Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants

by Louise Rennison

  It’s a shame that my internal maturiosity is not recognized by the constabulary.

  monday december 20th

  I haven’t had much time to see the ace gang as I have been hanging out with Robbie. How cool is that? Double cool with knobs, that is how cool. Sometimes we talk in between snogging. Well, mostly he talks because I think it is safer that way, and besides I have lots of other things to worry about whilst he is chatting on about The Stiff Dylans and world peace and so on. Things like avoiding nostril flair, or nip nip eruption, or even, as happened the other night, uncontrollable desires to start “Let’s go down the disco” dancing when he put some classical music on.

  Rang Jas to catch up. “Hey. What has the ace gang been up to?”

  “We only saw you yesterday, Georgia.”

  9:35 p.m.

  But I know the ace gang had a group outing to the cinema last night because Ellen came round to show me her Instamatic photos. How keen is that? To take photos at the cinema. They got thrown out and I’m not surprised. No one would have been able to see the screen with Sven and Dave the Laugh wearing their Christmas antlers.

  The gang have probably missed me A LOT, even though they haven’t said so.

  Ellen said it was “fun” and “a laugh.” I didn’t ask her about Dave the Laugh, but she told me anyway, about a zillion times…that they are “an item.” Huh. Who cares?

  midnight

  I noticed in the photos that in addition to his antlers, Dave the L was wearing the comedy red nose that he wore when he told me he loved me and I accidentally fell over and kissed him. But accidental snogging and red-bottomosity are yesterday’s news.

  furry baby jesuses

  wednesday december 22nd

  11:00 a.m.

  The Sex God has gone off to the Isle of Man with Tom and the rest of his family. Then he goes straight off on tour of Och Aye land and Prestan-a-gogogogogo land (Wales).

  We spent our last night together at his house because his parents were away. It was really groovy with mucho ear nibbling and snogging extraordinaire. I’m getting the hang of hands now (mine, I mean). I don’t just let them dangle about, I give them lots to do. Hair stroking and back stroking and so on. (His hair and his back, not mine.) I think that snogging keeps me in tip-top physical condition. I may suggest to Ms. Stamp that she put it into the training schedule for games. Hang on a minute, though. She might want to join in.

  When the Sex God and I had to part (which took about an hour and a half because I kept coming out of my door after he had said good-bye and we would do all the good-bye stuff again), he handed me a small package and said, “Don’t do anything too loony while I am away, gorgeous. Here is something for you for Christmas. I’ll get you something else from Scotland or Wales.” Which is nice.

  Unless he gets me a sporran. Or a tartan bikini. Shut up, shut up, brain. It’s only because I am full of sadnosity, probably.

  I told Jas and she said, “Tom gave me a locket that has a photo of me and him in it that we took at a booth in Seaworld. It’s got a backdrop of sea creatures and so on.”

  I said, “I hope you didn’t make any dolphins be in it, because they have hard enough lives as it is, without being made to get into photo booths with you and Tom.”

  I was quite tearful after SG left. I hope he will like the identity bracelet I got him with my name on it. Jas said I should have had his name engraved on it, which is what she did with Tom’s.

  Phoned Jas again. “Jas, why have you put Tom’s name on his identity bracelet? Doesn’t he already know who he is?”

  She sighed like someone who is incredibly full of wisdomosity, which is ironic, and said, “What if he was unconscious or something and no one knew who he was?”

  “And you think ‘Tom’ would do the trick, then?”

  She said, “I have to go now.” But I don’t think she really did have to go.

  I will put the little package that SG gave me for a Chrimboli gift under my bed.

  12:30 p.m.

  Poo. I suppose I will have to get used to being a pop widow. I have to develop my own interests. I must use the time he is away wisely. I hope it snows early next term and then I can try out the hilariosity of my new idea vis-à-vis glove animal and snow blindness.

  1:00 p.m.

  I wonder how much money I will need to go to America? I’ve got some money saved up, if I can find my bank book.

  1:20 p.m.

  Hmm. £15.50.

  1:30 p.m.

  If I am saving up for Hamburger-a-gogo I can’t use money to buy any more Chrimboli prezzies. I will have to be creative.

