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

Oh, what larks! We are doing Macbeth as our set play. Although Miss Wilson says we are not allowed to say its name: we have to call it “The Scottish Play”, because it’s bad luck to say its name. As I said to Rosie and Jools, “Hurrah! A play about blokes in tights talking in Och Aye language for a thousand years.”

We’ve all been dished out parts and, tragically, Jas is going to be Lady MacScottishplay. Rosie, Jools and Ellen are the three witches and I am some complete twit in tights called Macduff. Nauseating P. Green is my wife, Lady Macduff. She is thrilled and keeps mooning over at me.

I don’t see how I am supposed to be a bloke, because they are – as we all know – a complete mystery.

On the way home Jas was looking at her hand and going, “Out damn spot.”

I said, “It’s not the spot on your hand you have to worry about, Jas, it’s the huge lurker lurking on your chin.”

That shut her up and got her feeling about.

Actually, she hasn’t got a lurker on her chin, but if she goes on fingering it long enough she will have.

Oh brilliant, Angus has gone into my wardrobe and found some of my knickers to attack. He was ambling out of my room with his head through one of the legs like some sort of Arab sheikh. I kicked at him but he dodged out of the way. He was purring really loudly; he loves it when you get rough with him. He is a good example of the benefits of rough love. I should really give him a good kicking every day.

Oh yum yum and quelle surprise, we are having les delicieuses fish fingers and frozen peas for our tea! I am sure that I am developing rickets: my legs look distinctly bendy. Vati came in in a hilariously good mood. He kissed me on the head even though I tried to dodge him. I said, “Father, I need my own space and frankly you are in it.”

He just laughed and said, “I’ve just seen Colin and he and Sandy are having a Lord of the Rings party and we’re all invited.”

Mutti said, “What a hoot.”

I said with great meaningosity, “Vati, I will never – and I repeat, never – be wearing an elf’s outfit in this lifetime, and for the sake of any sensitive people on the planet – that is, me – I beg you not to consider green tights.”

He just smiled and said, “I know you are secretly very thrilled, Georgia.”

He and Mutti laughed. And Libby joined in with a very alarming sort of laughing. Like a mad Santa Claus and pig combined. “Hohohogoggyhoggyhog.”

I don’t know what they teach her at nursery school, but it’s not how to be normal.

I wonder what time it is in Kiwi-a-gogo land? They are twenty-four hours ahead of us and it’s Monday here, so it must be Tuesday there.

Does that mean that SG knows what I will be wearing for the teenage werewolf party before I do?

Not that I will be going.

Will I?

I will be the last to know as usual.

Oh Baby Jesus and your cohorts, please make something really great happen. Otherwise I am going to bed. But I will wait for half an hour because I trust in your ultimate goodnosity.

It’s not much to ask, is it? But oh no, Baby Jesus is just too busy to make anything interesting happen. Maybe he is holding the pensioner inferno against me.

Sitting in the loo of life contemplating my navel.

My navel sticks out a bit. Is it supposed to do that? I hope it’s not unravelling. That would be the final straw.

Vati keeps books in the loo. How disgusting is that? Pooing and reading. What is he reading? It’s called Live and Let Die. How true.

No one has bothered to ring me. I wonder why Dave the Laugh hasn’t phoned me? I could phone him, but that would mean he might think I am keen on him.

Which I am not.

Vati’s book is about James Bond, who is a sort of specialagent-type thing. Vati probably thinks he is like James Bond. Which he would be, if James Bond was a porky bloke with a badger attachment.

I am in the prime of my womanhood, nunga-nungas poised and trembling (attractively). Lips puckered up and in peak condition for a snogging fest.

And I am in bed.

At nine p.m.

Not alone for long, because my sister is now in bed with me. She has got her bedtime book for me to read to her. Heidi. About some girl who goes up a mountain in Swisscheeseland to live with some elderly mad bloke in lederhosen, who sadly for her is her grandfather.

I know how she feels. At least my grandad doesn’t wear leather shorts. Yet.

So far Heidi and Old Mr Mad of the Mountains have herded up goats and eaten a lot of cheese. A LOT. They are constantly eating cheese.

Even Libby was so bored by the cheese extravaganza that she nodded off to sleep, so I slipped downstairs to phone Jas. I did it quietly because there will only be the usual tutting explosion from Vati about me using the phone if he hears me.

I whispered, “Jas?”

Oh, it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve got my jimmyjams on and I was reading my book about the wilderness course that Tom and I are going to go on.”

“Oh I am sooooooo sorry, Jas, soooo sorry to interrupt your twig work just because I am all on my own without the comfort of human company and my life is ebbing away.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

“Jas, are you still there?”

Her voice sounded a bit distant. “Yes.”

I said, “What is that cracking noise?”

“Er…”

“You are actually playing with twigs, aren’t you?”

“Well… I…”

How pathetico.

She said all swottily, “Look, I have to go. I’ve got my German homework to do.”

“Don’t bother learning their language, they are obsessed with goats.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lederhosen-a-gogo-land people are obsessed with goats… and cheese.”

“Who says so?”

“It’s in a book I am reading about them.”

“What book?”

“It’s called Heidi. It is utterly crap.”

“Heidi?”

“Jah.”

Mrs Picky Knickers sounded all swotty and know-it-all. “Heidi is a children’s book about a girl who lives in the Alps in Switzerland.”

“Yes, and your point is?”

“That’s not Germany.”

“It’s very near.”

“You might as well say that Italy and France are the same because they are very near.”

“I do say that.”

“Or Italy and Greece.”

“I say that as well.”

“You talk rubbish.”

“Yeah but I don’t play with twigs like a… like a fringey thrush.”

She slammed the phone down on me.

Well. She is so annoying.

But on the other hand, no one else is around to talk to.

Phoned her back.

“Jas, I’m sorry, you always hurt the one you love.”

“Don’t start the love thing.”

“OK, but night-night.”

“Night.”

Oh, I am so restless and bored. I think my mouth may be sealing over because of lack of snogging. Or shrinking. I wonder if that can happen? They say “Use It or Lose It” on all those really scary posters in the doctor’s surgery, mainly for very very old people who are too lazy to walk about, and then their legs shrink, possibly. But it may be the same for lips.