Love Is a Many Trousered Thing

  I’d missed seeing him.

  He seemed completely at ease with me and Robbie. Didn’t he mind that we might be going out together? He seemed to have forgotten about his “What if you really liked someone and then you lost them” fandango. Which is of course a good thing. Really good. I’m glad. That means we can just be mates. Which I like. As everyone knows. Mateyness is my besty thing.

  He said to me, “Nice skirt, Georgia. Has your grandad’s girlfriend knitted you anything unusual lately? I saw her on the back of your grandad’s bike the other day in a sort of one-piece thing, it may have been a knitted swimsuit. She’s a goer, isn’t she?”

  I said, “That is one way of putting it.”

  Robbie said, “I didn’t know your grandad had got a girlfriend. The last thing I heard from Tom was that he was arrested for being drunk in charge of a bike.”

  The boys laughed together. No, no, no, stop laughing about my stupid grandad, this was not the way things were supposed to be between love rivals.

  two minutes later

  When we reached the Buddha Lounge, Dave’s posse said, “S’laters,” and went off inside.

  Dave said, “We’re having a needle pool match, Robbie, if you fancy it. Or are you otherwise engaged?”

  I went completely red and had to pretend to look for something in my bag.

  Robbie said, “Maybe catch you later.”

  the gate to bonkers hall (i.e., my house)

  10:00 p.m.

  When we got to my gate Robbie looked me straight in the eyes. Oh goddy god he was going to snog me. He took his hands out of his pockets and I did my famous looking down and then looking up thing. At which point Mr. and Mrs. Next Door came along walking the Prat brothers. What is it with this town? Did someone on the radio say “Snogging alert, snogging alert. There is the chance that Georgia might actually have a snogathon with one of her many maybe boyfriends. Why not go out and annoy her by popping up unexpectedly?”

  Mr. Next Door went all puffed up and insane when he saw me. He said, “Just the person I wanted to see.”

  Mrs. Next Door was saying, “Don’t upset yourself, dear.”

  “Upset myself, upset myself!!! Do you know what that furry ruffian you call a pet has done now, do you? Do you?”

  Actually I did have a bit of a clue, but I didn’t say.

  Mr. Next Door was going on and on.

  “He has absolutely DECIMATED our aquarium. DECIMATED it. There were tadpoles all over the rockery. It’s a bloody disgrace. In fact I have got a good mind to get onto the authorities and get it removed to a place where it won’t be a danger to the public anymore.”

  I said, “Yes, I agree aquariums can be very dangerous.”

  I really thought that he was going to implode, so I said soothingly, “He’s just high-spirited. He thinks the tadpoles are egging him on, waggling about like that. It’s his nature, he’s a hunter, he likes killing things.”

  Mr. Next Door said, “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  Eventually he went off grumbling and moaning on and on, the Prat brothers yapping away. They had completely spoiled the snogging mood. Robbie said, “I’m going to get off now, Georgia, nice to see you.”

  He looked like he was going to say something else and then he just went, “See you at the gig.”

  And that was it. He did give me a little peck on the cheek, but what did that mean?

  two minutes later

  I watched him walk off down the street. He walked in a really cool way. I watched him right down to the end of the street and he didn’t even look back when he went around the corner.

  10:15 p.m.

  I have accidentally gotten home at a decent time. When I came in, Mutti just looked at me in amazement. She said, “You’re in.”

  Then she went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of cornflakes, which she gave me. I said, “Blimey, you never usually cook, Mum.”

  five minutes later

  In bed lying down, just thinking.

  one minute later

  How weird is this?

  five minutes later

  So this is my wonderful life. I start off not knowing what going for coffee means and now I’m wondering what “see you at the gig” means. Does it mean see you at the gig, my new girlfriend, or see you at the gig, my old mate?

  I may or may not have two boyfriends and none of us seem to know. And even if I did have two, maybe I only have one now because Masimo will think that I am going out with Robbie. But I’m not. Am I?

  Goodie, now I am queuing up at the Bakery of Love, strapped to the rack of love, which makes it very difficult to even get inside the door in the first place.

  Just then I heard baldy types sniggering in the hall outside my door.

