The Taming Of The Tights. Louise Rennison
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come home!!!”
Max (or Sam) looked up and said, “Ug oo.”
And put his head back in my leg.
Then Sam (or Max) looked up and said, “Ug oo.”
And put his head back down.
Then Max (or Sam) said, “Ug oo.”
This could have gone on for years.
Dibdobs took charge.
“Right, boys, split splot, let’s get your jimmy-jams on and then have our tea with …”
They looked up and said, “Ug oo.”
And put their heads back into my legs.
We managed to prise them off at last and half an hour later Dibdobs called me down to tea.
The boys were in their jimjams now. Still with their otter hats on.
They started shuffling towards me for more knee–hugging, but Dibdobs stepped in firmly and said, “Let Lullah sit down, boys, and have her supper. Lullah, it’s a local supper.”
Max said, “Bogie supper.”
Dibdobs ignored him although she went a bit red. “The eggs are from Jessica and Maureen. Maureen’s the one with the club foot.”
I was just thinking I don’t know any woman with a club foot when I realised she meant Maureen the chicken.
As I ate my supper, the boys stood about an inch away from me, looking at me and sucking. It was very unnerving. They certainly do not get any less odd.
Dibdobs was prattling on.
“So much going on, Tallulah!! I must tell you about …”
At that point Max fell over Micky the tortoise.
Dibdobs laughed and said, “You silly old chap, Max, you just fell over Micky on to your bottom!!!”
The lunatic twins rocked with laughter. It was like being in the House of the Mad.
Max said out of the side of his dodie, “An’ sjuuuge bumbums. Look at my bumbums!!!!”
And he pulled down his pyjama bottoms.
Sam started laughing so much I thought he would choke. And both the boys began yelling, “Bum bum bum bum!”
Dibdobs said, with a fixed smile, “Yes, it is funny, boys, but pull up your jimmies now, that’s enough. You’re BIG boys now, aren’t you, and …”
Then they both started rubbing their bottoms together and shouting, “Bummity bum bum.”
Dibdobs lost her rag and flicked at them with her tea towel. “Boys, boys, that’s not funny.”
I quickly finished off Maureen’s egg and stood up. “Well, that was a lovely supper … I think I’ll turn in now, just do a bit more creative thinking for tomorrow. Night-night.”
As I went up the wooden stairs, I heard Harold come in. The boys were still squealing and Dibdobs yelled, “Now what will your father say???”
Harold’s voice rumbled up as I opened my bedroom door. “Put your bottoms away, boys. I’ve got some live maggots in my pocket.”
When I got into my bed, I flicked through my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary to look at my Lulu-Luuuve List again, and it fell open at the last page.
There was the poem that Cain had pinned to the tree with a knife.
Written in thick untidy writing.
Like he’d got a twig and dipped it in ink.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
And underneath:
I know tha likes this sort of thing
See thee later.
Did it mean he knew I’d liked kissing him?
Did he even know we’d got to Number 6 on my Lulu-Luuuve List?
No, he couldn’t know that because I’ve just made it up.
I could do with some proper girl company. Thank goodness I’ll see the Tree Sisters tomorrow.
Hurray!! The Tree Sisters together again. Vaisey, Flossie, Jo and me. We used to be five, but Honey, dear lovely Honey, has gone to Hollywood. She’s been, what do you call it? Talent-spotted by an American entrepreneur.
Hey, I’ve just thought of what you’d call it if the owlets had been spotted by an American entrepreneur looking for talent in the bird world.
Talon-spotted!!!!
They’d be talon-spotted!
I’m going to write that down in my diary.
I may turn out to be a comedy genius.
On Monday morning, I struggled against the wind walking over the bridge to Dother Hall. I’m early so I’ll go and stash my stuff in my locker then find the Tree Sisters. If Bob hasn’t burned the lockers as fuel. I hope the money thing is better than it was last term. Or at least we’ve still got a roof. I dread to think what would have happened if Honey’s manager hadn’t come up trumps with cash to keep Dother Hall going.
I miss Honey. She is sooo Honeyish.
And knows such a lot about boys.
Maybe she’ll come back and visit. Or we could visit her!
Yarooo, I feel like a real performing artist. I am one of an elite gang of ‘entertainers’ our sole purpose in life is to give give give of ourselves.
My only worry is that I’m not sure I’ve anything to give.
The rest of the Tree Sisters have special talents. Vaisey can sing and dance and act and Jo can sing and act and Flossie can sing and act and she’s really great at art. And Honey is so good at everything that she’s been taken to Hollywood to be in films, and then there’s me.
Ms Fox (“Just call me Fox. Blaise Fox”) our dance tutor believes in me. She thinks I have my own very special quality. Well, what she actually said was “Watching you perform is like watching someone set fire to their own pants. Strangely riveting.”
So that’s good, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Dr Lightowler has hated me ever since I accidentally flew off my bicycle and destroyed the backstage area during my Sugar Plum Bikey ballet. Oh and because I did spontaneous Irish dancing in her class. When we were doing a tragic improvisation of the Brontë sisters dying of consumption.
And maybe because I pretend she actually IS an owl.
But this term I’m going to show her and everyone else that I am Tallulah Casey, superstar in the making. Bleeding feet at the ready.
Walking along the woodland path I passed the sign ‘Woolfe Academy for Boys’.
That’s where Charlie goes.
Oh, Charlie. I hope I can be friends with him. The last thing he said to me was, “See you next term, gorgeous.” And he said I was a really