On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God Page 3

  5:00 p.m.

  She didn’t ring back. Typical.

  in my room

  in bed

  8:00 p.m.

  Mum and Libby came back in. When they popped their heads round my door I pretended to be asleep. Libby crept over quietly—well, her idea of creeping quietly, which is the loudest thing I have ever heard. Mum whispered, “Give your big sister a kiss, Libbs, because she’s upset.”

  Then I felt this wet thing sucking on the end of my nose. I shot up in bed. I said, “Does anyone else’s sister kiss like that? Why is she so obsessed with my nose?”

  11:15 p.m.

  After the nose-sucking incident I am as awake as two awake things. Just gazing out of my bedroom window into the dark night. When you gaze at the stars it makes you feel really small. We have been discussing infinity in physics: you know, how there is no end to the universe, and so on. Herr Kamyer said there might even be a parallel universe to the one we live on somewhere out there. There might be another Georgia Nicolson sitting in her bedroom, thinking, What on earth is the point?

  11:17 p.m.

  Another Georgia Nicolson who is being forced to leave a Sex God and all her mates (and this does not include Jas). To go to the other side of the world. Double merde.

  12:19 a.m.

  I’ve just had a horrible thought. If there is a parallel me, there will be a parallel Wet Lindsay. And a parallel Nauseating P. Green. And two pairs of Mr. Next Door’s shorts. Good grief.

  thursday july 20th

  day before the last day of my life

  hunger protest

  2:00 p.m.

  Even though it is quite obvious even to the very dim that I am not eating, Mum hasn’t noticed. She said, “Do you want some oven chips and beans?”

  And I said, “I will never eat again.”

  She just said, “OK,” and tucked in with Libbs.

  I had to creep into the kitchen later and finish off the chips she had left.

  4:00 p.m.

  In my room. Practicing feeling lonely and friendless in preparation for the months ahead.

  4:05 p.m.

  I haven’t heard from my so-called mates for days. Well, since this morning, anyway. I don’t need to practice. I AM lonely and friendless.

  4:10 p.m.

  I went into the front room to watch TV. Libby was snoozing but woke up when I sat down. She stood up on her little fat legs and put her arms up to me.

  “I love my Georgie, I lobe my Georgie.”

  She made it into a little song:

  “Haha, I lobe my Georgie,

  I love my little Girgie,

  Gingie, Gingie,

  Hahahaha. Ginger, I love Ginger . . . my Ginger.”

  In her tiny mad brain I am half cat, half sister. I picked her up and we snuggled down on the sofa together. At least I have someone who loves me in this family, even if she is bonkers.

  Mum came in and said, “You look really sweet together. It only seems a little while ago that you were that size, Georgie. Dad and I used to take you to the park and you used to have a little hat with earflaps that were like cats’ paws. You were such a sweet little girl.”

  Oh Good Lord, here we go. It will be, “How did my little girl get so big . . . ?”

  Sure enough, Mum’s eyes got all watery and she started stroking my hair (very annoying) and doing the “How did my little Georgie get so . . .” routine.

  Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on where you were sitting) Libby let off the smelliest, loudest fart known to humanity. It came out of her bum-oley with such force that she lifted off my knee. Like a hovercraft. Even she looked surprised by what had come out of her. I pushed her off my knee and leaped up.

  “Libby, that is disgusting!!!! I blame you, Mum, for feeding her beans extravaganza. It’s not natural, the amount of stuff that comes out of such a little girl.”

  Grandad farted once when we were out in the street. Really loudly. When he looked around behind him there was a woman walking her dachshund dog. You know, those little sausage dog things. The woman heard Grandad’s fart (who didn’t?) and she said, “Well, really!!”

  And Grandad said, “I’m terribly sorry, madam, I seem to have shot the legs off your dog.” Which was possibly the last semisane thing he said. I’d still rather stay here with him than go to Kiwi-a-gogo.

  6:00 p.m.

  I said to Mum, “Well, can I go and live with Grandad, then?”

  And she said, “He lives in an old people’s home.”

  And I said, “So?”

  But she is so unreasonable she wouldn’t even discuss it.

  11:30 p.m.

