Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me? Read online

  And Jas looked at me like an annoying fringey puppy. Dear God, she’s not joking. She actually does want to be a prefect. It is vair nice of me to even be mates with her under the circs.

  It’s an act of charity really. And when I had mentioned my plan for sophisticosity she had said, “Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  But then she looked at me again. A bit tearful. Oh, bloody hell.

  It had to be done.

  I said, “Oh, OK, yes, it was my idea….”

  Rosie and Jools said, “Well, not really. We all…”

  But I plowed on.

  “Whatever they say, they are my mates and they are covering for me. It was my idea, but it was only a tiddly tiny fiery thing.”

  Mr. Attwood said, “I bet that’s what the baker said about the fire he started that turned into the Great Fire of London.”

  What is he rambling on about? We’re not even in London.

  Anyway, the long and the long of it is that the others have got a ticking off and reprimands and I have got detention…and worst of all…have to “help” Mr. Attwood this term. Again.

  Oh, what larks we’ll have.

  Not.

  detention

  4:00 p.m.

  Jas squeezed my hand as she left for home, and she pressed a secret stash of midget gems into my hand. She said, “You are truly my bezzie mate of all time, Georgia.”

  And she is not wrong. I am without doubtosity top mate of all time.

  4:05 p.m.

  Luckily, I have got Miss Wilson as my prison guard, so I will be able to make best possible use of my time.

  First of all, I am going to plan my Luuurve God re-entrancing plan.

  fifteen minutes later

  The Luuurve God re-entrancing plan.

  “You are never alone with your lippy and mascara.” I am going to make a sort of pouch that fits under my bra and pants so that I have a secret supply at all times. Even if the Luuurve God pops up unexpectedly (oo-er) I can refresh by reaching for my pouch. N.B. Make my pouch out of nice softy soft material so that I can wear it in bed. In case the Luuurve God pops up unexpectedly in the night. (Oo-er.)

  I will exude sophisticosity with just a hint of glaciosity. I think the European Luuurve God likes this sort of thing. He is not, after all, a crude Viking like Sven, who quite frankly wouldn’t recognize glaciosity if it hit him in the face. On the contrary, Sven would think you were playing hard to get because you were a lezzie and that would give him the Horn.

  four minutes later

  Be nice. This means regrettably I will not be disco dancing like a twit anymore. When the Stiff Dylans play, I will waft around like a…wafting thing on waft tablets. I will laugh lightly, but at no time don a false beard.

  False beards are over. I will never wear the beard again.

  Ditto horns.

  And finally…

  I will not do arm wrestling or any kind of wrestling with Dave the Laugh.

  Dave the Laugh is no longer a laugh to me. He is Emma’s boyfriend and my mate.

  Actually, I wonder where he is? I haven’t seen him for yonks. Ah, well. Stop thinking about Dave the Laugh. He is not in this re-entrancing document.

  five minutes later

  Blimey, I have finished my manifesto and it is still not time to go home. Miss Wilson is humming and reading something. It had better not be some humming idea she has for the school play. I am not doing a humming version of Rom and Jul and that is a fact. I am not humming in tights.

  four minutes later

  I know what I will do next. I will make another scale for the ace gang. On how they too can become great mates like I am.

  ten minutes later

  Great Mates Scale

  Offer a mate a midget gem without being asked.

  Share your last Jammy Dodger even though you really want it and your mate may be flicking her fringe about.

  Listen to your mate rambling on about themselves when you have got vair important things to do yourself (e.g., nails, plucking, etc.).

  Be with your mate through thick and thin. Or even if they are both thick and thin. Tee-hee. I made a great mate type joke there. Did you see??? Which leads me to No. 5.

  Always be game for a laugh even though you may be blubbing on the inside.

  Crikey, I am coming out of this scale VAIR well indeed. But as everyone knows, I do not blow my own trumpet. I just blow my own HOOOOORN.

  No, I don’t. And that brings me to my tip-toppy of the toppimost great mate score.

