Are these my basoomas I see before me?. Louise Rennison

      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 windowbox. 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 Blunder Boy and all-round idiot, was lurking around on his wall, pretending to talk on his phone to all his mates. A.k.a. the Blunder Boys. 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 him, 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.

      Front room One minute later 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 tip’, 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 could show her my “how to be a great mate” 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.

      “Why? This.”

      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 scale 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 practising 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