  All my mates came and did a candlelit vigil underneath my bedroom window. Sven wore a paper hat. I don’t know why. Does it matter? It was just his Swedish way of saying good-bye. They all sang “Mon Merle A Perdu Une Plume” as a tribute. Well, they sang the first verse before Mr. and Mrs. Next Door came and complained that they were frightening their dogs. Jas said, “I’m going to stay silently here all night.”

  But then Sven said, “Chips, now.” And they all went off.

  It was so sad.

  friday july 21st

  the day the world ends

  12:00 p.m.

  Decided to have to be dragged out of bed by the police so that the world will know how I have been treated. I have tied myself to the bedhead with my dressing-gown sleeves. I can imagine the newspaper headlines: Promising hockey superstar teenager fights attempts to force her to Kiwi-a-gogo land. I’ve put on a hint of makeup just in case, for the photos.

  12:10 p.m.

  Mum surprised me by bursting into my room all flushed like a pancake.

  “Guess what?!!!! We’re not going to New Zealand because your dad is coming home!!!!!”

  I said, “What?”

  She was hugging me and didn’t seem to notice I was like a rigid hamster in bed, being tied to the bedhead.

  I was a bit dazed. “Vati, home, coming?”

  1:00 p.m.

  Great news!!!!!!!! My dad has had his shoes blown off by a rogue bore!!!!!

  All this hot steam shot out of something he was fixing and he leaped off and broke his foot. Mum has put her foot down with a firm hand and said she will not take her children to a place where steam shoots out of the ground.

  She said to me, “It’s hard enough getting you to get out of bed as it is; I’m not giving you more excuses.” Which is incredibly unfair, but I didn’t say anything, because inside I was saying “Yessssss!!!!!!”

  The only fly in the manger is that Vati is going to be coming home when his contract is finished. Still, if it is a choice of going to live in Kiwi-a-gogo land or having to put up with Vati snooping around my bedroom and telling me what it was like in the Seventies, I suppose I will choose having the grumpy mustachioed one at home.

  Mum is hideously happy. She won’t stop hugging me. Which I think is on the hypocritical side but I didn’t say anything. I just hugged her back and asked her quickly for a fiver. Which she gave me. Yesss!!!!

  Beautiful English summer’s day. Lovely lovely drizzly rain!!! We don’t have to go to Kiwi-a-gogo!!!

  Thank you, God. I will always believe in you. I was only pretending to become a Buddhist.

  3:00 p.m.

  I put on some really loud music in my room and started to unpack my bikini. Lalalalala . . . fabbity fab fab. Marvy and double cool with knobs.

  Uncle Eddie turned up with a bottle of champagne and Angus in a basket. I noticed Uncle Eddie had put a muzzle on him. What a weed. Angus soon had it off and I could see him strolling around his domain. (The dustbins.) When I went downstairs Uncle Eddie had picked up Libby and was dancing around with her. She was singing, “Uncle Eggy, Uncle Eggy,” which is quite funny when you think about it.

  4:20 p.m.

  My little room. I love you, my little room!! Lalalalalalala. Fabbity fab fab. Ho-di-hum. Everything is so lovely: my little Reeves and Mortimer poster with them in the nuddy-pants, my little desk, my li
ttle bed . . . my little window overlooking next door’s garden.

  5:00 p.m.

  Phoned the ace gang and they went mental. We arranged to meet tomorrow. Just put the phone down when there was a ring on the doorbell. It was Mr. Next Door, His glasses were on all sideways. He did not say, “I am so glad you are not going, Georgia.” In fact, he didn’t say anything but just handed over a sweeping brush and stomped off.

  Attached to the bottom part of the brush was Angus. He dragged the brush into the kitchen. There was the sound of pots and pans and chairs crashing over. I called out, “Libbs, Angus is back.”

  Before I went up to bed I looked into the kitchen. Libbs was feeding Angus cat food by hand. Aaahhh, this was more like it!! Back to normal.

  saturday july 22nd

  11:00 a.m.

  Summer. Birds tweeting, voles voleing. Poodles poodling. I notice that we have new neighbors across the road. I hope they are a bit more considerate than Mr. and Mrs. Mad who used to live there.