  Oh dear God, now what? Dad and Uncle Eddie have obviously been at the jungle juice because Uncle Eddie said in a really crap Chinese accent, “Special deliverly.”

  And underneath the door came a sort of postcard thing. I heard a piggy-type snort, from Vati.

  It’s unbelievable at their age. I suppose I will have to look, otherwise they will be crouching outside my door all night.

  one minute later

  Oh how vair vair amusant. The postcard said:

  TEENAGERS, FED UP WITH BEING HARASSED

  BY YOUR STUPID PARENTS? TAKE ACTION,

  LEAVE HOME, GET A JOB, PAY YOUR OWN BILLS.

  WHILST YOU STILL KNOW EVERYTHING.

  I said, “Yeah, good one. Good night, you pranksters.”

  They went snorting off. Good grief.

  two minutes later

  Where was I? Oh yes, strapped to the rack of love, not being able to get through into the bakery. Well, how about if I undo the straps, chuck the rack away and enter boldly, shouting, “Give me a dozen mixed cakes, please!”

  No, no, no, no, no! No to red bottomosity!!!

  one minute later

  What if I said, “Yes, I have made my selection. I would like the Italian cakey, please.”

  one minute later

  No, no, no, make that the creamy Robbie éclair.

  one minute later

  On second thought, could I have the…Oh sacré bloody bleu, I will be up all night worrying about…

  Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

  return of the hornmeister, quickly followed by the luurve god

  wednesday july 20th

  stalag 14

  I have decided to gird my loins and take the high road, etc., or whatever it is that our Och Aye friends drone on about. Anyway I am going to be positive. And actually the day did start in tip-top form. First of all, Angus set fire to his own tail sitting near the oven. Which I have to say was very funny. Libby laughed so much I thought I would have to do the Heimlich maneuver on her. Which I think is an omen for everything going my way boywise.

  Ran up to Jas at her gate and gave her a firm handshake and said, “This is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

  She said, “What does that mean?”

  I said, “I don’t know, but let’s disco dance.”

  And we burst into a quick bout of the Viking disco inferno dance. Well, the stabbing and leg-kicking. Jas wouldn’t do the all-over body shake because she didn’t want to mess up her fringe.

  I told her a bit about my night, but I let there be an air of mysteriosity about things. Mostly I lied.

  assembly

  Slim was moaning on as usual. “Why is it necessary for me to remind you that the science block skeleton is not a toy? Whoever thought it was funny to dress it up in Mr. Attwood’s spare overalls and sit it in his hut with a flask is very childish. Mr. Attwood got quite a start.” Etc., etc., blah, blah, rave on, rave on. But then the music started (or Miss Wilson playing the crap piano, as some people call it), and we realized it was the pièce de résistance comedy hymnwise. Not Jerusalem. Obviously it would have been top if it had been Jerusalem with its famous refrain “And was Jerusalem builded here amongst England’s dark satanic PANTS,” but it was even better than that. Becau
se yesssssss it was “Gladly my cross I bear.” Or as we know and love it, “Gladly my cross-eyed bear.” Oh yes. Klingon salutes all round for the ace gang.

  Hawkeye was giving us the hairy eyeball because normally we do not bother singing, we just mouth the words. But touché, Hawkeye, girl torturer and center of poonosity, today the ace gang has triumphed comedywise.

  Then to put the icing on the pajamas, as we trooped out along the corridor, Elvis Attwood tripped over his mop and had a magnificent spaz attack and started hitting the mop. I think he is tipping over the edge into insanity and mentaldom.

  blodge

  Miss Finnigan is absent, probably exhausted by hauling her nungas around all day, they are quite literally giganticibus. Nearly as obscene as my mum’s. As a special treat, Miss Wilson has been sent on as sub. Joy unbounded.

  As we lolled into our seats, Miss Wilson was fiddling around with a TV. Rosie said, “Ooh good, is it Gladiator, Miss?”

  Miss Wilson had a complete ditherama and practically lassoed herself with the electrical cable. She was all flushed.

