Louise Rennison - ‘… and that’s when it fell off in my hand.’

“This hasn’t got anything to do with badgers, has it?”

“Well… no, not exactly, it’s a wilderness course and you learn how to make fire and so on.”

Oh great balls of merde here we go, off into the land of the terminally insane, i.e. Jasland. I said as patiently as I could because I am usually nice(ish) to the disadvantaged, “You are going off on a course to learn how to make fire?”

“Yes, exciting, eh?”

“Why do you have to go on a course to learn how to open a box of matches?”

“You can’t use matches.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a wilderness course.”

“No, wrong, Jas, it’s a crap course where people are too mean to give you any matches.”

She did that sighing business.

“Look, Georgia, I know you’re upset about Robbie going off to Kiwi-a-gogo land.”

“I am.”

“And you not having a boyfriend or anything.”

“Yes, well…”

“And, you know, being all lonely, with no one to really care about you.”

“Yes, all right Jas, I know all th—”

“And the days stretching ahead of you without any meaning and—”

“Jas, shut up.”

“I’m only trying to say that—”

“That is not shutting up, Jas. It is going on and on.”

She got all huffy and Jasish.

“I must go now. Tom has got some knots to show me.”

I was in the middle of saying, “Yes I bet he has…” in an ironic and très amusant way when she brutally put the phone down.

Alone, all aloney.

On my owney.

The house is empty, too. Everyone is out at Grandad’s for lunch.

I was nearly made to go until I pointed out that I am in mourning and unable to eat anything because of my heartbreak.

Mine is a pathetico tale that would make anyone who had a heart weep, but that does not include Vati. He said he would gladly leave me behind because talking to me made him realise the fun he had had when he accidentally fell into the open sewers in India.

Looking out of my bedroom window. Entombed in my room for ever. Like in that book, The Prisoner of Brenda, or whatever it’s called.

Except I could go out if I wanted.

But I don’t want to.

I may never go out again.

Ever.

This is boring. I’ve been cooped up for about a million years.

What time is it?

Phoned Jas.

“Jas?”

“Oh God.”

“What time is it?”

“What?”

“Why are you saying ‘what’? I merely asked you a civil question.”

“Why don’t you look at your own clock?”

“Jas, have you noticed I am very, very upset and that my life is over? Have you noticed that?”

“Yes I have, because you have been on the phone telling me every five minutes for a month.”

“Well, I am soo sorry if it’s too much trouble to tell your very bestest pal the time. Perhaps my eyes are too swollen from tears to see the clock.”

“Well are they?”

“Yes.”

“Well how come you could see to dial my number?”

Mrs Huffy Knickers was so unreasonable.

“Anyway, I’m not your bestest pal any more, Nauseating P. Green is your bestest pal now that you rescued her from the clutches of the Bummer twins.”

I slammed down the phone.

Brilliant. Sex Godless and now friend to P. Green, that well-known human goldfish.

Sacré bloody bleu and triple merde.

And poo.

Oh Robbie, how could you leave me and go off to the other (incredibly crap) side of the world? What has Kiwi-a-gogo land got that I haven’t? Besides forty million sheep.

I think I’ll play the tape he gave me again. It’s all I have left to remind me of him and our love. That will never die.

Good grief, now I am really depressed. His song about Van Gogh, “Oh No, It’s Me Again”, has to be one of the most depressing songs ever written.

Second only to track four, “Swim Free”, about a dolphin that gets caught in a fishing net, and every time we eat a tuna sandwich we’re eating Sammy the dolphin. Fortunately I never eat tuna, as Mum mostly stocks up on Jammy Dodgers and there is definitely nothing that was ever alive in them.

If I am brutally honest, which I try to be, the only fly in the ointmosity of the Sex God was that he could be a bit on the serious side. Always raving on about the environment and so on. Actually, his whole family is obsessed with vegetables. Let’s face it, his brother Tom (otherwise known as Hunky) has chosen one to be his girlfriend!

Hahahahahaha. That’s a really good joke about Jas that I will never tell her but secretly think of when she flicks her fringe about or shows me her Rambler’s badge.

I will never forget Robbie, though. The way he used to nibble my lips. He will always be Nip Libbler Extraordinaire.

Oh no, hang on. The Sex God used to snog my ears. It was Dave the Laugh who enticed me into the ways of nip libbling. Which reminds me. I wonder why he hasn’t phoned me? Did I remember to tell him that I was thinking about letting him be my unserious boyfriend?

I should punish him, really. It was, after all, he who introduced me to the Cosmic Horn when I was happy just having the Particular Horn for the Sex God.

Phoned Rosie.

“RoRo.”

“Bonsoir.”

“I am having the cosmic droop.”

“Well, fear not, my pally, because I have le plan de la genius.”

“What is it, and does it involve the police?”

Rosie laughed in a not-very-reassuring way if you like the sound of sane laughter. She said, “I’m having a party for Sven’s return from Swedenland next Saturday.”

“What kind of party is it going to be?”

“Teenage werewolf.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Good grief.”

“Bless you.”

“Rosie, what has Sven been doing while he’s been away working for Santa Claus on a reindeer farm?”

“He hasn’t been to Lapland.”

“How can you be sure? Geoggers is not your best subject, is it?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m right, but it isn’t yours either, Gee. You missed out the whole of Germany on your world map.”

“Easily done.”

“Not when you’re copying from the atlas. Anyway, I must go. I have a costume to make. See you at Stalag 14 on Monday.”

Sometimes I amaze myself with my courageosity. Even though I have been through the mangle of love and beyond, I can still be bothered to cleanse and tone.

But the effort of a high-quality beauty regime has made me exhausted. I am going to go to my room and read my book on my inner dolphin or whatever it’s called. Anyway it is to do with peace and so on. I may even make a little shrine to Robbie to celebrate our undying love. Even though he hasn’t bothered to write to me since he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land.

Hmm. I have covered all the cosmic options with my shrine: I’ve put a photo of Robbie in the middle of some shiny paper, it has a figure of Buddha on one side of the beloved Sex God, and one of Jesus and a little dish for offerings on the other. Also, when I was accidentally going through Mum’s knicker drawer, I found some incense stuff. I don’t like to think what she and Vati do with it: some horrific snogging ritual they learned in Katmandu or something.