  6. Even when she has all the reason in the universe to be Top Dog (i.e., when she is the girlfriend of a Luuurve God, even if it is slightly on a sale-or-return basis), a top mate does not blow her own trumpet. Or snitch on her less fortunate mates.

  6:00 p.m.

  On my way home at last. Miss Wilson said, “Well, now that’s over, I expect you are excited about our workshop for Romeo and Juliet.”

  Oh no, the humming in tights.

  Miss Wilson was rambling on.

  “I’ve been busy coming up with some original ideas. I think it’s important to keep up with you modern girls. I hope we can make this a…erm…groovy production.”

  Oh dear God.

  I was walking along as fast as I could out of the school gates. She is wearing a knitted hat. It has a bobble on it.

  That is all I am saying. I am not being bobble-ist.

  She turned left out of the gate with me. Please, please let her not be going my way. I had done my detention!!!

  She was still going on. What if she linked arms with me?????

  “I know you girls might think that us teachers are not very, you know…hip.”

  What? She was trying to be my mate! Please don’t let her tell me about her growing feelings for Herr Kamyer. Maybe she’ll call him by his first name. I don’t even know what that is. I don’t want to know. I bet it’s Rudi!!!! Stop being my friend!! I’ve got enough on my plate without having to be friends with knitted people.

  She didn’t hear my inner screaming, though. She said, “Yes, I think you will see that I do listen to your ideas and so on. For instance, when Jas suggested that perhaps Juliet could have a little companion—a sort of puppet dog—I thought ‘Bingo!!’”

  I couldn’t stop myself, even though I had taken a vow of silence until she shut up or I died. I said, “Er, Miss Wilson, do you remember your last ‘Bingo’ idea? Do you remember, you said that juggling would be ‘happening,’ but what actually ‘happened’ was that Melanie toppled over with the weight of her own basoomas and the oranges bounced into the audience.”

  Miss Wilson said, “Well, that’s the excitement of theater, isn’t it? The danger, the risk!”

  “Yes, my grandvati said an orange nearly took his eye out, so…”

  Miss Wilson fortunately saw a bus coming and scampered off to get it. Thank the Lord.

  It really is tragic how keen she is to get on with us. Touching really, if you like that sort of thing. Which I don’t.

  Thank goodness no one I knew saw me walking along talking to a teacher. I may just as well have gone to a leper colony if they had. Or become a policewoman.

  twenty minutes later

  My road at last. Angus was round in Naomi’s garden. He likes to go over to Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road for his evening poo.

  Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road are vair unreasonable about it. They say he always chooses to poo in their rare heathers window box. I explained to them, that is because the soil is nice and softy and he doesn’t have to do any digging. But you can’t tell people.

  When he last came over to complain, Mr. Across the Road said, “How long does his breed of cat live? Is it nearly over?”

  I said with great dignitosity (I like to think), “Angus is half Scottish wildcat and sometimes he hears the call of the wild and longs to poo somewhere that reminds him of home. Hence the heather.”

  Mr. Across the Road stomped off, though. Some people don’t understand the poetry of life. Or even the poo-etry of life. Hahahaha.
I have just made an inward joke.

  one minute later

  When Angus saw me, he did his weird croaky miaow thing. And waved his tail about. His tail is still a bit crooked from his car accident. (The accident being that the car wasn’t the huge mouse on wheels that Angus thought it was.) Otherwise, he is top dog catwise.

  He came bounding over, purring around my legs. Which is nice, but it makes it really difficult to walk without falling over and breaking your neck. Now he has started his pouncey game. He pretends my ankles are his prey and hides behind something until my ankles loom in view. Then he tries to kill them.

  I managed to beat him off with my rucky.

  Then I noticed that Oscar, Junior Blunderboy and all-round idiot, was lurking around on his wall, pretending to talk on his phone to all his mates. A.k.a. the Blunderboys. He was going, “Yeah, check it…for real…awwwrite.”

  Absolute bloody wubbish of the first water.

