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

And I say that with all reverencosity.

Anyway, surely He is looking at the starving millions, not sneaking around in my bedroom.

Is He watching me now? Erlack.

Quiet, apart from Mr and Mrs Across the Road’s house. As I passed by, there was loads of shouting and yowling. I hope Mr Across the Road is not ill-treating Angus’s children. He looks like a kittykat abuser to me. And he has a very volatile temperament. The least thing sets him off. He’s like my vati. He appeared shouting and yelling at his kitchen door as I went by to God’s house. At first I thought he was wearing a fur coat and hat until I realised the coat and hat were moving. He was completely covered in Angus’s offspring.

Naomi as usual is not taking a blind bit of notice. She is a bit of a slutty mother: mostly she just lolls around in the kitchen window enticing Angus with her bottom antics.

Last week the kittykats, who are ADORABLE, if a bit on the bonkers side, burrowed their way under the fence and were larking around in Mr and Mrs Next Door’s ornamental pond.

I said to Mutti, “I didn’t know the Next Doors had flying fish in their pond.”

And she said, “They haven’t.”

The flying fish turned out to be goldfish that the kittykats were biffing about in the air. When the mad old next-door loons noticed and came raging out of the house, the kittykats cleared off back under the fence. I don’t know what the fuss is about: they got the boring old goldfish back into the pond. Even the one caught in the hedge. Anyway, as punishment, the kitties were caged up in the rabbit run. Not for long it seems.

Mr Across the Road was trying to get the kittykats off him, but they had dug their claws in. They are sooo clever.

He shouted at me, “They’re going, you know. They are going.”

Rave on, rave on. I bet he loves them really.

Call-me-Arnold was alarmingly glad to see me. He kept calling me his child. Which I am clearly not. My vati is an embarrassment in the extreme, but he is not an albino. Call-me-Arnold is so blondy that his head is practically transparent

I really gave up the will to carry on when Call-me-Arnold got his guitar out to sing some incredibly crap song about the seasons. Why can’t we just sing something depressing like we do at school and get on with it? I even had to shake hands with people. But I must remember this is God’s house and also that I am asking for a cosmic favour.

At the end, after most people had filed out, I noticed that some people were going to a side chapel and lighting a candle and then praying.

That must be the cosmic request shop. Fab! I would go light a candle and plead for mine and Robbie’s love.

I went up and got my candle and lit it, ready for action, but an elderly lady was kneeling right in front of the display thing. I could hear her mumbling. She had a headscarf on. On and on she went, mumble mumble. Bit greedy, really. She must have had a whole list of stuff to ask for.

Ho hum, pig’s bum.

I knelt down behind her because I was feeling a bit exhausted. I had, after all, been up since the crack of dawn. (Well, eight fifteen.)

I was holding my candle and thinking and thinking about the Sex God and our love that knew no bounds and stretched across the Pacific Ocean. Or was it the Australian Bite? Anyway, our love was stretching across some big watery thing.

I think I might actually have nodded off for a little zizz, because I came round to see a small inferno ablaze in front of me. Oh hell’s teeth, I had accidentally set fire to an elderly pensioner! The end of her headscarf was blazing merrily and she hadn’t even noticed.

I started beating the flames out with my handbag. I was trying to help, but she started hitting me back with her handbag. Before I knew it, I was in a handbag fight.

I did try to point out that long dangly scarves on the very elderly could be considered a health hazard around naked flames. But Call-me-Arnold wasn’t calling me his child any more and he didn’t ask if he would see me next week.

Which he won’t.

I am exhausted by trying to get along with the Lord.

As a mark of my widowosity, I wore dark glasses and a black armband. Also I found a black feather from Mutti’s sad feather boa that she wears if I don’t spot her first. I stuck that in the side of my beret, which I pulled down right over my ears.

I was walking along with Jas and I said, “Even in the depths of my sadnosity I think I have a touch of the Jacqueline Onassis about me.”

She said, “Why? Did she look like a prat as well?”

A quick duffing up showed her the error of her ways.

Oh God, oh Goddy God God, a whole day of Stalag 14.

Our revered and amazingly porky Headmistress Slim rambled on about exams and achievement and said wisely, “Now, in conclusion, girls, I would say, it’s not all about winning, it’s how you play the game.”

What game? What in the name of Ethelred the Unready’s pantyhose is she talking about? As we filed off to the science block, Hawkeye was in a super-duper strop for some reason. She made me remove my armband and she was marching up and down looking at people like a Doberman, only much taller. And not a dog. She alarmed a first former so much that the first former fell into a holly bush and had to be fished out and sent to the nurse to calm down.

I said to Rosie, “I think widowhood has toughened me up. If Hawkeye gets on my case I am going to say to her, ‘Hawkeye, sir, when you have suffered the torments of love like I have, you will not give a flying pig’s bum about your Latin homework. Romulus and Remus could have been brought up by ostriches for all I care.’”

Rosie said, “Yeah right, well, let’s see what happens when she gives you double detention.”

“Do you know what I saw on TV the other night? Ostriches fall in love with human beings. On ostrich farms they go all gooey and even more dim when humans come to feed them. They try to snog them.”

“Ostriches try to snog humans?”

“Yes.”

“Non.”

“Mais oui, mon petit idiot, c’est vrai. It is very very vrai.”

“How can they snog when they have beaks?”

“You are being a bit beakist, Rosie.”

The Ace Gang are going on and on about the teenage werewolf party. Jas said, “Tom and I are going to wear matching false ears!” And then she had an uncontrollable laughing spaz.

I said, “Jas, when was the last time you saw a teenage werewolf with false ears?”

That made her stop snorting like a fool. She was all shuffily on the knicker toaster (radiator). “Well… it’s, well… I mean…”

Rosie – who is in an alarmingly good mood now that Sven is winging his way home on his sleigh – slapped me on the back and said, “What do you get when you cross a mouse with an elephant?”

We all just looked at her and she put her glasses on sideways and said, “Massive holes in the skirting board!”

I feel like a bean in a bikini, tossed around on the sea of life. Set apart from my mates because of heartbreakosity. I love them but how childish they seem, chatting on about false eyebrows. I may never wear extra body hair ever again.

We should be having Hawkeye for English but she is too busy torturing people, so Miss Wilson will be taking most of our lessons this term. She is a tremendous div, so English will be more or less a free period.