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

I looked at her. “Mum, are you saying that Masimo is a leaping furry animal who also plays in a band and rides a scooter? And snogs?”

She said, “He snogs, does he?”

Damn, drat, damnity dratty damn. And also merde . I had broken my rule about never speaking about snognosity questions with old mad people.

I said quickly, “Anyway, what do you mean about the gazelle business?”

“Well, I think that boys are more nervous than you think. He wants to make sure that you like him before he makes a big deal about it. How many days is it since he went?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been counting the days actually, I’m not that sad.”

She looked at me. “How many hours then?”

“One hundred and forty.”

We were interrupted by Gordy and Angus both trying to get through the cat flap at once. Quickly followed by Libby.

I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs because he hasn’t taken the rubbish out. And never does. On and on.

I will never behave like this when I am married. Mind you, I will not be marrying a loon in tight trousers who thinks Rolf Harris is a really good artist.

Who will I be marrying at this rate? I haven’t been out of my room for years and the phone hasn’t rung since it was invented.

Why is no one phoning me? Not even the Ace Gang. I’ve been home for hours and hours. Don’t they care?

The trouble with today is that everyone is so obsessed with themselves. They just have no time for me.

At last, a bit of peace to contemplate my broken bum. Oh no, here they go again. They are so childish. Mum shouted out, “Bob, you know that sort of wooden thing in the bedroom, in the corner? Well, it’s called a set of drawers and some people, people who are grown up and no longer have their mummy wiping their botties, well those sort of people put their clothes in the drawers. So that other people don’t have to spend their precious time falling over knickers and so on.”

Uh-oh. Fight, fight!!

Then I could hear him shambling into their bedroom and singing, “One little sock in the drawer, two socks in the drawer and two pairs of attractive undercrackers on the head then into the drawer, yesssss!!”

How amazing. I shouted down, “Mum, is Dad on some kind of medication? Or have his trousers cut off the circulation to his head?”

That did it. Vati hit number seven on the losing it scale (complete ditherspaz). He yelled up, “Georgia… this isn’t anything to do with you!”

I said, “Oh, that’s nice. I thought we were supposed to be a lovely family and do stuff together.”

He just said, “Anyway, where is your sister? Is she up there with you?”

Why am I Libby’s so-called nanny? Haven’t I got enough trouble with my own life? I am not my sister’s keeper, as Baby Jesus said. Or was it Robin Hood? I don’t know. Some bloke in a skirt anyway.

I said, “No. Have you tried the airing cupboard or the cat basket?”

Things have got worse. While Mum went hunting for Bibbsy, Dad unfortunately decided to check the phone messages. He heard Mum’s mate’s message. I could hear him tutting. And then it was Josh’s mum’s message.

He had the nervy spaz of all nervy spazzes, shouting and carrying on. “What is it with this family??? Why did Libby have a bread knife in her bedroom? Probably because you are too busy pratting around with your so-called mates to bother looking after your children!”

That did it for Mum. She shouted back, “How dare you! They’re MY children, are they? If you took some notice of them, that would be a miracle. You care more about that ridiculous bloody three-wheeled clown car.”

Mum had called his car a clown car. Tee-hee.

Dad had really lost it. “That car is an antique.”

I shouted, “It’s not the only one.”

Mum laughed, but Dad said, “Right, that’s it, I’m off. Don’t wait up.”

Mum shouted, “Don’t worry, I won’t.” The door slammed and there was silence.

Then there was the sound of the clown car being driven off at high speed (two miles an hour) down the driveway.

And silence again as it whirred away into the distance.

Then a little voice said, “Mummy, my bottom is stuck in the bucket.”

Dear God, what a nightmare. This has taken my mind off the oven of luuurve situation.

Libby has wedged herself into the outdoor metal bucket. We pulled her and wiggled her about but we can’t get it off.

Mum said, “Go and get me some butter from the fridge. We can smear it on her and sort of slide her out.”

Of course, we didn’t have any butter; we had about a teaspoon of cottage cheese but Mum said it wasn’t the same.

In the end Mum made me go across the road and ask Mr Across the Road if we could borrow some butter. She said I could lie better.

Mr Across the Road was wearing a short nightshirt and I kept not looking anywhere below his chin. He was all nosey about the late-night butter scenario though.

“Doing a bit of baking, are you?”

I said, “Er… yes.”

“It’s a bit late to start, isn’t it?”

I said, “Er, well, it’s emergency baking. It has to be done by tomorrow.”

He said, “Oh, what are you making?”

How the hell did I know? I was lying. And also the only kind of confectionery I knew were the cakes I had got from the bakery of love. The Robbie éclair, the Masimo cream horn and then I remembered the Dave the Tart scenario and quickly said, “Erm, we’re making tarts. For the deaf. It’s for charity.”

He said, “Tarts for the deaf? That’s a new one on me. I’ll have to go down to the storeroom for some packets.” And he ambled off.

And that is when Junior Blunder Boy and full-time twit came in. Oscar.

He looked at me and said, “Yo, wa’appen, bitch?”

What was he talking about and also what was he wearing? He had massive jeans on about fifty sizes too big for him. He had to sort of waddle about like a useless duck to keep them from falling down. And pull them up every five seconds. How spectacularly naff and sad he was. I just looked at him as he waddled over to the kitchen counter. He reached up to get a can of Coca-Cola from a shelf and momentarily forgot about his elephant jeans. They fell to his ankles. Leaving him standing there in his Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers.

I said to him, “Oscar, you are wearing Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers. I know this because, believe it or not, your trousers have fallen off.”

He said, “Yes man, me mean to do that. Be cool, it is righteous.” And he shuffled off, still with the trousers round his ankles.

I will never, ever tire of the sheer bonkerosity of boydom.

It took us nearly half an hour to get Mr Bucket off Libby. We greased as much of her bottom as we could reach, like a little suckling pig. Eventually we cut through the top of her panties and managed to make a bit of leeway and free the bum-oley.

For some toddlers, being greased up and pulled by brute force out of a metal bucket might have been a traumatic experience. But then not all toddlers are insane. Libby laughed and sang through the whole episode, amusing herself by gobbling stray bits of butter and smearing other bits on my head. Oh, how I joined in the merry times. Not.