  “No, no, it’s not Gladiator because it’s—”

  Rosie hadn’t finished. “We are always allowed to watch Gladiator on Wednesdays. And as it is set in olden times we are also allowed to practice our Viking bison horn dance. Do you want to see it?”

  Smoothing her bob in between plugging stuff in, Miss Wilson said, “Now Rosie, you know that it’s biology and so I will be showing a relevant film. So settle down girls and…Julia, please do not set fire to the plants with the Bunsen burner; that is not what they are for.”

  Jools started then: “What are Bunsen burners for, then, Miss? I thought that was what the huge flame thing was for.”

  I didn’t give Miss Wilson much chance of making it through to the end of the lesson.

  five minutes later

  Miss Wilson is sensationally red. Rosie offered to help plug stuff in and accidentally turned the fan full on, which nearly blew Miss Wilson’s bob off. She has outdone herself fashionwise today. And I am not saying that just to be nice. She must have found the only corduroy shop in the world and today she was wearing a pinafore dress made out of it, with ankle socks. They were not made out of corduroy actually, but it would have been good if they had been.

  I said to Mabs, “If this so-called film is anything to do with reproduction by any creature on the planet, I am definitely putting chewed-up paper in my earlugs.”

  two minutes later

  The film turns out to be about bees. It is a film about a bee center.

  How crap is this going to be?

  an hour later

  That was the best thing I have seen for ages. We made Miss Wilson rewind the bit where the two queens were having a bitch fight. I didn’t know how fab bees were, and so sensible they could teach us a thing or two. For instance, the queen bee kills her sexual partners by tearing off their reproductive equipment (or bee trouser-snake addenda) once she has had her wicked way with them.

  As I said to Jas, “That would solve my multi-boyfriend problemo.”

  She said, “Georgia, excuse me if I am right, but one of your so-called boyfriends took you out for a coffee and didn’t snog you, and the other one hasn’t even got on the blower. That is not what I would call a multi-boyfriend problemo.”

  I kicked her shin.

  “I hate you, Jas.”

  “Well I am only telling you the truth, that is what friends are for.”

  “Is it? Well I don’t tell you how stupid your fringe looks, do I?”

  “Yes.”

  She is so unreasonable and mad. And so full of herself just because she has a boring old boyfriend. However, for once I don’t mind because I feel that I have learned quite a lot today. I may become a beekeeper/model/backing singer.

  Did you know that baby bees are fed bee bread? That is le fact.

  Also, when they sting you they lose their bottoms.

  on the way to english

  Miss Wilson is beside herself at the prospect of going camping. As we left blodge she said, “Girls, it’s going to be such fun.”

  I said to the gang, “I tell you this for free, I am not doing anything to do with mime or clowning, and that is final.”

  english

  Blimey O’Reilly, how many plays did Billy Shakespeare write? He can’t have got out much. Apparently most of the rude words we know are from him and his mates, so I don’t know why we get told off for using them. And also, violence and binge-drinking is not exactly a new invention. Billy and his fellow twits in tights were not exactly kind to each other. For a laugh they used to put people in stocks and so on. In fact that was their entertainment, that and baiting bears. For instance, here is a real conversation between Elizabethan mates, Tight-us Tight-us and Mind-us My cod-us Piece.

  Mind-us My Cod-us Piece: “Prithee Tight-us Tight-us, what do you fancy doing tonight-us?”

  T. T.: “Sirre what-us about drinking a pint or two of gin and annoying-us the bears?”

  M.C.P.: “Nah…Let-us just bugger off down to the stocks and throw tomatoes at the weirdo.”

  french

  I am going to have to kill Rosie because unfortunately she has got prepreweekend bonkerosity. Or a touch of the Svens, as some might say. She has just sent me a French joke.

  Her notelet said: “Bonjour, mon petit pain.

  What do you call a French man in sandals?

  Au revoir.

  Rozeeeeeeeeeeee”

  I wrote back, “I don’t care.”

  But she gave me her raised eyebrows and nodding head thing until I had to mouth to her, “Oh go on then.”

  And she wrote back, “Philippe Philoppe.”

  on the way home

  4:15 p.m.

  The Blunderboys are trailing along behind us doing what they think is gay repartee. Saying things, like, “Hey love, lie down, will you? I need somewhere to park my bike.”