  Luckily I’m very artistic, as everyone knows. Miss Berry, the Art teacher, thinks I have a special talent. Not for art, though, sadly. She said I had a special talent for wasting everyone’s time. Which is a bit harsh.

  I am going to start making my Christmas gifts out of colorful materials and a needle and cotton.

  10:00 p.m.

  I made some carrot twins for Libby. Two nicely carved carrots with rather attractive gingham headscarves and cloaks on. And for Mutti, a pair of sleep glasses. I cut the spectacle shape out of some fun fur fabric and attached an elastic band. I think she will love and appreciate them, but you can never tell.

  As a thoughtful and forgiving gift at this special time of year, I took Naomi’s pregnancy smock, which I had spent many, many minutes making, over to Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road’s house. It has got tiny bows on it and four leg holes, which is unusual in a pregnancy smock. I left it on the doorstep with a note saying, “Best wishes from one who only hopes there to be love and peace in the world.”

  saturday december 25th

  christmas day

  Woke up to quite a few prezzies. Libbs climbed in my bed and we opened things together. I am very nearly quite fond of my mutti and vati. Vati gave me some CDs I actually wanted! Libby LOBED her carrot twins and dumped Mr. Potato into the dustbin of life. (Which is just as well, as he was all crinkled and green.)

  Mum, in a rare moment of sanity, has bought me a really good bra…which fits and is actually quite nice. Not too thrusting and not too baggy. Even when I jump up and down, there is very little ad hoc jiggling. Perhaps now I will be able to dance free and wild, with no danger of knocking anyone out with my nunga-nungas.

  No sign of snow yet, although it is very very nippy noodles.

  1:00 p.m.

  M and D and Libbs have gone to visit miscellaneous loons, so I have a private moment to open SG’s gift.

  It’s a compilation tape of songs that he has recorded solo, and it’s got “For Georgia, with love, Robbie” written on the little cover thing. In years to come I will be on TV saying, “Yes, Robbie did write the track ‘O Gorgeous One’ for me. Likewise ‘Cor, What a Smasher’ and ‘Phwoar.’”

  1:30 p.m.

  Hmm. There isn’t a track called “O Gorgeous One” or “Cor, What a Smasher.” There are tracks about endangered species and one about Vincent van Gogh. Not exactly dance extravaganza music; more, it has to be said, music for slitting your wrists to.

  2:00 p.m.

  I love him for his seriosity.

  3:30 p.m.

  Big, big news breaking. And no, it is not that Father Christmas is just Dad in a crap white beard (even though that bit is true too). After Christmas lunch, Mr. Across the Road dashed over and had a brandy with Dad because…Naomi is in labor!

  I said, “Quickly, we must get her on a donkey and head for Bethlehem!” But they all looked at me in that looking-at way that adults have when they do not comprehend the enormity of my hilariosity.

  I phoned Jas to let her know the joyful good news. “Naomi is having some furry Baby Jesuses.”

  “Non.”

  “Mais oui.”

  “What shall we do?”

  I said, “You get the donkey and I’ll sort out the snacks.”

  4:00 p.m.

  Angus is in (even for him) a very bad mood. He’s been doing slam dancing in the kitchen to Christmas caro
ls playing on the radio (i.e., he just throws himself against things for no reason). When “Away in a Manger” came on he leapt out of the sink and up onto the plate rack, and then just sort of tap-danced his way along. Four plates and a soup tureen bit the dust.

  4:30 p.m.

  Decided to take Angus out for a Christmas walk to help him work off his frustration and also ensure that we have something to eat our dinner from. I’m under orders to keep him on his lead in case his inner cat pain drives him to beat up little dogs.

  4:35 p.m.

  As I was leaving Libby said, “I want to come.”

  Auntie Kath in Blackpool sent her an all-in-one leopard costume jumpsuit. It’s got a tail and ears and whiskers and so on. Libby has had it on all day. Cute.

  5:00 p.m.

  We had to turn back and get Angus’s spare lead because Libby is a cat as well. I hope I don’t bump into anyone I know.

  5:30 p.m.