  I’d be amazed if he can work his phone and keep his trousers up at the same time. I used to prefer him when he just played keepie-uppie for ages. Now he’s taking an interest in me, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

  When he stopped pretending to talk on his phone, he shouted over to me. “Ay, girl! Do you believe in love at first sight…or am I going to have to walk by again?”

  Then he flicked his fingers and said, “For real.”

  Good Lord.

  I didn’t say anything.

  What is there to say?

  Besides “go away a LOT.”

  As I walked in my gate, Naomi came slinking along, waggling her bottom about. She displays no glaciosity or sophisticosity. Things are very different in the cat world. If I was a pussycat, entrancing a Luuurve God, I would merely have to lie on my back and display my girlie parts to him. Or maybe lick my bum-oley area, and not only he but every boy in the area would be following me around like fools.

  Angus and Naomi slunk off together under Dad’s useless clown car. Vati has got a fur driving-wheel cover now. There is absolutely no need for it. Mind you, there is no need for Dad, either.

  I went into my “home” as I laughingly call it. Vati was in his recreational area, a.k.a. lying on the couch getting fatter.

  He lurched into life when I tried to slope up the stairs.

  He said, “Where have you been until now?”

  I said, “Why? Have you been waiting to tell me how much you appreciate me as a daughter and that although you will never be seeing me again once I am twenty-one, you have liked me entertaining you through your twilight years?”

  “No, I bloody well didn’t want to say that and stop being so bloody cheeky. Where have you been?”

  “Erm, I was doing extra hockey.”

  “What, without your boots or kit, which is thrown on the floor of your bedroom or ‘rubbish pit’ as I call it?”

  I said, “Father, why have you been in my room? You know it is verboten. I may write to my MP and…”

  He is sooooo violent. His slipper just missed my ponytail.

  I wandered into the kitchen. Mum, Libby and Gordy were making some cakey thing. Which I will not be eating under any circumstances, including famine. Libby was covered in dough stuff. It was clinging to her raincoat and Wellingtons. She came running over to me, yelling, “It’s bad boy, it’s Gingeeeee! Kissy kiss, Ginger.”

  Oh gadzooks. She started climbing up my legs like a mad monkey in boots.

  Oh good, now I am covered in cake mix, hurrah. Things are really looking up.

  Mum said, “What did you get detention for this time?”

  Why is everyone sooooo suspicious? I am not surprised I get detention all the time because no one will give me a chance. I should show her my Great Mates Scale, but I won’t.

  I grabbed a sausagey thing from the cooker. It may have some nutritional value, you never know.

  I was just going up to my room when Mum said, “Dave popped round earlier. He’s a cool-looking boy, isn’t he? If I was a few years younger, I wouldn’t mind tangling tonsils with him.”

  Oh, how very disgusting.

  I took the sausage/spam thing out of my mouth. I felt besmirched.

  I said, “Mum, what were you wearing when he came round?”

  She looked at me.

  “This. Why?”

  I said, “What—that tiny skirt and even tinier top? I’m surprised he didn’t call the prostitute police.”

  She snapped then.

  “Don’t be so bloody cheeky.”

  Libby joined in then. She stood with her hands on her hips and yelled, “Yes, bloddy chinky.”

  9:00 p.m.

  I wonder what Dave was going to say?

  I wish I’d been in instead of being a great mate. I would have really liked to see him.

  And he’s not bad on the great mates list himself. He talked to the Luuurve God for me.

  Maybe I should phone him. And thank him.

  one minute later

  No, I can’t because of my new re-entrancing a Luuurve God plan.

  I am going to distract myself by making my little pouch.

  9:15 p.m.

  I am wearing my pouch. I am going to sleep in it tonight to make sure it is softy soft enough and so on. If I wake up in the night, I might feel for it (oo-er) and do a practice application.

  9:20 p.m.

  Libby is practicing her snogging skills on Mr. Potato Head. Surely this can’t be right at her age? Shouldn’t she mostly be pretending to be a fairy and playing with elves?

  This is disgusting. Libby is going “mmmmmmmmm naiiice” and making lip-smacking noises.

  I shouted downstairs.

  “Hello, my sister, Libby, also your daughter, is snogging a potato in my bed. What are you going to do about it?”