  What are they talking about? I’ll tell you this, they will be the last to know.

  After about ten minutes of this I turned round to them and said, “Er, why don’t you go away. A LOT?”

  And amazingly that baffled them. I think it was having a clear instruction that they couldn’t cope with. Apparently boys and dogs have stuff in common. That is what the Hornmeister told me once.

  At that moment, as if he had been earwigging in my brain, the Hornmeister appeared over the horizon with two of his mates. When he saw us he did this mad running toward us with his arms outstretched. Sort of skipping like from The Sound of Music.

  “Hello ladeeeeeeez, the vati is back! Sound out the pants of England!!! Let the Cosmic and General Horn be heard! Hooooorrnnnnnn!!! Who are my bitches???”

  Ellen said, “Er, we are…er are we your, erm, bitches?”

  We looked at her.

  I said in a dignified at all times way, “Oh hello Dave, you’re not going to do your rapping thing and then fall over a wall again, are you?”

  He looked at me and licked his lips. Honestly.

  “Georgia, I know that is just your little way of saying, ‘Hey big boy, hold me back because you give me the Horn big time.’”

  I just looked at him. I wasn’t going to smile at him, if that is what he thought. He was too full of himself and his red bottomosity. But he would not get me to…oh blimey, I have accidentally given him my full nostril–flaring smile! Damn. He linked up with us all and then his two mates did the same so that we looked like we were doing the hokey-pokey. I hope we didn’t have to negotiate any lampposts or the elderly insane.

  He said, “Trot on, girls. Do you like my new trainers? I feel like Jack the Biscuit in them.”

  They were quite cool, as it happens.

  One of his mates, Declan, was linked up to Ellen, and he said, “We had a laugh today, there was a minor rumble in the corridor because Phil the Nerd and his mates tried to be top dog in the lunch queue. So clearly he had to be binned. Excellent.”

  I knew I shouldn’t ask, but somehow I did. ??
?What do you mean he had to be binned?”

  in my bedroom

  I know that I have said this many, many times, but boys are a bloody mystery. Apparently when they get bored, boys go on a “binning” session. They got Phil the Nerd and put him botty-first into a litter bin. As soon as he managed to heave himself out, his “mates” put him back in. Then when he got out again, Dave and Dec and company turned up and put him back in again. And so on until the end of break. Why?

  5:30 p.m.

  I hate to admit this because of my position as mate to Dave the Laugh, but there is something that goes on in the jelloid knicker department when I see him. He’s sort of familiar somehow, and he does make me laugh. But shut up, brain, because mates do not snog or even think about snogging. That is le fact. I have too many maybe boyfriends to worry about without thinking about Dave the Laugh and his snogging abilities. Which I’m not even thinking about, by the way.

  two minutes later

  I was just thinking about when I first snogged him at the Fish party. That really was the beginning of my red-bottom phase. I blame him. He started me on the slippery slope with his lip-nibbling techniques and so on. But I will just LET IT GO because he is not on the snoggees list, he is just a boymatetypefandango. Which is good.

  one minute later

  I wonder what number he has got up to with his “girlfriend.” He never mentions her. Mind you, I never mention her.

  I wonder if she mentions herself.

  I wonder if she has ever asked him about me.

  She isn’t with him much; perhaps he has dumped her.

  ten minutes later

  A lot of thumping on the stairs.

  “Come on dollyboy, Josh boy, bring pussycat in here lalalalalalalala. Pussycat pussycat where have you beeeeeen, I’ve been to London to see a sardine!!! Hahahahahahaha.”

  My door crashed open and a very red-faced sister loomed round. She had Gordon by the neck and he was struggling like billio. Yeah, good luck, furry chum. She had her other chubby little arm around the neck of her “boyfwend” the unfortunate Josh. Libby lobes Josh. She treats him just like the rest of her toys (Pantalitzer doll, Angus and Gordy, Scuba-diving Barbie, Jesus, Sandra, me), really really badly. The only difference is that as yet she hasn’t been able to remove bits of his body. Pantalitzer doll is quite literally just a head now.