Louise Rennison_Georgia Nicolson 07 (13 page)

Which is not easy to say, believe me. Tragicosity in particular.

However, I will never feel anything again.

Good.

I am done with love.

It's a mug's game.

I am just going to sit in my room for the rest of my life not doing stuff.

10:00 p.m.

How boring is this?

It's as boring as double maths followed by a lecture from Slim on how life was when she was a
girl and used to go to “Sad Girls High” with Queen Elizabeth and Tom Thumb or whoever was lurking about boring the arse off people in those days.

10:10 p.m.

Got out my letters from the ex–Sex God. I don't know why I keep them. Or the photos of him. Just to torture myself. I should throw them away with the rest of my life.

I will put all the things I have of his all together and do that thing you are supposed to do when you are moving on in life. Burn them to ashes and smithereens and never look back. Out with the old and in with the new lesbian monastic life.

10:15 p.m.

Robbie wrote. “It would be really nice to hear from you, I often think about you.” Well, that's nice, isn't it? In a way. At least he hasn't mentioned the word “mate.”

10:30 p.m.

Maybe I will drop him a line. Perhaps he would like to hear from a lesbian monk. Who wouldn't?

10:35 p.m.

What harm can it do, anyway? He is miles away, he is over the TransSiberian Ocean or whatever it is. In the land of rogue bores and exploding whatsits.

10:45 p.m.

What shall I say? I must tread a fine line between glaciosity and friendlinosity. With just a hint of “you don't know what you are missing, my fine-feathered friend.”

midnight

It was quite hard to write the letter. But in my new mood of baring all my…oo-er, I told him everything. I thought, Oh sod it! Devil take the hindmost! Take me as I am, the real Georgia. The real true person, no longer afraid to stand tall and proud. Burned in the oven of love and fattened in the cakeshop of agony and…Anyway. What was I saying? Before I wandered off into the cakeshop thing again?

Ah yes, honestosity.

12:03 a.m.

Obviously I left out the bits about me making a
complete and utter pratty baboon of myself. I told him all about the bison horns and the Viking wedding. I even mentioned that Herr Kamyer might be matron of honor.

12:05 a.m.

Actually it has quite cheered me up, writing it all down. It doesn't seem like such a bad life when you thought of the hours of fun the ace gang had had despite the Hitler Youth, parents, the orangutan gene, lurking lurkers and so on.

I couldn't help myself adding a few details about Wet Lindsay and her astonishing sticklike existence. I thought it was a mistress stroke of seemingly nicenosity to say about her. “I expect you know that Lindsay is head girl and she is making a very good job of it; some of the first formers may never go out on their own again. Also she has once again put herself at the forefront of fashion
vis-à-vis
her interesting hair extensions. That kind of courage is rarely seen outside the circus these days.” I sort of skated around the boy issue. I mentioned the Stiff Dylans in passing because it would have seemed odd not to. But I just said, “I've been to a few gigs, which have
been quite good. They have a new singer called, erm, I think it's Masinmo or something. He seems quite nice but may be a froggy type person. I saw Dom's vati and he seems to have forgotten about the time he thought I was getting off with him when I thought he was a famous music agent type person. Speaking of vatis, my own portly one set fire to his mustache, so no change there.”

I had sort of lost all inhibitions by then. It was quite a relief to tell a boy everything (more or less), and what had I to lose? I didn't have to impress him anymore.

12:07 a.m.

I didn't know how to end it.

Was “with love” alright?

I am certainly not going to put “from your mate.”

Finally I decided on:

“Well, I'm away laughing on a fast camel now. It would be great to see you again. Take care. Love, Georgia.”

And I put a kiss.

But I thought that might be construed as a bit on the matey side, so I added two more.

Three kisses.

That's OK.

It doesn't imply rampant red bottomosity. It implies
je ne sais quoi
with a hint of longing.

1:10 a.m.

But he probably has a girlfriend called Gayleen.

Or Noelene or Joelene.

Who is a wombat.

monday morning july 4th
on the way to stalag 14
8:20 a.m.

I am wearing a black armband because this is the day that the Hamburgese chucked all our teabags into the sea and said they didn't want us to rule them anymore.

That is when they started making up their own language, and see where that has got them.

