Louise Rennison - ‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’

Masimo hasn’t called or anything. Maybe he really does think I am insane. Or maybe he thinks I caught the train from the shopping centre and have gone away for a few days. In which case he is insane.

If I have an early night I can do skincare – cleanse and tone, and get everything ready for tomorrow just in case I have a chance encounter with one of my many maybe boyfriends on the way to Stalag 14.

Blimey, I look about two and a half, I am so shiny faced and clean. Also, I am nice and baldy everywhere, except on my head, of course. I do not want to have an Uncle Eddie hairstyle.

Actually, my hair is a bit of a boring colour. It hasn’t got je ne sais quoi and umph.

Ahaha, Mum has got some hair dye. Warm chocolate. That would be nice and groovy. I could just put a couple of streaks in the front, like highlights, or is it lowlights? Hi, lo – it’s lights anyway, which is all that counts.

Got the dye and went into the front room. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t. Mum and Dad were all over each other on the sofa watching some old film with crying in it and blokes in tights and an Uncle Eddie bloke in a frock. Mum said, “Come and watch Robin Hood . It’s good.”

I said, “Mum, I’m just going to use your hair dye for a bit.”

“No.”

“Er, Mum, I think you are being a bit negative.”

“No.”

“But I—”

“No.”

“Look at the colour of my hair! It’s crap. I might as well be the Invisible Mouse.”

“No.”

“But I…”

Then Vati joined in. “Georgia, no, no, no, and thrice no. And also no.”

“Vati, I am not asking you, actually, I am asking my dear dear mum about her hair dye.”

“It’s not her hair dye, it’s mine.”

What??? What fresh hell? HIS hair dye? My vati, not content with growing small badgers on his chin and wearing leather trousers and having a clown car, was now trying to be Lady Cliff Richard. Or Lady Paul McCartney.

“Please say you are not serious.”

Vati said, “I am very serious. I am a man in his prime, as your mother knows.” And he did that disgusting thing of grabbing one of her nungas, squeezing it, and going, “Honk honk!!!”

Mum didn’t even hit him, she just went all girlie and said, “Stop it, you big boy.”

Vati was still in Madland, however, and said, “Yes, I thought I’d get down with the youth, you know, dye my hair, get the old leathers on and maybe check out a few clubs. Which one would you recommend?”

I nearly fainted. Imagine bumping into my dad and his sad mates down at the Buddha Lounge!!! Any chance I had of having a Sex God or a Luuurve God or even Spotty Norman would be well and truly up the pictures without a paddle. My dad’s impression of Mick Jagger dancing could reduce people to tears – and not of admiration.

I must have toast to calm down.

I was buttering it when my mad little sister Libby popped her head out of the airing cupboard. “Heggo, Ginger. Come in my nest. Now.”

I looked up at her. “Libbs, I’m too big for it.”

“No.”

“Yes, I am.”

Her face went all frowny and she started snorting and tutting like she has heard Mum do. I wasn’t liking this. The frowny face is not one I like to see because usually I am in agonising pain seconds later.

However, this time it wasn’t my turn to suffer. Libby disappeared into her “nest” and then scuba-diving Barbie came flying out, quickly followed by Mr Potato, Pantalitzer doll (well, the head) and finally, after a lot of panting and heaving and squealing, Gordy came hurtling through the air. He came to a skidding halt on the dish rack and then did that shivering thing before he hurled himself through the cat flap.

Libby popped her head out again and smiled in a terrifying way. “Come on, Gingey… it’s naaaaaice.”

Oh dear God. Still, what else was I doing this fine evening that I couldn’t squeeze into an airing cupboard with my clearly insane sister? She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I lobe you velly times twice.”

Aahhh. At least she “lobes” me, unlike my so-called bestie Jas, who is dead girl to me now that she can’t even perform the slightest task.

Sitting in the dark little cupboard, I had to bend double with my knees practically up my nose. Libby had snacks in there, which was nice if you like bits of banana covered in fluff.

Libby was only persuaded out of her “nest” by Mum saying she could sleep in my bed. Thanks, Mum.

For a little girl Bibbs is very full of gas. Her farts are like gunshots and sooo smelly. If anyone lit a match we would all be blown to kingdom come. And back. And there would still be some fart left over to cook on for the rest of the year.

And the snoring. It’s like comedy snoring except that I’m not laughing.

Tried to shove Libby over on to her side to stop her snoring and got a smack around the head for my trouble. She is even violent when she is unconscious.

I wonder what Robbie really came home for? I can’t believe it was to see Wet Lindsay. Surely Tom would have told me if he knew that Robbie fancied her. I bet she has been writing to him, pretending to be a nice person. How could he fancy her? Still, facts have to be faced, he did actually go out with her once before he started seeing me. And they must have been doing something in those months. They weren’t talking about her ludicrous forehead.

He must have snogged her. If he went out with her for three months that is a lot of snogging opportunities. And she is bound to have been puckering up pretty much nonstop because she has no pridenosity. I wonder what number on the snogging scale they got to?

Not number seven (upper-body fondling), clearly, otherwise her false nungas would have made a surprise appearance. Maybe that is what happened!!!

I wish.

Anyway, I don’t want her nungas in my head. Get out.

Does he like me or not?

Do I like him or not?

Hang on a minute, I’ve just realised something. I am on the rack of love again. How did this happen?

Well, I’m not dangling about up here any more. I say no, no, no, and thrice no to the rack. I am a free woman. That woman Emily Plankton chained herself to a policeman and chucked herself under a horse and so on so that I could vote. I must not let her down.

Although it does seem a bit over the top to chuck yourself in front of a horse so that you get to vote.

Especially as in fact she was dead, so she couldn’t vote anyway.

And neither can I.

Like I have always said, history is crap.

On the other foot, Masimo said, “Now I is a free man.” And that means he wants to go out with me. So that is that. I have been to the bakery of love and I have got an Italian cakey.

But I might also have an éclair called Robbie, in case I’m peckish and the Italian cakey isn’t filling enough.

Some people, naming no names (but Jas) will probably say I’m greedy. But I’m not. I am just having a choice. I am not sad like Jas, who only stays with one boyfriend because she has no special talents. Other than an unerring eye for a crap owl, or being able to spot a vole at a hundred yards. Or having the largest knicker collection in the northern hemisphere. And being the biggest and most annoying twit on the planet.