The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10. Louise Rennison
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wearing a V-necked black leather vest, short skirt and boots.
What does that say about me? Casual sophisticate? Inner vixen struggling to get out? Girlfriend of a Sex God? Or twit?
6:38 p.m.
I wonder what SG will be wearing? What does it matter? We are all in the nuddy-pants under our clothes.
I LOVE his mouth. It’s so yummy and sort of curly and sexy. And it’s mine all mine!!! Mind you, I love his hair, so black and gorgey. And his eyes … that deep deep blue … mmmmm … dreamsville. And his eyelashes. And his arms. And his tongue … In fact, there isn’t one bit of him I don’t like. Of all the bits I’ve seen, anyway.
I wonder what his favourite bit of me is? I should emphasis it. My eyes are quite nice. My nose, yes well, we’ll just skip over that. Mouth … mmm, a bit on the generous side, but that can be a good thing.
6:45 p.m.
Phoned Jas.
“Jas, what do you think is my best feature? Lips? Smile? Casual sophisticosity?”
“Well, I don’t know what to say now, because I was going to say your cheeks.”
Good grief.
6:50 p.m.
Phoned Jas again.
“What do you think on the basooma front? You know, emphasise them, do the, ‘Yes, I’ve got big nunga-nungas but I’m proud of them!’ or strap them down and don’t breathe out much all night?”
That’s when Vati went ballisticisimus about me being on the phone.
“Why the hell do you talk rubbish to Jas on the phone when she is coming round here in a minute and you can talk rubbish to her without it costing me a fortune?!!!!”
It’s not me that talks rubbish. It’s him. He just shouts rubbish at me. He’s like Hawkeye with a beard.
I said to Mutti, “Why doesn’t the man you live with go for a job as a combination cat molester and teacher?”
Beautosity headquarters
7:00 p.m.
Jas came round to my house for us to walk to the clock tower together. Also I needed her for a cosmetic emergency. I had forgotten to paint my toenails and my skirt was so tight I couldn’t bend my leg up far enough to get to my toes. I suppose I could have taken my skirt off but what are friends for?
I am too giddy and girlish with excitement to paint straight anyway. We went into the front room, which is warmer than my room – mind you, so is Siberia (probably). Vati was watching the news. Huh. Jas started on nail duty. I thought a subtle metallic purple would be nice. Robbie would think that was cool if my tights fell off for some reason. Anyway, then it said on the news, “And tonight the Prime Minister has got to Number Ten.”
I looked down at Jas and said, “Oo-er. (Meaning he’d got to Number Ten on the snogging scale.) And then we both laughed like loons.
Vati just looked at us like we were mad.
Clock tower
8:00 p.m.
Met the rest of the Ace Gang and we ambled off to the gig. This was my first official outing as girlfriend of a Sex God. I wasn’t going to let it go to my head though.
Lalalalalalalalala. Fabbity fab fab. Eat dirt, Earth creatures.
When we got to the Marquee club the first “person” I saw was … Wet Lindsay, Robbie’s ex. There is always a wet fish in every ointment. Every cloud has got a slimy lining. She has got the tiniest forehead known to humanity. She is quite literally fringe and then eyebrow. She was talking to her equally sad mates. Dismal Sandra and Tragic Kate. Every time I look at Wet Lindsay I am reminded that underneath her T-shirt lurk breast enhancers.
I said to Jas, “Do you think that Robbie knows about her false nunga-nungas?” but she was too busy waving at Tom with a soppy smile on her face.
The club was packed. I wondered if I should go find Robbie and say hello. Maybe that wasn’t very cool. Better do a bit of make-up adjusting first. Because if the talent scout was there he might be looking for girls to form a band as well. I said that to Jas, “Maybe we could be discovered, as a new girl band.”
“We can’t sing or play any instruments, and we are not in a band.”
She is so ludicrously picky.
It was mayhem in the loos. You couldn’t get near the mirrors for love nor money. The Bummers were in there, of course, larding on the foundation. Alison must use at least four pounds of it trying to conceal her huge lurkers … Or am I being a bit harsh? No … I am being accurate. And factual.
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