  Dad started yelling uncontrollably. I wonder if he is having the male menopause? If he starts growing breasts, I will definitely be running away with the circus. Although to be fair, he would have a better chance of getting a job with them.

  I could hear him going on.

  “Connie, have you been using my bloody razors again? I’ve nearly cut my chin off.”

  Ah well, time for bobos.

  I went back into my room and shut the door.

  Libby is now doing a sort of smoochy dance with Mr. Potato Head. It involves a lot of botty-wiggling.

  What do they teach her at playschool? When I was little, we used to do face painting and so on. Our tiny faces covered with little flowers and hearts. Libby wrote BUM on Josh’s face in indelible marker.

  I said to Bibs, “Don’t you want to take Mr. Potato Head into your nice bed? In your own room. In your own lovely, snugly…”

  She put her face really near mine and said, “Shhhhhhhhh.”

  midnight

  I had to read Heidi to Libby and Mr. Potato Head. She never tires of tales of cheese. I do.

  The bit that makes her laugh the most is when the little crippled girl falls out of her wheelchair.

  It’s not right.

  suddenly he got his maracas out

  wednesday september 21st

  assembly

  9:00 a.m.

  Oh, hurrah! We are having an “ad hoc” assembly. No proper hymns that we can improvise hilarious lyrics to. No “Breathe on me BREAST of God” or “There are some green PANTS far away without a city wall…”

  Hang on a minute, though, things are looking up. Onto the stage came Herr Kamyer in a check shirt and a cowboy hat. With a guitar. And he is accompanied by Miss Wilson on ukulele.

  I said to Rosie, “I didn’t even know she could play the ukulele.”

  two minutes later

  She can’t.

  This is torture. I don’t know if you have ever heard the country and western version of “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” but I thoroughly don’t recommend it.

  I said to Rosie, “Quickly, leap onstage and grab Herr Kamyer’s guitar and kill him with it.”

  She said, “Righty-o,” and started moving along the
line. When she got to ADM on guard duty, she said to her, “Women’s trouble,” and skipped off to the loos.

  Damn.

  Fifty-five million years later we were set free. Well, free if you think double maths is freedom. Which it isn’t.

  maths

  Oh, shut up about numbers, why don’t you?

  lunch

  Behind the fives court. Right, this was my chance to introduce the question of sophisticosity into the whole boynosity area.

  I began, “I’d like to open this meeting of the ace gang…”

  They were all looking at me attentively. Well, if you call people chewing and fiddling with their fringes and being fools attentive.

  I went on, “I have called this meeting of the ace gang…”

  Jools said, “One for all and all for one and one in all for one of us and so on?”

  I said, “Yes, well, shall we get on?”

  Ellen said, “Shall we do the group hug?”

  I said, “I think we can take the group hug as done.”

  Mabs said, “I really like the group hug.”

  Oh dear Gott in Himmel.

  four minutes later

  The group hug practically turned into a love-in. Rosie would not let me go. She knows it annoys me so she keeps doing it.

  Eventually, though, I beat her off and started again.

  “The thing, the serious thing I want to discuss is…”

  Rosie said, “My Viking wedding?”

  “Well, no, I…”

  But it was too late. She had her beard out.

  afternoon break

  I will try again.

  Mr. Attwood wheeled past us, tutting. Tut away, lunatic man.

  two minutes later

  We watched while he got stuck trying to get up the ramp into the science block. Unfortunately, the Titches were passing and he harassed them into pushing him up the ramp. While they were huffing and puffing, he actually opened a sandwich and started eating it.

  I said to the gang, “He luuurves ligging about in that wheelchair. I bet he hasn’t even got a bad back.”

  Rosie said, “Have you thought about being a nurse? I think you’ve got the hands for it.”

  I didn’t get the chance to mention the sophisticosity question because Jas started going on about Tom. Is he going to go to college in Hamburger-a-gogo land? Blah blah blah. He wants to go visit the maybe college after Chrimboli. Should she go with him? Blah blah blah.