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

No sign of any shrinkage on the basooma front.

In Dad’s James Bond book it says, “Bond came and stood close against her. He put a hand over each breast. But still she looked away from him out of the window. ‘Not now,’ she said in a low voice.”

Now I am completely baffled. What in the name of arse does that mean?

A hand over each nunga?

Like a human nunga-nunga holder.

Do boys do that?

No letters from the Sex God.

And I haven’t heard anything from Dave the Laugh either.

Still, what do I care, I am full of glaciosity for him.

I wonder if he will go to the party on Saturday. Not that I am interested, as I will be at home embroidering toilet roll holders or whatever very sad spinsters do.

Oh fabulous, I have a lurking lurker on my cheek. The painters are due in this week and that is probably why I am feeling so moody.

That and the fact that my life is utterly crap.

Still, a really heavy period should cheer me up.

Maybe if I disguise the lurker with some eye pencil it will look like a beauty spot.

Mutti said, “Georgia, why don’t you just hang a sign on your head that says, ‘Have you noticed I’ve got a spot, everybody?’”

I tried to think of something clever to say to her but I am too tired.

I was dragging myself out the door to another day of unnatural torture (school) when the postman arrived. It takes him about a year to get up our driveway because he tries to dodge Angus. Angus loves him. He is his little postie pal. The postie, who is not what you would call blessed in the looks department, was furtively looking around and shuffling about. I said helpfully, “Angus is off on his morning constitutional, so I am afraid you can’t play with him.”

The postie said, “I know what I would like to do with him and it involves a sack and a river. Here you are.”

And he shoved a letter at me. Not ideal behaviour from a servant of the people I don’t think.

Then I noticed it was an aerogram-type letter. For me. From Kiwi-agogo land. From the Sex God.

Oh joy joy joy joyitty joy joy.

And also thrice joy.

I looked at the writing. So Sex-Goddy. And it said “Georgia Nicolson” on it.

That was me.

And on the back it said:

From Robbie Jennings

R.D. 4

Pookaka lane (honestly)

Whakatane

New Zealand

That was him. The Sex God. I started skipping down the street until unfortunately I saw Mark Big Gob and his lardy mates. He doesn’t even bother to look at my face, he just talks to my nungas.

Mark was leery like a leering thing and he said, “Careful, Georgia, you don’t want to knock yourself out with your jugs.” And they all laughed.

Thank goodness I had worn my special sports nunga holder, or my “over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder”, as Rosie calls it. At least my basoomas were nicely encased. Anyway, ha di hahahaha to Mark Big Gob – nothing could upset me today because I was filled with the joyosity of young love.

I did stop skipping though, and walked off with a dignity-at-all-times sort of walk.

But Mark still hadn’t had his day; he shouted after me, “I’ll carry them to school for you if you like!”

He is disgusting. And a midget lover. I don’t know how I could have ever snogged him.

Jas was stamping around outside her house going, “Oh brrrrr, it is so nippy noodles, brr!”

She had a sort of furry bonnet over her beret. I said, “You look like a crap teddy bear.”

She just went on shivering and said, “Do you think we will get let off hockey because of Antarctic conditions?”

“Jas, you live, as I have always said, in the land of the terminally deluded and criminally insane. Nothing gets us off hockey. We are at the mercy of a Storm Trooper and part-time lesbian. Miss Stamp LOVES Antarctic conditions. You can see her moustache bristling with delight when it snows.”

If Jas has to wear a furry bonnet in cold weather, I don’t think much of her chances of survival on her survival-type course.

Still, that is life.

Or in her case, death.

She was still going “Brrr brr,” but I didn’t let it spoil my peachy mood.

“Jas, guess what? Something très très magnifique has happened at last.”

“Brrr.”

“Shut up brrring, Jas.”

I got out my aerogram.

“Look, it’s from SG.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t opened it yet, I am savouring it.”

“It’s not a pie.”

“I know that, Jas. Please don’t annoy me. I don’t want to have to beat you within an inch of your life so early in the day.”

I tucked the aerogram down the front of my shirt for safe keepies as we trudged up the hill to Stalag 14. But I had a song in my heart.

“Jas, I have a song in my heart, and do you know what it is?”

But she just ran off into the cloakroom to sit on the knicker toaster for a few minutes to thaw out.

Still, I did have a song in my heart called “I Have a Letter from a Sex God in my Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder”.

Slim told us exciting news this morning. Elvis Attwood, the most bonkers man in Christendom and part-time caretaker, is retiring. We started cheering but had to change our cheering into a sort of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” thing because Hawkeye was giving us her ferret eye. Slim was rambling on in her jelloid way, chins shaking like billyo.

“So, as a special thank you for all the magnificent work Mr Attwood has put in over the years, we will be having a going-away party for him. We will have music and so on, and perhaps Mr Attwood will show us how to ‘get with it’, as you girls say.”

She laughed like a ninny. Get with it? What in the name of her enormous undergarments is she raving on about? The last time Elvis did any dancing he had to be taken to the casualty department. So every cloud has a silver lining.

I said to the Ace Gang as we trailed out of Assembly to RE, “What started out as a scheissenhausen day has turned out to be a groovy gravy day.”

I am looking forward to RE because while everyone has their little snooze I can read my letter from the beloved.

We all snuggled down at the back. RoRo was knitting something for the teenage werewolf party. I think it might be a full-length beard. Jools was doing her cuticles and Jas was reading her wilderness manual. She loves it because it has lots of photos of girlie swots building incomprehensible things out of twigs. Anyway, time to read my letter. Miss Wilson was beginning to ramble on about “world peace” and asking us for our views. I didn’t want to have to answer anything, I just wanted her to soothingly write stuff on the board or rave on. So I put my hand up. That startled her. I said, “Miss Wilson, I have been very troubled in my mind.”

That started Rosie off in uncontrollable sniggering. Miss Wilson looked at me through her owly glasses. She is the most strangely put together person I have ever come across. Where does she get her clothes from? Did you know that you could get dresses made out of red felt with matching booties for grown-ups? She has clearly been to the circus shop that Slim buys her wrinkly elephant-tights from.