The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10. Louise Rennison
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mind if I have a sense of humour.
7:00 p.m.
Ellen and Julia rang from a phonebox. They took turns to speak in French accents. We’re going for a mystery walk tomorrow. Or La Marche Avec Mystery.
10:30 p.m.
Have put on a face mask made from egg yolk just in case we see any les garçons gorgeous on our walk.
Tuesday August 25th
9:00 a.m.
Woke up and thought my face was paralysed. It was quite scary – my skin was all tight and stiff and I couldn’t open my eyes properly. Then I remembered the egg-yolk mask. I must have fallen asleep reading. I don’t think I’ll go to bed early again, it makes my eyes go all puffy. I look like there is a touch of the Oriental in my family. Sadly not the case. The nearest we have to any exotic influence is Auntie Kath, who can sing in Chinese, but only after a couple of pints of wine.
11:00 a.m.
Arranged to rendezvous with Ellen and Julia at Whiteleys so we can start our La Marche Avec Mystery. We agreed we would dress “sports casual” so I’m wearing ski trousers, ankle boots and a black top with a roll neck, with a PVC jacket. I’m going for the young Brigitte Bardot look which is a shame as, a) I am nothing like her and b) I haven’t got blonde hair, which is, as we all know, her trademark. I would have blonde hair if I was allowed but it honestly is like Playschool at my house. My dad has got the mentality of a Teletubby only not so developed. I said to Mum, “I’m going to dye my hair blonde, what product would you recommend?” She pretended not to hear me and went on dressing Libby. But Dad went ballistic.
“You’re fourteen years old, you’ve only had that hair for fourteen years and you want to change it already! How bored are you going to be with it by the time you are thirty? What colour will you be up to by then?”
Honestly, he makes little real sense these days. I said to Mum, “Oh, I thought I could hear a voice squeaking and making peculiar noises, but I was mistaken. TTFN.”
As I ran for the door I heard him shouting, “I suppose you think being sarcastic and applying eyeliner in a straight line will get you some O-levels!!!”
O-levels, I ask you. He’s a living reminder of the Stone Age.
Noon
La Marche Avec Mystery. We walked up and down the High Street, only speaking French. I asked passers-by for directions, “Où est la gare, s’il vous plaît?” and “Au secours, j’oublie ma tête, aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”
Then... this really dishy bloke came along... Julia and Ellen wouldn’t go up to him but I did. I don’t know why, but I developed a limp as well as being French. He had really nice eyes... he must have been about nineteen, anyway I hobbled up to him and said, “Excusez-moi. Je suis Française. Je ne parle pas l’anglais. Parlez-vous Français? ”
Fortunately he looked puzzled, it was quite dreamy. I pouted my mouth a bit. Cindy Crawford said that if you put your tongue behind your back teeth when you smile, it makes your smile really sexy. Impossible to talk, of course, unless you like sounding like a loony.
Anyway, dreamboat said, “Are you lost? I don’t speak French.”
I looked puzzled (and pouty). “Au secours, monsieur,” I breathed.
He took my arm. “Look, don’t be frightened, come with me.”
Ellen and Jools looked amazed: he was bloody gorgeous and he was taking me somewhere. I hobbled along attractively by his side. Not for very long, though, just into a French pâtisserie where the lady behind the counter was French.
8:00 p.m.
In bed.
The French woman talked French at me for about forty years. I nodded for as long as humanly possible then just ran out of the shop and into the street. The gorgeous boy looked surprised that my limp had cured itself so quickly.
I really will have to dye my hair now if I ever want to go shopping in this town again.
Wednesday August 26th
11:00 a.m.
I have no friends. Not one single friend. No one has rung, no one has come round. Mum and Dad have gone to work, Libby is at playschool. I may as well be dead.
Perhaps I am dead. I wonder how you would know? If you died in your sleep and woke up dead, who would let you know?
It could be like in that film where you can see everyone but they can’t see you because you are dead. Oh, I’ve really given myself the creeps now... I’m going to put on a really loud CD and dance about.
Noon
Now I am still freaked out but also tired. If I did die I wonder if anyone would really care. Who would come to my funeral? Mum and Dad, I suppose... they’d have to as it’s mostly their fault that I was depressed enough to commit suicide in the first place.
Why couldn’t I have a normal family like Julia and Ellen? They’ve got normal brothers and sisters. Their dads have got beards and sheds. My mum won’t let my dad have a shed since he left his fishing maggots in there and it became bluebottle headquarters.
When the electrician came because the fridge had blown up he said to Mum, “What madman wired up this fridge? Is there someone you know who really doesn’t like you?” And Dad had done the wiring. Instead of DIY he talks about feelings and stuff. Why can’t he be a real dad? It’s pathetic in a grown man.
I don’t mean I want to be like an old-fashioned woman – you know, all lacy and the man is all tight-lipped and never says anything even if he has got a brain tumour. I want my boyfriend (provided, God willing, I am not a lesbian) to be emotional... but only about me. I want him to be like Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (although, having said that, I’ve seen him in other things like Fever Pitch and he’s not so sexy out of frilly shirts and tights). Anyway, I’ll never have a boyfriend because I am too ugly.
2:00 p.m.
Looking through the old family albums... I’m not really surprised I’m ugly, the photos of Dad as a child are terrifying. His nose is huge... it takes up half of his face. In fact, he is literally just a nose with legs and arms attached.
10:00 p.m.
Libby has woken up and insists on sleeping in my bed. It’s quite nice, although she does smell a bit on the hamsterish side.
Midnight
The tunnel of love dream I’ve just had, where this gorgey bloke is carrying me through the warm waters of the Caribbean, turns out to be Libby’s wet pyjamas on my legs.
Change bed. Libby not a bit bothered and in fact slaps my hand and calls me “Bad boy” when I change her pyjamas.
Thursday August 27th
11:00 a.m.
I’ve started worrying about what to wear for first day back at school. It’s only eleven days away now. I wonder how much “natural” make-up I can get away with? Concealer is OK – I wonder about mascara. Maybe I should just dye my eyelashes? I hate my eyebrows. I say eyebrows but in fact it’s just the one eyebrow right along my forehead. I may have to do some radical plucking if I can find Mum’s tweezers. She hides things from me now because she says that I never replace anything. I’ll have to rummage around in her bedroom.
1:00 p.m.
Prepared a light lunch of sandwich spread and milky coffee. There’s never anything to eat in this house. No wonder my elbows stick out so much.
2:00 p.m.
Found the tweezers eventually. Why Mum would think I wouldn’t find them in Dad’s tie drawer I really don’t know. I did find something very strange in the tie drawer as well as the tweezers. It was a sort of apron thing in a special box. I hope against