Louise Rennison - ‘Stop in the name of pants!’

A Note from Georgia

Dear chums, chumettes and, er… chummly wummlies,

I write to you from my bed of pain. Once again I have exhausted myself with creativitosity writing ‘Stop in the Name of Pants!’ I am having to lie down with a cup of tea and a Curly Wurly. But that is how vair vair much I care about you all, my little pallies. I am a fool to myself, I know.

I ask only one thing in return and that is this. All of you must dance the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza in classrooms and recreation facilities throughout the world. It doesn't matter if there are only two or three of you, just stand up proudly, get your horns and paddles out (oo-er) and dance!!!

Loads and loads of deep luuurve,

Georgia

xxx

p.s. Some of you don't know what the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza is, do you?

p.p.s. Please don't tell me you didn't know that Vikings had discos.

p.p.p.s. Or that they shouted “Hooooorrrn!!!”

p.p.p.p.s. For those of you who haven't bothered to keep up with my diaries because you are just TOO BUSY, I have put instructions for the dance at the back near the glossary.

p.p.p.p.p.s. What have you been TOO BUSY doing?

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I suppose you have been TOO BUSY to even know what the having-the-hump scale is as well.

p (x7). s. So I have included that at the back too. My so-called friend Jas (who has the hump pretty much all of the time) would be at number four with you by now (cold-shoulderosity work).

p (x8). s. I really luuurve you and do not mind that you are lazy minxes. That is your special charm. Pip pip. x

In my tent of shame.

Again.

The rest of my so-called pals are still out in the woods with the lads and I have crept back to the campsite aloney. I can hear snoring from Miss Wilson’s tent and also Herr Kamyer’s. I bet there will be a deputation of voles coming along shortly to complain that they can’t get any sleep because of the racket.

I’m going to forget about everything and just go to sleep in my lovely sleeping bag. On the lovely soft ground. Not. It’s like sleeping on an ironing board. And I do know what that is like actually.

I said coming on this school camping trip would be a fiasco of a sham and I was not wrong.

I was right.

I wonder what the others are doing?

Anyway, the main thing is that I am now, officially, the girlfriend of a Luuurve God. And therefore I have put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand. I will never again be found wandering lonely as a clud into the cakeshop of luuurve. Or picking up some other éclair or tart or fondant fancy. Ditto Eccles cakes and Spotty dick or… shut up, brain.

So, speaking as the official girlfriend of a Luuurve God who has put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand and who will never be wandering around looking for extra cakes, can someone tell me this…

How in the name of God’s pantyhose have I ended up snogging Dave the Laugh?

Also known as Dave the Tart.

Oh goddy god god. And let us face facts. It wasn’t just a matey type snog. You know, not a – “It’s all right, mate, I’m just a mate accidentally snogging another mate” – sort of snog.

It was, frankly and to get to the point and not beat around the whatsit, a “phwoooaar” snogging situation.

In fact, it was deffo number four and about to be number five.

Anyway, shut up, brain, I must think. Now is not the time for a rambling trip to Ramble Land. Now is the time to put my foot down with a firm hand and stop snogging my not-boyfriend Dave the Laugh.

I mean, I am practically married to Masimo the Luuurve God.

Well, give or take him actually asking me to marry him.

And the fact that he has gone off to Pizza-a-gogo land on holiday and left me here in Merrie but dangerous England to fend for myself. Being made to go on stupid school camping trips with madmen (Miss Wilson and Herr Kamyer).

He has left me here, wandering around defenceless in the wilderness near Ramsgate, miles away from the nearest TopShop.