  Oh, they’ve got a cat! It looks like one of those pedigree Burmese ones, all leaping around. In a sort of fenced enclosure. They are very expensive, pedigree Burmese cats. They are the Naomi Campbells of the cat world. Not that they do a lot of modeling. Too furry. And not tall enough. Although they would be really good on the catwalk!!! Hahahahaha. Lalalalala. I think I am a comedy genius. Now if only the SG would phone and say, “I’m coming round now, oh gorgeous one. I didn’t realize how close I came to losing you. I am mesmerized by your beautosity.”

  midday

  Met Jas and we went to the park. I’ve got a spot on my chin but I’ve made it look like a beauty spot with an eyebrow pencil. With my shades on I look a bit like an Italian person. I think Jas was embarrassed about me not going to NZ after what she said. I am too considerate to mention it so I just said, “Do you really love me, Jas?”

  She went all red.

  As we strolled by the tennis courts we saw Melanie Andrews sunbathing. I may have mentioned this before but she has got the largest breasts known to humanity. Some lads went by and went “Phwooar!” One of them pretended to be juggling. Sometimes I feel that boys will always remain a mystery to me. I’ve felt that particularly since Mark from up the road rested his hand on my basooma for no particular reason. Mel saw us looking so I said, “Oh, hi, Mel!” sincerely.

  She said, “Hi!” but I don’t think she meant it.

  I said to Jas, “Where does she get her bras from? They must be made by those blokes who built the Forth Bridge. Ted and Mick Forth.” I just made that up; I don’t know what they were called.

  We lay down on the grass to sunbathe and Jas said, “Do you think I should get a bra?”

  I was thinking what I should wear when I saw Robbie again. I said, “Robbie hasn’t phoned yet, you know.”

  Jas was silent. I squinted round at her and she was sort of wobbling her shoulders around. I said, “What in the name of pantyhose are you doing?”

  She said, “I’m seeing if my basoomas wobble.”

  Jas can be spectacularly dim. I think that if I dressed Angus in her school uniform probably no one would notice for days. Unless they tried to take a snack away.

  I said, “Do the pencil test. You put a pencil under a breast and if it falls out you are OK. If it stays there, sort of trapped by your basooma, you’re not and you should get help and support in the bra department.”

  She was full-on, attentionwise, then. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Sadly my mum can get a whole pencil case up there.”

  Jas was rummaging about. “I’ve got a pencil in my rucky; I’m going to try it.”

  “Jas, Tom hasn’t said anything about Robbie, has he?”

  As per usual Jas had gone off into the twilight world in her head. She was fiddling about with a pencil up her T-shirt. She said, “Hahahahaha, it fell out!!! I passed, I passed . . . you try it.”

  I wasn’t interested. “Why would SG snog me and say ‘see you later’ if he didn’t mean ‘see you later’? Do you think he’s worried about me being younger than him? Or do you think it’s my nose?”

  You might as well be talking to a duck. Jas was shoving the pencil at me. “Go on, go on . . . you’re scared.”

  “No I’m not. I’m not frightened of a pencil.”

  “Try it, then.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake.”

  I grabbed the pencil from her and pulled my top out and put the pencil underneath my right basooma. Actually it stuck there, but I jiggled a bit. I said, “Yeah, it falls out.”

  Jas said, “You jiggled.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. I saw you.”

  “I didn’t. You’re a mad biscuit.”

  “You did. Look, let me do it; I’ll show you.”

  She grabbed the pencil and was trying to put it under my basooma when Jackie and Alison, the Bummer Twins, came round the corner of the tennis courts. Jackie removed the fag from her mouth long enough to say, “Well, well, well, our lezzo friends are out for an afternoon fondle.”

  Oh no, here we go again with the lesbian rumors. That will be something to look forward to next term.

  monday july 24th

  2:00 p.m.

  Phew, what a scorcher!!! Sun shining, birds tweeting. Mr. and Mrs. Next Door in their garden. They are wearing shorts. Mr. Next Door’s shorts really are gigantic in the bottom department. You’d think that out of courtesy to others he’d keep out of public view when he was wearing them. What if a very, very old person—even older than him—came along unexpectedly? And what if they weren’t in peak medical condition? The sight of Mr. Next Door in his shorts could bring on a dangerous spasm. Still, that is another example of the bottomless (oo-er!) selfishosity of so-called grownups for you.

  teatime

  4:50 p.m.

