The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10. Louise Rennison
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hey, El Beardo is, after all, my vati and that also makes him Vati of the girlfriend of a Sex God. So I said quite kindly, “Guten morgan, Vati, could you please go away now? Thank you.”
I think his beard may have grown into his ears however, because he ignored me and opened the window. He was leaning out, breathing in and out and flapping his arms around like a loon. His bottom is not tiny. If a very small pensioner was accidentally walking along behind him they may think there had been an eclipse of the sun.
“Aahh, smell that air, Georgie. Makes you feel good to be alive, doesn’t it?”
I pulled my duvet round me. “I won’t be alive for much longer if that freezing air gets into my lungs.”
He came and sat on the bed. Oh God, he wasn’t going to hug me, was he? Fortunately Mutti yelled up the stairs, “Bob, breakfast is ready!” and he lumbered off.
Breakfast is ready? Has everyone gone mad? When was the last time Mum made breakfast?
Anyway, ho hum pig’s bum, I could snuggle down in my comfy holiday bed and do dreamy-dreamy about snogging the Sex God in peace now.
Wrong.
Clank, clank. “Gergy! Gingey! It’s me!!”
Oh Blimey O’ReiIley’s trousers, it was Libby, mad toddler from Planet of the Loons. When my adorable little sister came in I couldn’t help noticing that although she was wearing her holiday sunglasses, she wasn’t wearing anything else. She was also carrying a pan. I said, “Libby, don’t bring the pan into …”
But she ignored me and clambered up into my bed, shoving me aside to make room. She has got hefty little arms for a child of four. She said, “Move up, bad boy, Mr Pan tired.”
Then she and Mr Pan snuggled up against me. I almost shot out of bed, her bottom was so cold … and sticky … urghh.
What is it with my room? You would think that at least on holiday I might be able to close my door and have a bit of privacy to do my holiday project (fantasy snogging), but oh no. There will probably be a coachload of German tourists in lederhosen looking round my room in a minute.
I’m going to go and find the local locksmith (Hamish McLocksmith) and get two huge bolts for my door, and you can only get in by appointment.
Which I will never make.
11:00 a.m.
Libby has clanked off with Mr Pan, thank the Lord. I don’t like to be near her naked botty for long as something always lurks out of it.
I think Mum and Dad are playing “catch” downstairs. I can hear them running up and down giggling “Gotcha” and so on.
Sacré bloody bleu. Très pathetico. Vati’s only been back for eighty-nine hours and I feel more than a touch of the sheer desperadoes coming on.
11:10 a.m.
Still, who cares about his parentosity and beardiness? Who cares about being dragged to the crappest, most freezing place known to humanity? I, Georgia Nicolson, offspring of loons am, in fact, the GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD. Yessssss!!!! Fab and treble marvellosos. I have finally trapped a Sex God. He is mine miney mine mine. There is a song in my heart and do you know what it is? It is that well-known chart topper, “Robbie, oh Robbie, I … er … lobbie you!!! I do I do!!!”
1:00 p.m.
Hung around, sitting on the gate watching the world go by. Unfortunately it didn’t. All that went by were some loons talking gibberish (Scottish) and a ferret.
Then Jock McThick or whatever his name is loomed up on his bike. He has an unfortunate similarity to Spotty Norman, i.e. acne of the head. This is not enhanced by him being a ginger nob.
Jock said, “Me and the other lads meet oop at aboot nine just ootside Alldays. Mebbe see you later.”
Yeah, right, see you in the next life, don’t be late. Nothing is going to make me sadly go and hang out with Jock and his mates.
8:59 p.m.
Vati suggested we had a singsong round the piano tonight and started off with “New York, New York”.
9:00 p.m.
I took Angus for a walk to check out the nightlife that Jock McThick told me about. Angus is the only good thing about this trip. He’s really perked up. I know he longs for Naomi the sex kitten inside his furry brain but he is putting a brave face on it. In fact, he is strutting around like he owns Scotland. This is, after all, his birthplace. He can probably hear the call of the Scottish Highlands quite clearly here. The call that says, “Kill everything that moves.” There were four voles all lined up on the doorstep this morning. Mum said she found a dead mouse in her tights. I didn’t ask where she had left them. If I ask her anything she just giggles and goes stupid. Since Dad came home her brain has fallen out.
Angus has made a new furry chum. None of the other local cats will come near our cottage. I think there was a “duffing up” challenge last night. The black and white cat I saw in the lane yesterday has quite a bit of its ears missing now. Angus’s new mate is a retired sheepdog called Arrow. I say he is retired but sadly he is too barmy and old to know that he is retired, so he keeps rounding things up anyway. Not usually sheep though … things like chickens, passing cars … old Scottish people doing their haggis shopping. Angus hangs out with Arrow and they generally terrorise the neighbourhood and lay waste to the wildlife.
9:30 p.m.
It’s quite sweet and groovy walking along with Angus and Arrow. They pad along behind me. At least I have got some intelligent company in this lonely Sex Godless hell-hole.
9:35 p.m.
When the three of us got to Alldays, Scotland’s premier nightspot, I couldn‘t believe it.
Alldays turns out to be a tiny twenty-four-hour supermarket.
Not a club or anything.
A bloody shop.
And all the “youth” (four Jock McThicks on bikes) just go WILD there. They hang around in the aisles in the shop, listening to the piped music! Or hang about outside on their pushbikes and go in the shop now and again to buy Coca Cola or Irn-Bru!
Sacré bloody bleu and quel dommage.
Midnight
That was it. The premier nightspot of Scotland.
I said to Mutti, “Have you noticed how exceptionally crap it is here?” and she said, “You have to make your own fun in places like this. You have to make things happen. Anyway, you do exaggerate.”
Vati said, “Your cousin will be here tomorrow.”
Double merde. Vati reaches alarming levels of bonkerosity sometimes. Why does he think I will be pleased to see my cousin James, also known as Pervy Jimjams, pervert extraordinaire?
12:30 a.m.
Hoot hoot. Scuffle scuffle. Root root. Good grief, it’s like a badger party out there … Oh no, no, hang on, I forgot – I am enjoying my lovely holiday. Mum was right. I am exaggerating. Something did happen at Scotland’s premier hotspot. One Jock McThick lit up a fag and had such a coughing fit that he spilt his Coke on his trousers and had to go home.