Louise Rennison - ‘Knocked out by my nunga-nungas.’

Oh God, I don’t know. I can’t do multiplication very well; it’s too jangly for my brain. I’ve tried to explain this to Miss Stamp our maths Oberführer (and part-time lesbian). It is not, as she stupidly suggests, that I am too busy writing notes to my mates or polishing my nails to concentrate, it is just that some numbers give me the mental droop.

Eight for instance.

It’s the same in German. As I pointed out to Herr Kamyer, there are too many letters in German words.

The German types say Goosegot in the morning; how normal is that? In fact, how can you take a language like that seriously? Well you can’t, which is why I only got sixty per cent in my last German exam.

I’m just going to lie in bed conserving my strength for a snogging extravaganza when I get home.

Mutti came into my room with a tray of sandwiches. I said, “Goosegot in Himmel, Mutti, have you gone mad? Food? For me? No, no, I’ll just have my usual bit of old sausage.”

She still kept smiling. It was a bit eerie actually. She was all dreamy. Wafting around in a see-through nightie. Good Lord.

“Are you having a nice time, Gee? It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it?”

I looked at her ironically.

She raved on. “It’s fun, though, isn’t it?”

“Mum, it’s the best fun I’ve had since … er … since Libby dropped my make-up into the loo.”

She tutted, but not even in her usual violent tutting way. Just like, nice tutting.

Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.

She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”

I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.

“It will be a laugh.”

“No it won’t. When did we last have a laugh as a family? Apart from when Grandad’s false teeth went down that woman’s bra?”

The “lovebirds” went off to the pencil factory. They only got Libby to go with them because she thinks they are going to go and see the pencil people.

And I do mean pencil people. Not people who make pencils. Pencil people. People who are pencils. She’ll go ballistic when she finds out it’s just some boring Scottish bloke making pencils.

Oh I am SO bored. Hours and hours of wasted snogging opportunities.

I’d go out but there is nothing to look at. It just goes trees, trees, water, hill, trees, trees, Jock McTavish, Jock McTavish. What is the point of that?

On the plus side, I am going out with a SEX GOD!

Oh Gott in Himmel! What is the point of going out with a Sex God if no one knows? Not even me at this rate.

I wonder if I should phone him?

I was even nearly pleased to see James and Grandad arrive with Uncle Eddie.

For about a second. Uncle Eddie had hired a van specially. He probably had to get a special kind that accommodates the very bald.

James’s voice has gone all weird. It’s sort of deep and then all squeaky. How normal is that? He is by no means a lurker-free zone either, I notice. Tout au contraire.

Dad said, “Cum awa’ in!” in a really crap Scottish accent and Grandad started to jig around “dancing”, and had to be helped into the cottage.

Uncle Eddie said, “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I’ve brought supplies of large Union Jack underpants!” What in the name of Louis the Fourteenth is he on about?

Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.

I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”

Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?

This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.

Despite the incredible crapness of my life my nunga-nungas have made me laugh.

Nunga-nungas is what Ellen’s brother and his mates call girls’ basoomas. He says it is because if you pull out a girl’s breast and let it go … it goes nunga-nunga-nunga. He is obviously a touch on the mental side.

But quite funny though.

I wonder what size nunga-nunga-holder Mum wears?

Perhaps I could make some nunga-nunga protectors by electrifying my sports bra with a battery type thing. That would give Cousin James the perv a shock if he attempted to “accidentally” molest my nungas.

But it would also give me a shock, which is la mouche in the ointment.

Angus has rediscovered his Scottish roots. Apparently they are in the middle of some bog because he had bits of horrible slimy stuff in his whiskers. He came into my bed purring and all damp and muddy. Still, he soon got nice and dry by wiping himself on my T-shirt.

God he smells disgusting. I think he’s been rolling in fox poo again. He thinks it’s like a sort of really attractive aftershave.

It isn’t.

Why oh why oh why has the SG not called me? Oh hang on, I know why he hasn’t, it’s because we haven’t got a phone in our fantastic cottage. I couldn’t believe it when we first arrived. I said to Mutti, “There has been some mistake. I’m afraid we must go back to civilisation immediately. I’ll drive.”

Dad raved on about “tranquillity” and the simple life.

I said, “Vati, you can be as simple as you like, but I want to talk to my mates.”

He grumbled on about my constant demands. As I pointed out to him, if he would buy me a mobile phone like everyone else on the planet I wouldn’t have to bother speaking to him at all.

I can’t stand much more of this. The whole “family” has gone on a forced march. Well, Vati called it “a little walk in the woods”. But I know about his little walks. I know exactly what will happen: the Loonleader will be all bossy and “interested” in stuff like cuckoo spit. Then he’ll lose the way and argue with Grandad about the right way home. Grandad will fall over something and Uncle Eddie will be attacked by sheep. And that will only be the high spots.