‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’. Louise Rennison
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yoga postures to put me in the right frame of mind for snogging. (Although I bet Mr Yoga says, “Avoid headstands while using hair rollers, as this causes pain and crashing into the wardrobe.” Only he would say it in Yogese, obviously.)
Uh-oh, I feel a bit of stupid brain coming on. Think calmosity.
5:00 p.m.
Fat chance. I was just doing “down dog” when Libby burst in and started playing the drums on my bottom, singing her latest favourite, “Baa Baa Bag Sheet”, that well-known nursery rhyme. About a bag sheet that baas. “Baa Baa Bag Sheet” has replaced “Mary Had a Little Lard Its Teats Was White Azno”, which she used to love best.
5:05 p.m.
No sign of Angus. The loons are still having a world summit cat meeting downstairs. I heard clinking from the kitchen, which means that the vino tinto is coming out, so there will probably be fisticuffs later when they get drunk.
Usual dithering attack about what to wear. It’s officially dark by five o’clock so I need to go from day to evening wear. Also it’s a bit nippy noodles.
5:10 p.m.
So I think black polo-neck and leather boots…(and trousers of course). And for that essential hint of sophisticosity I might just have to borrow Mum’s Paloma perfume. She won’t mind. Unless she finds out, of course, in which case she will kill me.
5:15 p.m.
Mum has got a plastic rainhat in her bag! How sad it would be to see her in it.
Still, on the plus side it means that she is taking a more reasonable attitude towards her age. Hopefully it means that she will be throwing away her short skirts and getting sensible underwear.
Oh, hang on, it’s not a rainhat, it’s a pair of emergency plastic knick-knacks for Libbs. Fair enough, you can never be too careful vis-à-vis emergency botty trouble and my darling sister.
5:30 p.m.
Sex God, here I come!!!
I didn’t bother to interrupt the loon party; I just left a note on the telephone table:
Dear M and V,
I hope the cat-lynching party is going well. I have found a bit of old toast for my tea and a Jammy Dodger to avert scurvy and gone out. Remember me when you get a moment.
Your daughter,
Georgia
p.s. Gone to meet Jas about froggy homework back about 9 p.m.
Hahahaha très amusant(ish).
6:00 p.m.
As I came into the main street I could see the Sex God was waiting for me by the clock tower. I ducked into a shop doorway for a bit of basooma adjusting and lip gloss application. Also, I thought I should practise saying something normal so that even if my brain fell out (as it normally does when I see him) my mouth could carry on regardless. I thought a simple approach was best. Something like, “Hi,” (pause, and a bit of a sexy smile, lips parted, nostrils not flaring wildly) and then, “Long time no dig.”
Cool – a bit on the eccentric side, but with no hint of brain gone on holiday to Cyprus.
I came out of my shop doorway and walked towards him. Then he saw me. Oh heavens to Betsy, Mr Gorgeous has landed.
He said, “Hi Georgia” in his Sex-Goddy voice and I said, “Hi Dig.”
Dig???
He laughed. “Always a bit of a tricky thing knowing what you are talking about at first, Georgia. This usually makes it better…” And he got hold of my hand and pulled me towards him. Quick visit to Number Four on the snogging scale (kiss lasting three minutes without a breath). Yummy scrumboes and marvelloso. If I could just stay attached to his mouth for ever I would be happy. Dead, obviously, from starvation, but happy. Dead happy. Shut up, shut up!! Brain to mouth, brain to mouth: do not under any circumstances mention being attached to his mouth for ever.
The Sex God looked at me when he stopped his excellent snogging. “Did you miss me?”
“Is the Pope a vicar?” I laughed like a loon at a loon party (i.e. A LOT).
He said, “Er no, he’s not.”
What are we talking about? I’ve lost my grip already.
Luckily SG wanted to tell me all about London and The Stiff Dylans. We went and had a cappuccino at Luigi’s. As I have said many times, I don’t really get cappuccinos. It’s the Santa Claus moustache effect I particularly want to avoid. Actually, I have perfected a way of avoiding the foam moustache; what you do is drink the coffee like a hamster. You purse your lips really tightly and then only suck through the middle bit. Imagine you are a hamster having a cup of coffee at Hammy’s, the famous hamster coffee shop. Shut up, shut up!!!
The Sex God told me all about an agent-type person offering them a record deal and them staying in this groovy hotel with room service and looking around London.
I said, in between sips of hamster coffee, “Did you see the Changing of the Gourds?”
He said, “Changing of the Gourds?”
Oh no…I had forgotten to unpurse my hamster lips.
“Guards. The changing of the Guards.”
He really didn’t seem to mind that he had a complete idiot for a girlfriend because he leaned over the table and kissed me. In public!!! In the café!! Like in a French film. Everyone was looking. Of course then it meant that I had to nip off to the loos for emergency lip gloss application. It’s very hard work being the girlfriend of a Sex God; that is what some people might not know.
We left Luigi’s and walked towards my house hand in hand. Thank goodness Robbie is tall enough for me. I don’t have to do the orang-utan lolloping along that I had to do with Mark Big Gob. I think that must mean that we are perfect partners, because our arms are the same length.
10:05 p.m.
When we reached the bottom of my street I said to the Sex God that it would be better if he wasn’t exposed to my parents because of the Angus fandango.
He asked me what had happened and I said, “Well, in a nutshell, Naomi is pregnant and the finger of shame is pointing towards Angus, even though he is well, you know…not as other men in the trouser addendum department.”
When I eventually managed to tear myself away SG gave me a really amazing Number Six with a dash of Six and a quarter (tongues with lip-nibbling). I managed to not fall over and I very nearly waved at him like a normal person when he went home. I like to think I handled the whole incident with sophisticosity.
That is what I like to think.
SG is meeting me on Tuesday after Stalag 14. Hurrah!!!
Everything is going to be fabbity fab fab and also possibly bon. For evermore.
10:32 p.m.
Wrong. Vati had his usual outburst of insanity when I let myself in.
“You treat this house like a bloody hotel.”
As if. The sanitary inspectors would close the place down if they saw the state of my room. What decent hotel has a toddler pooing in its wardrobes?
Kitchen
Mutti was wearing what I think she imagines is a sexy negligée. I tried to ignore it and said, “What happened at the cat-lynching party?”
“Well,