Louise Rennison - The Taming Of The Tights

First published in Great Britain in hardback

by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2013

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Copyright © Louise Rennison 2013

Source ISBN 9780007323920

Ebook Edition © July 2013 ISBN: 9780007476404

Version: 2018-07-16

Dear Eagle-eyed mates,

Some of you may remember that in ‘A Midsummer Tights Dream’

I hilariously (in my opinion) mentioned that my mum and sister

would not let me have the dead rabbit in Cain’s hand wave its

paw bye-bye to Tallulah.

I said at the time (and I’m not wrong) that it is a tip-top comedy idea.

But oh no – my so-called family said it would make me seem ‘childish’ – which clearly I am not. Anyway, I hid this book from them so

the crying rabbit is in, see here.

So ha ha ha ha for calling me childish.

Peace.

To my Family Tree and my Tree Sisters and Tree Brothers and

to the various saps – I mean – saplings. Also to the naughty

Skipton Flossies (Katie and Eve).

And of course to the Tree Doctors with their Tree pruning,

Tree mulching and their Tree hugging: Gillie, Lizzie, Tara,

Elorine, Clare, Cassie (actually officially a sap) and Gillon xxxx

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: Filling my tights again

Chapter 2: Lullah’s Lulu-luuuve List

Chapter 3: Return of the lunatic twins

Chapter 4: Snogs ahoy!

Chapter 5: The Blubberhouses Large Ladies Who Pole Dance For Fun Society

Chapter 6: Boy Ambush

Chapter 7: You don’t want to do any more winking back

Chapter 8: The fire escape of desire

Chapter 9: I’ve eaten snail shells

Chapter 10: Snogging and Jazzles

Chapter 11: The magic of puppetry

Chapter 12: Return of the beast in trousers

Chapter 13: See you there, cheeky miss

Chapter 14: My inner snogger

Chapter 15: Naughty bumberskite

Chapter 16: The church bells of doom

Chapter 17: Should I put nail varnish on my hoofs?

Chapter 18: The Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite

Chapter 19: He’s got the right amount of lip

Chapter 20: Praise the knees!

Chapter 21: Fir-cone earrings and knitted onesies

Chapter 22: The Taming of the Tights

Extract: The Corker-holding with winter socks scene

Georgia’s Ace Gang Snogging Scale

About the Publisher

Woo-hoo! And chug-a-lug-a-ding-dong. I’m on the train, chugging back to Dother Hall, the Theatre of Dreams.

Once more getting ready to fill my performance tights! Chasing the golden slippers of success! Preparing to let my feet bleed if necessary. That’s what Sidone Beaver, our headmistress, says we must do if we want to be stars in the thea-tah, dahlings !!! And this term I’m going to fill my tights as much as is humanly possible!!!!

Who would have thought that I, me, Tallulah Casey, a gangly Irish person, would be back here for the autumn term at a Performing Arts College in the heart of the famous Dales of Yorkshire? Ooh, I think we’re stopping at Skipley station. I’ll get my case down and hop off.

Uuuumph. Jumping Jehosophat and his dad, it’s bouncing down. Skipley is famous for its otters. I’m not surprised. If this rain keeps up, I’ll be part otter by Wednesday.

Skipley is so proud of its otters that the station sign reads Skipley Home of the West Riding Otter.

But last time I was here some Yorkshire hooligan altered the sign so it read Skipley Home of the West Riding Botty.

Honestly …

I am squelching across towards it. That’s where Cain was standing when I left at the end of last term. Cain Hinchcliff. Local bad boy made … er, bad.

I remember him winking at me as the train pulled out. With his dark hair whipping around his face and his dark eyes looking and looking at me. Licking his lips. Holding a dead rabbit in his hand. Making the dead rabbit he had in his hand wave its paw at me. And rub its eye with its paw as if it was crying.

He thinks that kind of thing is funny.

I dragged my case along the platform towards the sign. I hope it’s been cleaned up because it doesn’t give a very good impression of the … Hang on a minute, the hooligan has been at it again! Now the sign reads Skipley Home of the Brest Riding Otter.

That is just wrong.

That shouldn’t be allowed.

What if American people were on the train? They have a seizure if you say prat.

I left the station and trundled across the bridge to catch the bus to Heckmondwhite. Brrr, I am absolutely soaking now. The rain has got in through the front of my anorak and jumper and into my new bra. Or new ‘corker holder’ as me and my friends say. I hope my corkers don’t shrink.

Hahahaha. What larks! I’m going to put ‘corker shrinking’ in my Performance Art Diary, or as I call it, my ‘Darkly Demanding Damson Diary’. Under ‘Ideas for Modern Dance’.

A bus flew round the bend and screeched to a halt. The warm, welcoming bus opening its welcoming doors to welcome me back to my …

A cloud of smoke billowed out. The driver was smoking a pipe. Uh-oh, I recognised that balaclava. It belonged to Mrs Bottomley. She did part-time bus driving as well as cage fighting in Leeds. I said, “Single to Heckmondwhite, please.”

Mrs Bottomley repeated ‘single to Heckmondwhite, please’ in a horrible posh simpering way as she slammed the ticket down. Then she said, looking down at my legs, “Keep those bloody legs off my seats AND mind how you go!”