Louise Rennison - ‘…startled by his furry shorts!’

Big luuurve to my family and friends, old and new. (Look, I'm not saying some of you are old, I'm just saying that some of you are newer than others… er… but not in a less old way. Oh, look, I just love you, right?)

Enormous panty-splitting thanks to my editors and publicists and designers and sales people at HarperCollins in Billy Shakespeare land and Hamburger-a-gogo land.

Thanks as always to the Empress.

But mostly thank you to my lovely, lovely readers (which now even include some vatis, which is a bit alarming).

Dear worldwide Chums and Chumettes,

(Hang on a minute, when I say “worldwide” I don't mean “enormously fat”, I merely mean internationalwise.) Where was I before you got the wrong end of the stick? Oh yes, do you know how much I love you all? A LOT. That is how much. I do, it is le fact. Why else would I spend so much time rifling through my creative drawers (oo-er) writing another diary?

Actually, as I say to anyone who will listen (i. e., no one), I am practically a saint in human form. But there’s very little thanks in it. For instance, the other day I helped a little old lady across the road. I didn't have to. In fact, I was in a tearing dash on my way to get new lip gloss. But I did, and do you know what she did? She hit me with her umbrella! She said she didn't want to cross the road, she was waiting for her friend to pick her up to go pole dancing!!!

That is the kind of world we live in.

The elderly insane, like Elvis Attwood, parents, etc., say that young people only care about lipstick and snogging. I say hahahaha. If they would take the trouble to read works of geniosity like mine, they would soon realise that we do many useful and creative things. Who invented the terms “piddly-diddly department” and “pooparlour division” that are used in schools all over the world? Before I bothered to invent “nunga-nungas”, what fools we felt calling our breasty substances, er… breasts.

Do you see?

I think you do.

Goodbye and God bless you all.

And also S’laters.

Georgia

p.s. And I invented nervy b. and f.t. and so on.

p.p.s. And the Viking disco inferno dance.

p.p.p.s. I could go on but I feel slightly tired with

creativitosity and I may… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I can’t believe I am once more on the rack of romance.

And also in the oven of luuurve.

And possibly on my way to the bakery of pain.

And maybe even going to stop along the way to get a little cake at the cake shop of agony.

Shut up, brain. Shut up.

It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.

Ommmm.

The meditation book is wrong. God, stars are annoying. Winking and blinking like twinkly idiots. Why are they so cheerful?

I’ll tell you why they are so cheerful: because they are not me. They know nothing of the call of the Horn and snogging. Has a Luuurve God ever said to one of them, “I will let you know in a week’s time if I want to go out with you or not”? No.

Anyway, what are stars for actually? You can’t even read by them. They just hang about. Like dim torches.

Hanging about is not exactly a job, is it?

I am not as such feeling any calmer.

Being in the bakery of pain is vair vair boring. Ten past nine on a Saturday night and I am in my bedroom. Alone. I am in the prime of my – er – hornosity and joie de vivre and nothing is going on. Nothing.

It’s like a grave in this house. I…

Oh good, my darling little sister has kicked open my door and flung my cat Angus at me.

“HEGGGGOOO, Gingey!!! We is back. Heggo!!! Watch my panties dance. Sex bum, sex bum, am a sex bum!!!”