It has got them into the restroom of life.

And had them wearing panties instead of proper knickers.

But let them have it their way.

Let them wrap themselves in aluuuuuminum as much as they want.

We in Billy Shakespeare land do not hold grudges and will love them always.

Until they get more sense and let us rule them again.

 

Met Jas at her gate and she did immediate arm-linksies, which is nice. But I didn't let on.

I said to Jas, “Mum's the word.”

She looked at me. “Why are you talking about your mutti?”

“NO, Jas, I mean that you mustn't say anything about the party and the Dave the Laugh scenario or me being Masimo's ‘mate.'”

“I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Wrong.”

8:25 a.m.

When we got to the postbox at the bottom of the hill leading to “school,” I wondered if I should post my letter to the ex–Sex God. Hmmm. I asked Jas, which is a terrible mistake. She said, “I thought that you loved either Masimo or Dave the Laugh, and now you are writing to Robbie.”

“I know that.”

“You are sort of three-timing except that none
of them are your boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Jas, you are not Baby Jesus.”

“I know, I am just saying that Baby Jesus will be very disappointed with you.”

“No he won't. He will luuurve me no matter what I do, and by the way, whatever I do is bound to be more interesting to him than what you do, O Voley One. Hey Jas, don't be Volier than thou! Hahahahah, Jesus will like that one, it's a religious/wildlife joke! I think I might be hysterical. What shall I do? Help me, little Jazzy, shall I post it or not???”

She looked thoughtful which is always alarming, and then she said, “Well, let's use logic. If we see a white van in a minute, you should post it. But if the white van has a bloke with a baseball cap on, you should wait until this afternoon to post it, and if…”

8:30 a.m.

Saved the trouble of whether I should post the letter or not by a fantastically insane and grumpy postman who came along to empty the postbox. He just tore the letter out of my hand and put it in his bag. I said, “Erm, I haven't quite decided whether I wanted to post that or not.”

He just said, “Bog off to school.”

That's nice, isn't it? As I have said to anyone who will listen (i.e., no one), the point about public servants is that they should serve the public, i.e., me, but they just don't get it.

2:00 p.m.

Forty-five years of being cooped up at Stalag 14 interrupted by only two Jammy Dodger breaks.

Should I have posted the letter?

2:30 p.m.

What does it matter, anyway—with my luck it will either not get there, or he will not bother to reply, and then I will have been rejected by practically every man on the planet.

3:00 p.m.

Keeping mum as two short mums. Even though the ace gang have been asking me what is going on
vis-à-vis
romance. I said to Rosie, “Nothing has happened. There is zero to report.”

She just looked at me like a looking at me thing. But I didn't snap.

I would have been extremely good at being in
the French resistance if anyone had bothered to ask me.

Which they didn't.

And even if I had been alive, I wouldn't have said yes because of that business of the French saying the English were a bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

Or did we say that about them?

Oh I don't know, stop asking me trick questions.

on the way home
4:00 p.m.

For once in my whole school life I am walking home on my own. I told the ace gang that I had to dash for a doctor's appointment, but I haven't really. Even though if Mum had her way I would spend every waking hour in Dr. Clooney's surgery so she could moon around him. It's just that I couldn't handle the risk that Dave the Laugh would come along and I would have to walk along with him and his mates as if everything were in Norman Normal land. I don't know why I don't want to see him, I just feel funny about him and Emma Jacobs. I'm not the only one, either; Ellen has practically had a nervy b. about it. At break at
ace gang headquarters she started talking about him going home with Emma Jacobs and going, “How…and why…why???” She had a full-blown head-shaking ditherama. I had to practice extreme glaciosity and also extravagant bursts of manic Viking disco dancing just to stop the ace gang asking me if anything happened and how I am feeling, etc.

It is my own painful little secret not to be shared. The only person who knows anything is Mrs. Big Pantaloonies.

five minutes later

And I have told Radio Jas that she is sworn to secrecy.

one minute later

So the ace gang will know everything that happened by now.

one minute later

And also possibly how many times I have been to the loo in the last day.