  Fabulous day . . . not. Grandad came round. Even he was wearing shorts. As 1 said to Mum, “There is really no need for that.”

  He is so bowlegged that Angus can walk in between his legs with a stick and Grandad doesn’t even notice. Mind you he doesn’t notice much as he lives in the twilight world of the elderly mad. After fiddling in his prehistoric shorts he gave me twenty pence and said, “There you are. Don’t spend it all at once.” Then he laughed so much his false teeth shot out. He was wheezing away for so long I thought he’d choke to death and then I’d have to do the Heimlich maneuver. Miss Stamp (Sports Kommandant) made us learn it in First Aid. If someone swallows a boiled sweet or something and chokes, you grab them from behind and put your arms round below their breastbone. Then you squeeze them really hard until the sweet shoots out. Apparently some German bloke called Mr. Heimlich made it up. Why Germans have to go round grabbing people innocently choking on sweets I don’t know. But they do. That is the mystery of the German people.

  8:00 p.m.

  Well, that is it. No call from the SG, He must be back. I can’t call him because I have pride. Well actually, I did phone him but there was no reply. I didn’t leave a message. I don’t understand boys. How could you do number six-type snogging and then not call someone?

  8:10 p.m.

  Buddhism is the only way. I didn’t try hard enough. I must meditate and be calm.

  my room

  8:20 p.m.

  I found one of Mum’s kaftans that she got when she went to India on the hippie trail. She has some very sad photos of her and Dad with hilarious haircuts in Katmandu. Dad looks like he has got a big nappy on. She gets the photos out when she is drunk, especially if you beg her not to.

  I put the kaftan on and was listening to some dolphins on a meditation tape. It was called Peaceful Universe. Squeak, squeak, squeak. On and on—it would go quiet for a bit and then squeak, squeak, squeak. If dolphins are so intelligent why don’t they learn to speak properly instead of squeaking? I would turn it off but I am too depressed to get off the bed.

  8:40 p.m.

  Phone rings. Of course, everyone else is far too busy to answer it. So I’ll tramp all the way downstairs a
nd get it.

  I yelled out, “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll come all the way down and answer the phone which is probably for you. You try and get some rest!”

  Mum shouted from the living room, “OK, thanks.”

  I picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  It was Robbie!!! Yes and treble fabuloso!! He’s got such a lovely voice; quite deep—not quite as deep as Grandad’s, but then he doesn’t smoke forty cigarettes a minute. He said he’d been away.

  I was thinking, I know you have, you great huge sexy hunk!!! My lips are stiff with puckering!!! But I didn’t say that, I said, “Oh, have you?” which I thought was quite cool and alluring. Anyway, the short and short of it is that he’s really really glad that I didn’t go to Kiwi-a-gogo and I’m going round to his place tomorrow!!! His parents have gone away.

  Ooooooohhhhhh. I’m all shaky and nervous now. I’m like a cat on a hot tin roof. We did Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in English. There was no cat in it . . . or a tin roof . . . or. . . stop it, brain, stop it!!!!

  8:45 p.m.

  Phoned Jas.

  “He called me!!”

  “Who?”

  It’s like talking to a sock. “Jas, HE called me. HE—the one and only HE in the universe.”

  9:00 p.m.

  Jas came round to discuss what I should wear. We went up to my room. Unfortunately I forgot to warn Jas about the hammock that Libby had made for her dolls. She’d made it out of one of Mum’s commodious bras and tied it across the landing. Jas grazed her shins quite badly when she fell over. She was going, “Ow, ow!” but I can’t be bothered with minor injuries just now.

  She hobbled into my room and we looked through my wardrobe. I held things up and Jas went, “No. No. Maybe. No, too tarty. No, no . . . er. . . maybe.”

  I was trying on a suede mini and she said, “Erlack!! The front of your legs are quite hairy but the backs of your legs are all baldy.”