ad hoc red bottomosity, etc.
I am putting the accidental snogging scenario with Dave the Laugh into a snogging cupboard at the back of my brainbox. A snogging cupboard that I will never be going into again. I have locked the door and thrown away the key.
Well, I didn’t throw it away, actually, but I have put it somewhere that I will never be able to find again.
one minute later
The snogging cupboard is in fact next to another cupboard that has got other discarded boy stuff in it. Like the Mark Big Gob stuff. The resting his hand on my nunga-nunga episode, for instance. Which I have also completely forgotten about and will never remember.
one minute later
That cupboard has also got the snogging whelk boy fiasco in it. Erlack a pongoes.
one minute later
And that cupboard is next to the set of drawers that has pictures of Robbie the original Sex God in it. Funny I haven’t heard anything from him since I sort of dumped him. I hope he is not on the rack of love. Although that would be a first. Usually it is me that is on the rack of love.
thirty seconds later
I’ll just close the drawer now.
ten seconds later
I wonder if he has got the mega hump with me? I daren’t ask Tom. Especially as he might be Mr. Ex-Hunky.
one minute later
I hope Robbie is not too sad without me. I don’t like making boys cry. Although to be frank I would rather they were crying than me.
Life can be cruel.
Especially if you are vair vair sensitive like I am.
two minutes later
I don’t know what to do with myself now. I am full of excitementosity. And tensionosity. And just a hint of confusiosity.
one minute later
Maybe I should fill in time by learning some Pizza-a-gogo-ese. For when I go over. Being able to say only cappuccino is going to wear a bit thin after a few days.
Masimo said he was off to some party tonight in Rome.
five minutes later
Should he be out having fun whilst I am hanging about like a monk in a monkhouse?
That is the drawback to being the girlfriend of a rock legend, you have to hang around a lot.
I may be driven to going round to listen to Wild Woman of the Forest ramble on about Hunky.
on the way round
If I am nice to her, she may smash open her secret piggy bank and give me spondulies to go to my beloved.
Or else I could just steal the piggy.
round at Jas’s
Both her little eyes are swollen up.
I put my arm around her and said, “Jas, I have found that when you are troubled, it is often better to think of others rather than yourself. I think you would feel much better if you got me some milky coffee and jammy dodgers and I told you all about me.”
I had only just started when we were interrupted by Jas’s mum saying there was a phone call from Rosie for Jas and did she want to take it on her phone in the bedroom? Jas and I each listened on an extension. I was nestled up amongst the Owl folk and Jas was in her mum and dad’s bedroom on the other extension.
Every time I ask for an extension and so on, Dad has a complete nervy spaz saying wubbish stuff like, “Why don’t you just have a phone glued to your head?”
And so on.
I am not surprised that Mum says she doesn’t share many interests with him. What I am surprised about is that she shares any.
Roro said, “Bonjour, groovers. I have had la bonne idea. Don’t you think it would be groovy and a laugh for us to work out some backing dances for Sven’s gig?”
I said, “Mais oui, that would be beau regarde and also magnifique and possibly groovy.”
Jas said, “Well, as long as they are not silly.”
Rosie and I laughed. Then I said, “We could have a Nordic theme. We have many Viking dances in our repertoire: the Viking disco inferno, the bison dance. We could make up another one.”
Rosie said, “Yeah, grooveyard, we could have furry miniskirts and muffs.”
home again
9:00 p.m.
I have cheered Jas up and told her we will think of a plan vis-à-vis Tom.
I didn’t mention the piggy bank, but I think it is on the shelf near her bed. Behind her mollusk collection.
9:19 p.m.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize I was born for the stage before. It is blindingly obvious even to a blind man on blind tablets that I am a backing dancer. That will be my career. I will travel with the band giving the world the benefit of my Viking disco inferno dance and so on. And it is very convenient romance wise because with Masimo as the lead singer of the Stiff Dylans and me as backing dancer, we can travel the globe of luuurve.
turbulent washing machine of love
friday august 5th
early evening
Masimo hasn’t called again. Officially it’s my turn to call him on the number he gave me. That is what I would do if he was a girl, which he clearly isn’t, even if Dave says he is.
Shut up about Dave. I feel a bit shy about calling Masimo. In one of my mum’s mags, it said, “Be a teaser, not a pleaser.” And it said you should never ring a boy; they should always ring you. So essentially, I am once more thrashing about in the tumble dryer of love.