As I went down the hill I saw the two little titches from the first form hopping along who had
been duffed up by Wet Lindsay. And I do mean hopping. Did I used to hop when I was their age? Surely not. As I passed them they looked exhausted, hopping along on one leg with their big heavy satchels. I suppose I have on occasion pretended to be riding a horse home, but not carrying a big heavy bag.

Life is a mystery.

evening

Lesbian monastery training headquarters, a.k.a., my bedroom.

I will dedicate myself to the pursuit of knowledge.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

tuesday july 5th
10:00 a.m.

By mistake I have overdone things and actually handed my French homework in on time. I thought Madame Slack was going to have an f.t. but she didn't, more's the pity. She just said, “Who did you copy this from?”

Which I think does little for student-teacher relationships in these troubled times.

wednesday july 6th
afternoon break

Fortunately the ace gang have gone on to more interesting subjects than me. They are concentrating on the Rosie-Sven Viking wedding with gusto. Rosie said, “I have an idea for a lovely outfit for Sven. I will gather the materials on Friday at the
MacUseless
dress rehearsal.”

She wouldn't go any further, except to say that Sven will be “thrilled.”

And none of us really want to see that.

4:00 p.m.

Walking home with just little Jazzy Spazzy, who is muttering her Lady
MacUseless
lines to herself. I hope she is not turning into a spasmodic or whatever it is when a person is two people at the same time.

I feel a bit nervy about seeing Dave again on Friday. I am going to have to practice this mate
malarkey with gusto. And possibly vim. What would a mate do when they saw their mate? What do I do when I see my mates? Slap them on the back?

three minutes later

In Jas's case I will tell you what I will do in a minute if she doesn't stop rambling on about spots.

five minutes later

Unfortunately I said what was in my head out loud. I said, “Jas, if you don't stop rambling on, I will have to kill you.”

Jas stopped mumbling, “If I had the body of a man.”

And said, “Don't pick on me because you have got the cosmic Horn for any boy that comes along, but they just want to be mates with you.”

fifteen minutes later

Here is my recipe for a mood enhancer. Take a friend, preferably one with a really annoying fringe and outsize pants, and when she is rambling on swiftly, push her into a ditch and run away.

Hahahahah.

Very funny to see Jazzy Spazzy plunging down the grass verge.

Hahahahah.

friday july 8th
macuseless headquarters
4:50 p.m.

Dress rehearsal in front of the whole school at 5:30 p.m.

Tension mounts. It is showtime showtime!!!

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Miss Wilson gave us her world-famous pep talk, but we still managed to stay awake. Apparently the honor of the school is on our shoulders. We have two nights of parading around in tights yelling “och aye” to persuade everyone that going to school is not a complete waste of everyone's time. And just an excuse for people who would have nothing else to do and no other friends, i.e., Hawkeye Slim, Madame Slack, Herr Kamyer, and the terminally insane Elvis Attwood, to go somewhere and not bother people on the street.

Thankfully we have Miss Wilson steady at the helm, so everything should be…you…know…a shambles.

Jas was watching me like Chingachgook, the last of the Mohicans. She hasn't spoken to me for two days because of the accidental grass verge scenario. But she was really looking at me in a horrible beaky way when Dave the Laugh came in with the other lads.

5:00 p.m.

I kept a safe distance from Dave but not so much that he would notice and think I was avoiding him. I stuck around with Ro Ro and Jools and the ace gang. Nauseating P. Green kept coming up to me for reassurance and asking me if my sword is comfortable. She actually believes that I am her husband, which is possibly the most tragic thing that has happened to me. And that is saying A LOT.

Still, no one can say that I am not a taking it on the chin sort of a person. And believe me, I have taken it on the chin A LOT. I hope that my brain will stop saying A LOT soon. And I mean that A LOT.

 

Only half an hour to go till curtain up. Although as Spotty Norman is in charge of curtains, I have hope that this production will quite literally never see the light of day.

I had been busy in “makeup” with Ro Ro until Miss Stamp (and what has this production got to do with her? Is there a lesbian sports bit? Possibly actually, as I haven't been arsed to see the whole play through, only my bits.) came in and took charge of the fake fur. Rosie was forced to remove her mustache, which actually was an homage to Miss Stamp in the first place.