  It’s taken over half an hour to get out of the garden. Libby goes so slowly on her hands and knees.

  Once I got her to move on, Angus found something disgusting to dig up. What sort of people bury manky old bits of clothing in other people’s gardens?

  5:45 p.m.

  So that is where Dad’s fishing socks went. I remember Dad saying to Mum, “Have you seen my fishing socks?” and Mum saying, “They’ve probably gone out for a bit of a walk.” Because they were so pingy pongoes, even Angus has reburied them.

  6:00 p.m.

  Angus managed to shake me off the end of his lead by heading straight for a lamppost at eighty miles an hour and swerving at the last minute. Now he is prancing around on Mr. Next Door’s wall. The Prat Poodles are going berserk trying to leap up at him. Now and again he lies down and dangles a paw near them.

  Snowy and Whitey have gone completely loopy now. Whitey leapt up and missed Angus’s paw and crashed into the wall, but Snowy kept leaping and leaping and Angus was raising his paw slightly higher and higher.

  In the end, Angus biffed Snowy midleap, right over on to his back. You’d think that Angus would be a bit miserable, or quiet even, as his beloved sex kitten gives birth to another man’s kittens. But no, he is an example to us all. I don’t know what of.

  6:05 p.m.

  Sheer stupidity leaps to mind.

  in my bedroom

  7:00 p.m.

  Uh-oh, Mr. Across the Road came and banged on our door. I looked down the stairs as Vati answered. It was weird, actually, because usually Mr. Across the Road can rave on for England but he didn’t seem to be able to speak. He just gestured with his hand for us to follow him. Perhaps he has taken up mime as a Christmas hobby.

  We all trailed over to his house. I don’t know why I am supposed to be interested. In fact, I thought as a mark of solidarity with Angus I would refuse to go. But I quite wanted to see the kittens.

  Angus was on the wall and tapped my head with a paw as I went by. I said, “I’m sorry about this, Angus.”

  He just yawned and lay on his back chewing his lead.

  7:10 p.m.

  When we got into his kitchen, Mr. Across the Road took us to Naomi. He didn’t say a word. And Mrs. Across the Road was just staring down at the cat basket as if there was something horrible in it.

  Naomi was lying in the basket like the Queen of Sheba, surrounded by kittens. Seven of them…

  All of them look like miniature Anguses!!!! Honestly! They all have his markings and everything. This is quite literally a bloody miracle!

  10:00 p.m.

  Another long, long night of Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road coming across and saying, “Why? Oh why??” and “How?” and occasionally, “Why? And how?”

  In the end they worked out that Angus must have sneaked into Naomi’s love parlor before his trouser snake addendums were, you know…adjusted. Super-Cat!!! He is without doubt the 007 of the cat world.

  sunday december 26th

  boxing day

  The tiny(ish) kittykats are so gorgey. Jas came over and Libby and Jas and I went to visit. Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road let us in but were very grumpy about it and were tutting and carrying on. Mr. Across the Road kept calling Angus “that thing.” Which was a bit uncalled for.

  And Mrs. Across the Road said, “Two hundred guineas, she cost us, and for this to happen with a…with a…”

  “Proud, heroic Scottish wildcat?” I asked.

  “No, with an out-of-control…beast!”

  They’re just a bit overcome with joy at the moment, but I am sure they will come round in a few thousand years.

  Even though they are only a few hours old Angus and Naomi’s kittykats are not what you would call the usual sort of kittykat. They haven’t even opened their eyes yet, but they are already biting each other and spitting.

  I used my womanly charms (which Jas rather meanly said made me look like an ax murderer) and begged Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road to let Angus at least lick his offspring.

  3:00 p.m.

  Eventually they said he could if he was kept on his lead at all times.

  He strutted around purring like a tank (two tanks), biffing the kittykats with his head and licking Naomi. Awww.

  That is what I want me and the Sex God to be like. Not necessarily including the bottom-exposing thing that Angus and Naomi go in for A LOT.

  tuesday december 28th

  Robbie has phoned me eight times!!!

