Louise Rennison - ‘… then he ate my boy entrancers.’

I said, “Is it as huge as your gym knickers?”

There was silence.

“Jas, come on, be happy for me.”

“It’s all very well for you, you can just fancy anyone, but it’s different with Tom and me – he’s off to Kiwi-a-gogo and I will be left here all on my owney.”

Oh good grief.

Hunky is only going to the Land of the Big White Clots for a couple of weeks, but I am still going to have to listen to her moaning and rambling on about the twig-collecting years. However, before she could start raving on about molluscs and cuckoo spit I had a flash of inspirationosity.

“Jas, listen, I have a plan of such geniosity that I have even surprised myself, and might give myself some sort of award.”

She didn’t even say “What is it?” There was just silence.

I said, “Aren’t you even going to ask me what it is, Jas?”

“It’s bound to be stupid.”

“Oh, cheers, thanks a lot. Well I won’t bother you with it then. Even though it involves you and your happiness and is très bon and also vair vair gut. Au revoir. Bonne chance. ”

And I put the phone down. Even Jas cannot spoil my mood. Lalalalalalala.

Better start planning my wardrobe for the Luuurve Trail. What do the Hamburgese wear? Cowboy hats, I suppose.

From what I hear, the Hamburgese are a bit strict hygienewise. They’re always in the shower and so on. It is to be hoped the customs man doesn’t glance inside Libby’s bag and find her night-time blankie, otherwise we will all be buggered.

Oh, so many things to worry about. I think I will have a little zizz to relax myself and then plan my cosmetic routine.

Fat chance.

“Gingey! Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee!!! I have just been to the lavatreeeeee!”

My darling sister has kicked open my bedroom door. Hurrah.

Oh good, and she has her “fwends” with her – scuba-diving Barbie, Charlie Horse, a parsnip and Cross-eyed Gordy. Gordy is under house arrest because he has not had the immunisation injections he needs before he is set loose into the wild jungle world of our street. I’d like to see the germ hard enough to take him on.

As they all snuggled comfortably into my bed, the phone rang downstairs and Dad answered it. Vati yelled up, “Georgia, quickly, one of your mates wants to talk rubbish with you for an hour or two on her father’s phone.”

He has not got the flare of charm, my vati; but on the other hand, what he has got are my tickets to paradise. I must remember that, however ludicrous he is, he has bought me a passage to the Luuurve Machine.

Masimo-a-gogo!!!

I shouted down, “Thank you, Papa, I’ll be down immediately, and perhaps later I will entertain you with my piano playing.”

We haven’t got a piano, but it’s the thought that counts.

It was Jazzy Spazzy…tee-hee. I knew she would crumble and want to know my plan.

I said, “So, now do you want to know what my plan is?”

“If you like.”

“No Jas, you are still not showing enthusiosity. Try harder.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Gird your loins and so on; laugh and the world laughs at you. Come on, you do really want to know my plan, especially as it concerns you, my little hairy pally.”

“I’m not hairy.”

“Have it your own way, just don’t go near any circuses.”

“Shut up. Go on then, tell me your plan. Although, unless you are going to give me the money to go to Kiwi-a-gogo with Tom, I don’t—”

“Jas, forget about Hunky. He will be too busy lying around in streams with Robbie and hugging marsupials to get up to anything. This is about you and me on the road.”

“What road?”

“OK, this is it: when I go to Hamburger-a-gogo…you come with me! Do you see? Driving across America, you and me. We will be like Thelma and Louise!”

“We’re not called Thelma and Louise.”

“I know that, I am just saying we will be LIKE THEM.”

“And we’re not American.”

“I know that, but I—”

“And neither of us can drive.”

Oh dear God.

I said, “Jas, your spaceship has arrived. Please get in.”

Ahahaha, Jazzy Spazzy has finally come to her senses (ish). She has got the scent of funosity in her nostrils and wants to come to Hamburger-a-gogo land. A LOT. So now all we have to do is get our parents to let us. We have a two-pronged plan.

Prong One is a charm offensive on our muttis and vatis to persuade them to let Jas come to America with me. (And also to give her sqillions of squids for spenderoonies.) We are going to be really nice and sweet and listen to them ramble on about the Beatles. I’ve been practising my pleading and they would have to be made of stone not to give me the entire contents of their wallets.

However, if that fails and they say no, we launch Prong Two: relentless moaning. You know the kind of thing – “All my other friends are allowed to take a mate on holiday with them. How come I am the ONLY person in the universe who is not allowed to take a mate on holiday? Why is it just me? Why? Why oh why oh why?”

“Why?”

“It is sooo unfair.”

“Why?”

Right, this is it. I’ve got my old Teletubbies jimjams on for maximosity on the loveablenosity front.

Mutti and Vati were on the sofa, curled round each other. I could clearly see Mum’s knickers. Erlack. And the curtains were open; anyone could see in. A fat bloke passing by might think it was a brothel for the porkier gentleman. I was going to say that but then I remembered my prongs. So I said, “Good evening, Mother, Father.”

Vati said, “How much?” without even looking at me. I laughed attractively.

“Oh, Papa, this is not a material matter, it’s to do with friendship and love and—”

Mum said, “I don’t care how many of your friends have had their navels pierced. You are not.”

“But I—”

But she was still rambling on. “Ditto tattoos.”

“But I—”

Vati joined in. “And no, you cannot have a flat in Paris and a manservant to help with your homework.”

Oh, how I nearly laughed. Not. I thought about telling Dad that Rosie said he looked like a brothel madam in his flying helmet and leather jacket, but then I remembered my charm prong and forced a little grin to play around my mouth.

“You two!!! Always kidding about you cheeky minxes! Anyway, all it is really is that, well…you know…Jas is all miz because of Tom going to Kiwi-a-gogo and, well…You know she’s my pal, and…well…it would be nice for me if you know…anyway, can she?”

Vati said, “Can she what? Move in? Levitate? What?”

I bit the whatsit. “Can she come with us to Hamburger-a-gogo land?”

Both of our parents have said yes. Unbelievable. Actually, I am not that amazed that Jas’s parents said yes because they are, on the whole, not entirely mad. But my parents?

Weird.

It is a miracle for which I would normally thank Jesus. He does seem to be coming up trumps lately. I left Robbie to the snogging possums but then Jesus sent me a replacement Luuurve God. Hurray! As I say, I would normally thank him personally by laying gifts at his feet (or foot, actually, because one of his feet snapped off), however there is a bit of a problem. Libby has been rifling around in my room and she has nicked my statue of him. I’m afraid Jesus has not quite been himself since. The last time I saw him he had a frock on and Libby was calling him “Sandra”, Barbie’s new bestest pal.