 

I was doing my limbering-up exercises with Rosie, i.e., horn to the right, horn to the left, when Dave the Laugh passed close by winking and lumbering bits of castle wall and so on. Fortunately I had three feet of panstick on, so he couldn't have seen my vair vair red face. As he went by, I burst into peals of laughter as Jools handed me her witch's branch. Dave looked at me. Jools looked at me. Which was fair enough, as all she had said was, “Will you hold this whilst I go to the piddly diddly department?”

Not exactly a joke.

But I wanted to let Dave know that I was fine and not bothered about the snoggus interruptus that we had done at Katie's party. And also that I didn't give two short flying pigs' bums about who
or what he went out with. Ellen was also giving him her version of the cold shoulder. Which was hilarious. She said to me, “I'm going to let Dave know exactly what I think of his behavior. I mean, that is what I am going to do. I should do that, shouldn't I? I mean, do you think I should? Because I think that is what you should do, you should…anyway, what do you think?”

Oh dear Lord.

She shouldn't have bothered because her cold shoulderosity only lasted two minutes. Dave came by covered in twigs, saying, “Do you think my acting is a bit wooden, girls?”

Ellen went bright red and giggled like a loon. Not exactly in my book tip-top cold shoulderosity work.

Moi
on the other hand did an excellent job. I slightly smiled in a way that meant I was an amusing sort of person, but not the sort of girl who really bothered what Dave the Laugh got up to.

5:50 p.m.

Jas brushed past me in her frock to go poncing around as Mrs. MacUseless. I smiled in an attractive way, but she
ignorez vous
ed me. She'll come round; what other fool will listen to her talking
about voles? I'm not on for a bit, so Rosie and I went back into the props box for a rummage. Oo-er.

Rosie pulled out a false nose and said, “Do you think if I put it on as a sort of two-nose effect anyone would notice?”

I thought back to the good old days of last year. Days when life had been so simple. I had luuurved the Sex God and been his nearly girlfriend. We were doing a production of
Peter Pan
and like now, many fools were stropping around in tights. (Apart from Nauseating P. Green, who was a dog.) Rosie and I had been banned from the production and put on props. We found some theatrical fur and every time we handed a sword or something to Wet Lindsay onstage, we would add more fur to our bodies. By the end of the show we had huge, furry hands and Rosie had one massive eyebrow and sidies. How we laughed our way to triple detention. Happy happy pre-spinsterhood days.

That's when Ro Ro said from upside down in the props box, “I am going to secrete this fur about my person and take it home for the Viking wedding.”

It is pointless under those sort of circumstances (i.e., Rosie being utterly barking mad) to ask questions.

8:30 p.m.

Some fools actually applauded at the end as we took our bows. I only had one unfortunate incident doing my part, but I don't think anyone noticed.

9:10 p.m.

Walking home with the gang. Jas is keeping up her humpiness by walking as far away from me as possible. And she gave everyone except me one of her secret midget gem selection. I don't care because I think she keeps them hidden in her enormous pantaloonies. Then in the distance we saw Dave the Laugh and his posse following behind us. Donner
und
Blitzen. I was going to
ignorez vous
them with a firm hand. I said, “My false beard fell off when I was doing the sword fight and I had to carry on one-handed meanwhile casually holding my beard on with the other one. Did you notice?”

And Ro Ro said, “Yes, who didn't? It made you look like Mincing Macduff, the campest bloke in Och Aye land.” Excellent.

Not.

9:15 p.m.

Dave and his posse are doing comedy fast-walking
to keep up with us. They'll catch us up in a minute. Oh I can't handle any more of this mate business. I said to the gang, “I fancy a bit of a run actually, so I think I'll just go on ahead. See you for the final fiasco performance tomorrow.”

They looked at me in amazement as I jogged off. After a minute of jogging I looked back and Dave the Laugh was also now jogging. Oh nooooo. I put on a bit of speed, but he caught up with me and just jogged along beside me, looking at me. He was looking basoomaward and I didn't have my double strength over-the-shoulder boulder holder on. Drat and double dratty drat.

two minutes later

Still jogging.

This was ridiculous. As we jogged on side by side, Dave put his arm through mine, so we were doing tandem jogging. Eventually the weight of my basoomas got the better of me and I slowed down.