  It’s a bit weird because there is always someone around earwigging. Dad’s got ears like a bat. (I’ll surprise him one day by walking into the front room whilst he is hanging upside down from the light fixture.) When I was talking to Rosie about how to put your tongue behind your back teeth when you smile because it makes you look sexier he came bursting out of the kitchen and said, “Are you going to be talking rubbish on the phone for much longer? I want to make a call myself this century.”

  I said patiently, “Vati, as I have pointed out many, many times, if you would have the decency to buy me my own mobile phone in keeping with the rest of the universe, then I wouldn’t have to use this prehistoric one in the hall.” But he just ignored me as usual.

  wednesday december 29th

  I arranged with Robbie that he would call me at four o’clock today (as opposed to Isle of Man time, which is about 1948, according to Robbie. I think they still have steam trains). This is the cunning plan we made, in order to be able to say what we like to each other (for example, “You are the most Sex-Goddy thing on legs, I want to suck your shirt, etc., etc.”). I told Robbie the telephone number of the phone box down the road and he is going to ring me there.

  in the phone box

  4:00 p.m.

  Mark Big Gob went by with his midget girlfriend. Rosie didn’t believe me when I told her how very very tiny Mark’s girlfriend is, but she is. You could quite easily strap a bowl of peanuts to her tiny head and use her as a sort of snacks table at parties. That is how small she is.

  Mark Big Gob gave me a hideous wink as he went by. It’s hard to believe that he actually dumped me before I was going to dump him for being so thick. How annoying is that? Vair vair annoying, but…then the phone rang and my beloved Sex God of the Universe and Beyond spoke to me.

  at jas’s

  5:00 p.m.

  Jas’s mutti and vati are out and we are practicing for our trip to Froggyland by eating a typico French peasant meal: pomme de terre and les baked beans avec le sauce de tomato. Oh, and of course, de rigueur…we wore our berets and stripey T-shirts.

  I said, “I ’ope that Gorgey Henri can control his passion for me when we reach Paree.”

  Jas was also wearing what she imagines are sexy shades. She’s wrong, though—they don’t make her look French, they make her look blind.

  She said, “Gorgey Henri does not have la passion for you, he thinks you are la stupid schoolgirl.”

  “Oh, mais non, ma idiot, au contraire he thinks I am la genius.”

  We both had a lot of frustrated snogging energy so we had to do “Let’s go down the
disco” dancing on Jas’s bed for about an hour. We were pretending we were in a French disco inferno, which means we yelled, “Mon Dieu!” “Zut alors!” and “Merde!” A LOT.

  midnight

  I think I may actually have broken my neck from doing too much head banging.

  thursday december 30th

  Woke up this morning and there was a sort of weird light in the bedroom. When I opened the curtains I discovered that it had snowed overnight!!!

  Mr. Next Door was already up wearing ludicrous snow wear—bobble hat, duffle coat and rubber trousers, clearing his path with a shovel. He got to the end of the path near the gate and then had a breather to survey his handiwork. He probably imagines he is like Nanook of the North.

  It’s a shame if he does, because as he walked back up his newly cleared path, he went flying on a slippy bit and ended up skidding along on his rubber trousers.

  Happy days!

  11:45 a.m.

  Oh, très sportif. We are going to have the Winter Olympics! All the gang are going to meet up on the back fields for snow fun and frolics.

  “What are you going to wear?” I asked Rosie.

  “Short black leather skirt, new knee boots and a LOT of lip gloss.”

  “That is not exactly sensible winter wear.”

  “I know,” she said. “I may freeze to death, but I will look fabbity fab fab.”

  She is not wrong. I may have to rifle through my wardrobe for glamorous après-ski wear.

  I don’t know why I am bothering, really, as the Sex God is not here, but you have to keep up appearances for good humorosity and fashionosability’s sake.

  Phoned Jas. “Jas, what are you wearing for the sledging and snow sports extravaganza?”

  “Well, I was thinking snug and warm.”

  “Well, you can’t just wear your huge winter knickers, Jas.”

  “Hahahaha-di-haha. What are you wearing?”

  “Hmmm…ski pants, ankle boots and I think roll-neck top and leather jacket. Oh, and waterproof eye makeup in case of a sudden snowstorm.”