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      Three minutes later

      Or Junior Blunder Boy’s Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers?

      Two minutes later

      None of it sounds that normal, to be frank. I will stick to world affairs and art.

      Two minutes later

      I could ask him what he thinks about the foreign exchange rate. Well, I could if I knew what it meant.

      One minute later

      Where is Rome anyway? Is it in the boot bit of Italy? Or is Spain the booty bit?

      I’m really worried about tomorrow now. I will never sleep and then I will have big dark rings under my eyes and…

      zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

      Tuesday August 2nd

      9:30 a.m.

      I was just having a dream about being in Rome with the Luuurve God. I had a cloak on and Masimo said, “So, cara, what have you come to the fancy-dress party as?” And I dropped the cloak and said, “A fried egg.”

      The phone rang and I practically broke my neck tripping over Angus and Gordy, who just emerged from the shadows.

      I couldn’t say anything because I was so nervous.

      Then I heard Grandad say, “Hello, hello, speak up.”

      I said, “Grandad, I haven’t said anything yet.”

      He was in full-Grandad mode. “You’ll like this: what do pigs use if they hurt themselves? Ay ay??? Oinkment. Do you get it, do you see??? Oinkment!!! Oh, I make myself laugh. Are you courting yet? You should be – there’s nothing like a bit of snogging to perk you up.”

      Oh dear God, my grandvati was talking about snogging.

      Now I have finally experienced every kind of porn. This is mouldyporn.

      Two minutes later

      I managed to get him off the phone by saying good morning to Libby (she purred back), and promising to visit and have a game of hide-and-seek with him and the other residents. I don’t mind that so much, as when it is my turn to hide I just go to the shops and then come back half an hour later and get in a cupboard. It keeps them happy for hours.

      I do love my grandad though. He is one of the most cheerful people I know and now he is going to have Maisie as his new knitted wife. Aaaahhh.

      Mum was wandering around in the kitchen like Madame Zozo of, erm, Zozoland. In a semi-see-through nightie. It’s her day off and she looked like she might settle in for hours. I must get rid of her.

      I said in an interested and lighthearted fashion, “What time are you going out? In a minute or two? To make the best of the day?”

      She sat down, actually resting her basoomas on the tabletop, presumably because she was already tired of lugging them about. Please save me from the enormous-jug gene.

      She said, “I thought you and I could go out and do something groovy together.”

      Groovy?

      I said, “Mum, are you mad because I tell you this for free a) I am not going out with you and b) the same with knobs on.”

      Mum said, “Hahaha, that worried you. Are you having a bit of a nervy spazmarama attack about Masimo ringing you?”

      I was truly shocked. “Mum, it is not a nervy spazmarama, it is a spaz attack, which is number six on the losing it scale – hang on a minute. How do you know about a spaz attack anyway? Have you been snooping through my private drawers?”

      She didn’t bother to reply because she was too busy eating jam with a spoon out of the jar. She will get so fat that she will get trapped in Dad’s clown car and have to drive endlessly up and down our driveway begging for snacks from passers-by. Good.

      When she stopped chomping, she said, “Me and my mates have loads of sayings and stuff. We have a real laugh. It’s not just you and your mates, you know. I have a life.”

      I tried not to laugh.

      â€œIn aquaerobics the other day Fiona laughed so much at the instructor’s choice of music that she weed herself in the pool. When she told me I nearly drowned. We had to all leave the class and I don’t think we can go back.”

      She was hiccuping and giggling like a twerp. Is it any wonder that I find myself in trouble with boys when I have this sort of thing as my example?

      I left the kitchen with a dignitosity-at-all-times sort of walk. I have a call from the cakeshop of luuurve to think about.

      Back in my bedroom

      Ten minutes later

      What shall I wear, what shall I wear? I tell you this, I’m not going to wear anything yellow after the fried egg dream.

      I could wear my bikini. My red one with the dots on it. They tend to wear red bikinis all the time the Italian girls, probably even if they work in banks and cafes and so on. Maybe not for nursing though; it might not be hygienic. My mum said that when she had an Italian boyfriend she was on the beach and this bloke rode up on a motorbike. And this girl who just had on the bottoms of a bikini and some really high heels came jogging up. She got on the back of the bike, lit a fag and they roared off with her nunga-nungas flying.

      Back in the kitchen

      9:45 a.m.

      Why won’t Mum go out? I have my bikini on underneath my ordinary clothes ready to rip off when the phone rings.

      Five minutes later

      She is just rambling on and on about herself. I already know more than I want to know about her.

      9:55 a.m.

      Oh nooooooo. Now she is talking about “feelings” and “relationships” and what is worse is, it’s not even my feelings or relationships, it’s hers!!! How horrific.

      She says she feels that she doesn’t share many interests with Dad.

      I said, “Well, who does?”

      She didn’t even hear me, she just went on and on. “I think when I met him I was a different person and now I’ve changed.”

      10:10 a.m.

      The Luuurve God is going to phone any minute and she will still be here.

      Mum said, “I don’t blame him, but people do change and want different things.”

      I said quickly, “Yeah, yeah, you’re so right. I think you need a change – a change of, er, scenery. You need to go out into the sunshine and meet your mates and ask them what they feel. Maybe go for a slap-up meal. You’ve only had a pound or two of jam today, you’ll be peckish. Go for a pizza and maybe have some vino tinto

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