Dave said, “Have you got the hump with me, kittykat?”

I turned to him and in between panting smiled a really really beaming smile. “Dave, why on earth would I have the hump with you?”

He looked at me. “You have got the hump then.”

Damn.

He went on. “You know that you don't want to go out with me and so I am going out with someone else, that is OK, isn't it? Or would you just like me to sort of hang around on my own forever just in case you felt like a quick snog?”

Actually when he put it like that, I thought, Yep, that is exactly what I would like.

But it didn't seem a very normal thing to say.

I was trying to think of what was a normal thing to say, which quite honestly I have never really had proper education in. Nothing my parents have ever said would really pass for ordinary conversation. Anyway, as I was just flicking through my brain for something normal to say, my brain went off for a little holiday to hornland. I started thinking about the way Dave's eyelashes curled up and his mouth went sort of down at the corners and how…and then he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and went off back to his mates.

Bugger.

midnight

So this is my fabulous night. My beard fell off and
Dave the Laugh saw my basoomas unleashed.

And he is definitely going out with Emma.

Which I don't care about.

Much.

ten minutes past

I have decided to use art to express myself. Tomorrow night I will give the performance of my life. My part is mostly blubbing and fighting, and god knows I have enough practice at that.

I will let Dave see that I can be as full of maturiosity and sophisticosity as the next fool.

saturday july 9th
evening

Even though I have tried to give them the wrong date, my mutti and vati, grandvati, and Maisie are all coming to the performance tonight.

7:00 p.m.

I have got about four tons of glue on my beard. With my luck, it won't come off at the end of the show and I will have to go immediately to the lesbian monastery.

7:05 p.m.

Backstage is a nightmare of tights. Jas is wandering around with her bloody dagger. Muttering her lines to herself. It is very unnerving. She was saying, “Unsex me and fill me from the crown to the toe with divest cruelty. Is this a dagger which I see before my eyes?”

And then doing manic stabbing.

Like a loon.

Which she is.

I must remember never to fall out with her if she is cutting up sandwiches.

It's not likely I will have the opportunity of falling out with her as she is still
ignorez vous
ing me.

7:30 p.m.

Curtain up, amazingly. I can see through a crack in the screens at the side of the stage and the hall is packed. Oh brilliant. My “family” are on the front row.

the banquet scene
8:30 p.m.

Everything not going too badly.

Apart from Dave messing up the sound effects. The banquet scene, which should have started off
with bagpipe music, had seagulls instead. Which must have puzzled the audience a bit.

But then after Jas and her “husband” Honor Stevens (also known as MacUseless the Thane of Cawdor) ponced around with their soon to be dead guests, the improvised entertainment bit began. God knows we had all tried to advise Miss Wilson against the juggling and fire stuff, but would she listen? No. Melanie was doing her best with the oranges, flinging them around and dropping them and so on. She was being put off even more by ogling oglers (the Foxwood lads) all crowded on the side of the stage, desperate for a bit of nunga-nunga jiggling. And I distinctly heard my grandad say, “She's a big girl.” So oranges were crashing around left right and akimbo. But the
pièce de
the whatsit was Ellen on fire-conjuring duties. Anyone who thinks it is sensible to give fire to someone as divvy as Ellen has to go to a home, frankly. Anyway, Ellen had some special paper that you light and it whooshes up and it looks like you have set fire to your hands. But you haven't really. You just woosh the fire about (or your flaming hands, as the audience thinks) and eventually the paper burns up and disappears into the air with no harm
done. That is the whooshing fire theory. And last night the whooshing had been without incident.

Credit where credit is due, Ellen lit the paper and did the initial whooshing of the hand with no lackaday or incident. But then she whooshed too near to Spotty Norman and his false beard and the rest is history. Actually Spotty Norman was almost history. As his beard flared up, Norm came offstage shuffling sideways quite quickly. It was Elvis's moment of triumph. He appeared like Mr. Mad the Fireman with his fire extinguisher and gave Spotty Norman and Nauseating P. Green, who happened to be standing nearby, a good dousing with the foam. The beard was extinguished. But Norman and P. Green blundered around like blind blundering things for about five minutes.

Vair funny.

9:30 p.m.