Saturday November 6th

      11:00 a.m.

      The cat molesters went off shopping.

       1:00 p.m.

      I’d better start my make-up soon, it’s only seven hours to the gig. But as I fully expect to be snogged to within an inch of my life what about snog-proof make-up? To lippy or not to lippy, that is the question.

      Rang Jas. Her mum called her and she eventually shambled to the phone. I said, “Oh, glad you could make it, Jas. My eyebrows have grown to the floor in the time it took you to get here.”

      Jas, as usual, took offence. “I was in my bedroom just working something out on the computer with Tom.”

      I laughed sarcastically. “Jas, you only snog in your room.”

      “We don’t.”

      “You do. Anyway, lots of fun though this is, I want to ask you something of vital importance to the universe. Well, my universe, anyway. What do you think about lippy and snogging?”

      “What?”

      “Well, do you put lippy on and then wipe it off before lip contact, or do you let it go all over Tom’s face and Devil take the hindmost?”

       2:00 p.m.

      Results of lippy/snogging poll:

      Jas only wears lip gloss which she says gets absorbed in the general snoggosity.

      Rosie says she puts on lippy AND lip gloss then just goes for full-frontal snogging with Sven. She also says that by the end of the night he is usually covered in lippy but he doesn’t mind and wipes it off with his T-shirt.

      Good Lord. We must remember however that he is not English.

      The rest of the gang seemed pretty well to go along with the lip gloss absorbed into the general snoggosity theory.

      So lip gloss it is.

       3:00 p.m.

      Surrounded by hair products.

      My hair will not go right. It has no bounceability. It just lies there. Annoying me with its lack of bounceability.

      Bloody sacré bleu. I won’t be able to go out unless it starts bouncing about a bit. I look like a Franciscan monk. Or Miss Wilson.

      I’m going to stick some of Mum’s hot rollers in it.

       4:30 p.m.

      On my bed in rollers. V attractive.

      Reading my book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens to cheer me up and calm me down.

       4:45 p.m.

      Hey, there is a chapter about hair! Honestly! How freaky-deaky is that? It’s called “Be OK with your bad hair day”.

       5:00 p.m.

      The short and short of it is that we are obsessed with our looks and imagine that other people really care about what our hair looks like. But they don’t!!

      So that is OK, then. Took out my rollers.

       5:10 p.m.

      Vati ponced into my room (not knocking, of course) and said, “Tea is on the … what in the name of arse have you done to your head? You look like you have been electrocuted.”

      I hate my dad. Twice.

       5:30 p.m.

      Time for my pore-tightening mask. (Because there is nothing worse than loose pores.)

      Hmm. I lay there with my pores tightening.

      In the book it recommends yoga for inner harmony. I must start doing it again.

       5:35 p.m.

      Mind you, the author says he is “super glad” that he took up yoga at a young age.

       5:37 p.m.

      Perhaps he is a “super tosser”?

      5:39 p.m.

      Or am I being “super critical”?

      Who knows?

      Phoned Jools with my pore-tightening mask still on, trying not to crack it. Dad was pretending to be an orangutan (not much pretending needed) as a “laugh”. I ignored him.

      I said to Jas, “Nyut nar nu naringj?”

      “Purple v-necked top. Purple hipsters.”

      Hmm.

      “Phoned Rosie. “Nut nar nu noing nid nor nhair?”

      “Pigtails.”

      Crikey. We seem to be running the gamut of style from hippie to Little Bo Peep and beyond.

       6:20 p.m.

      I’ve tried on every single thing in my wardrobe. Oh buggery, I am in a state of confusiosity. I wish I had a style counsellor. I’m going to get one when I appear on record awards ceremonies with the Sex God. It won’t be Elton John’s style counsellor. It will be someone normal. And stylish. And a good counsellor.

       6:30 p.m.

      I