Oooh, what shall I do? Maybe I should send him a postcard.
five minutes later
But if I go out and buy a postcard, he might ring whilst I’m out. I wonder if Mum has one lurking about in her drawers. Oo-er.
in mum’s bedroom
Honestly, this house is like living in a tart’s handbag. I’ve found a card but it
is of a girl walking by with huge nunga nungas and a bloke on a veg stand holding two melons in front of his chest and the caption is “Phwoar, what a lovely pair of melons.” What is the matter with my parents?
two minutes later
But even if I did manage to send a card, when would I say I was coming? I still haven’t managed to steer the conversation around to Mutti and Vati giving me the spondulies for my trip.
one minute later
However, I have more than romance on my mind. Masimo will have to understand that my career comes first sometimes. There is a rehearsal round at Rosie’s tonight for our planned dance inferno extravaganza, so I’d better get my dance tights out.
sunday august 7th
Waited for the postie at the gate yesterday, but he didn’t have any letters for me. I asked the postie if he was hiding my mail, but he didn’t even bother to reply.
More damned rehearsals for Sven’s djing night. I am so vair vair tired. I am a slave to my art.
9:45 p.m.
I am quite tuckered out with dancing. Even though it is still practically the afternoon, I may as well go to bed.
in bed
Sven turned up at Rosie’s whilst we were there and snogged the pants off her (oo-er).
We all felt like a basket of goosegogs.
In fact when we were walking home, Jas said, “I felt a bit jealous.”
I tutted.
But actually I felt a bit jealous as well.
in my room
9:50 p.m.
The door slammed and I heard Vati come in. Accompanied by Uncle Eddie, a.k.a. the baldy-o-gram since he took up taking his clothes off for women. They pay him to do it, that is the weird thing.
Dad yelled, “The vati and the baldy-o-gram are home, sensation seekers!”
ten minutes later
I can hear the sound of sizzling from the kitchen and the cats are going bananas. That will be the twenty-five sausages each that Dad and his not very slim bald mate will be having.
Now I can hear the spluttering of cans of lager being opened.
Neither of them will be able to get through the kitchen door at this rate.
five minutes later
They must have chucked a couple of sausages out into the garden for Angus and the pussycat gang because there is a lot of yowling and spitting going on.
And barking.
And yelling.
Oh, here we go now. Mr. Next Door is on the warpath.
I looked carefully through the curtains as I didn’t want the finger of shame pointing my way.
Yes, there was Mr. Next Door in his combat gear (slippers and terry toweling robe), shouting out, “Clear off!!!”
He’s a fool, really. Angus will think he wants to play the sausage game with the Prat poodles.
one minute later
Ah, yes. Angus has bounded over the garden wall and he is having a sausage tug-of-war with Whitey. Mr. Next Door has gone for his broom.
I’m not going to look anymore as I may accidentally glimpse Mr. Next Door’s exposed bottom in the furor.
10:15 p.m.
Dad and the baldy-o-gram are arsing about laughing and giggling like ninnies in the front room. Then Dad yelled upstairs, “Georgia, my dove, your pater and his friend are engaged in a very serious business matter, would you get another couple of cans from the wine cellar. You may know it as the ‘fridge.’ Thank you so much.”
I just shouted down, “Not in a million years, O Portly One.”
He shouted back, “I will give you a fiver.”
Huh, as if bribery is going to make me his slavey girl.
two minutes later
When I went into the front room with the cans of lager, Dad was lying on the sofa like a great bearded whale.
Uncle Eddie winked at me as I came in.
Dad said, “So, Eddie, what is your life like, now that you are a sex symbol?”
Uncle Eddie belched (charming) and said, “Well, Bob, Georgia, it has its ups and downs like most celebrity lives. For instance, last night I got mobbed by women in the chippie after the gig. Which is nice. And I got free chips and a pickled egg, but on the other hand, when I got home I found they had bloody stolen another of my feather codpieces. Which I have to have handmade.”
Oh, how vair vair disgusting. Now I have been exposed to every sort of porn in this house, moldyporn, kittyporn and now baldyporn.
Speaking of kittyporn, where are Angus and Naomi?
And cross-eyed Gordy?
back in my room
It’s all gone suspiciously quiet.
I looked out of the window over Next Door’s garden.
I can’t see the pussycat gang, but I can see Gordy.
four minutes later
I am concerned that Gordy is hanging around with the wrong crowd. He is actually playing with the Prat poodles and, I can hardly believe my eyes, he is chewing on their rubber bonio. It’s not right.
It’s probably just an adolescent phase he is going through.
11:29 p.m.
I went down to get a drink of water and a jammy dodger to ward off late-night starvation. Mum came in a bit red faced from too much vino tinto, or just sheer embarrassment at being her. She went into the front room where Dad and Uncle Eddie were practicing some sort of dance for Uncle Eddie’s act. I couldn’t bear to have a look, but I will just say this, the music they were using was “I’m Jake the Peg, diddle diddle diddle dum, with my extra leg,” by Rolf Harris.
Mum slammed off to bed without saying good night.
Dad came out of the front room and said to me, “Uh-oh, women’s trouble!”
midnight
I must get away from here. I must get to see the Luuurve God. Dad owes me a fiver for being his slavey girl. So that means I have only 450 pounds to go.
I wonder if he will believe me if I say he said he would give me 50 pounds to get his lager?
monday august 8th
8:30 a.m.
I am still not used to having my bed to myself. Even Angus didn’t come in all night, he’s probably too bloated with sausage to haul himself up the stairs. I wouldn’t say I am exactly missing Libby, but I feel a missing space in my bed where her freezing bottom used to be.
in the kitchen
Oh brilliant, Mutti and Vati are not speaking AGAIN. They are so childish.
Dad yelled from the bedroom, “Connie, have you seen my undercrackers?”
And Mum went on buttering her toast.
There was a long silence and then Dad said, “Er, hello…is there anybody there?”
I looked at Mum and she was chomping away on her toastie.
I said, “Mum, I would like to discuss dates with you about my Italian holiday. Do you remember that we agreed I would go next week? Well, do you think I should travel to Rome on the Friday or the Saturday? It would be better on the Saturday because then Vati could drive me to the airport. It would be best all round, don’t you think, that he hired a proper car. For safety and embarrassment reasons.”
Dad yelled again from the bedroom, “Connie, stop playing the giddy goat, I’m going to be late. I cannot find any of my undercrackers.”
Mum said to me, “You don’t need to worry about the lift and so on.”
I said, “Fanks, Mum.”
She said, “You don’t need to worry about a lift because you are not going anywhere.”
What???
Then Dad came into the kitchen. With a towel wrapped around what he laughingly refers to as his waist. He said to Mum, “Where are all my undercrackers?”
Mum pointed to the kitchen bin.
Dad went ballisticisimus. And a half.
It didn’t really seem the right moment to ask him about the lift to the airport. Or the 500 pounds I would need for proper spendies, so I skipped back up to the safety of my room.
fifteen minutes later
Well, it’s good that the whole street knows about my
dad’s undercrackers and my mum’s insanity. It makes for a tighter community spirit.
I do think that Dad should learn that, as our revered headmistress Slim says, “Obscene language is the language of those of a limited imagination.”
tuesday august 9th
10:00 p.m.
Jas has driven me insane today with all her Tom talk. I think she is hoping he will just forget about the going to different universities, having their own space fandango.
Well, let sleeping dogs lie, is what I say.
Although it is not what Gordy says. He is worrying me.
I was calling him and tapping his food tin with a spoon when Mr. Next Door popped his head over the fence. He said that Gordon was sleeping in the Prat brothers’ kennel.
I said, “Yeah, you’ll never get him out, I’m afraid. They will have to sleep in the house.”
And Mr. Next Door said the weirdest thing.
“Oh, they are in there with him.”
Blimey.
wednesday august 10th
Ok, it’s over a week now since I heard from Masimo. So I’m going to send a cool postcard. I’ve got one of a kitten being fished out of a pan with a ladle covered in spaghetti, and you can’t get cooler than that in my humble opinion. So here goes:
Ciao, Masimo. It is me here, it was vair fabby and marvy to hear your voice.
Hang on, he might not know what vair means, or fabby, or marvy. Blimey, it’s going to take me the rest of my life to write this postcard. I’ll do it tomorrow.
thursday august 11th
I keep looking at the number I have got for Masimo. What would I say if I called him? And, anyway, if he likes my eyes so much, why hasn’t he got on the phone again?
lunchtime
Even though I am plunged once more into the turbulent washing machine of luuurve, I am quite looking forward to going to Sven’s djing gig on Saturday.
We are having rehearsals round at Rosie’s for our backing dancing routines. Honor and Sophie, the trainee ace gang members, are getting their big break because they are allowed to join in the rehearsal sessions. Although they won’t be doing the real thing as there is not enough room on the stage and not enough earmuffs to go around. But that is showbiz for you.
We are going to do our world-renowned (well, lots of people have seen it at Stalag 14) Viking disco inferno dance. Also as a world premiere in honor of Sven’s gig we have come up with a new dance called the Viking hornpipe.
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