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

moving in my undercrackers.”

      Midnight

      And that is when I scampered off back to Loony Headquarters. That is, our school campsite. To change my nick-nacks.

      Ten past midnight

      I said to Baby Jesus, “I know I have done wrong and I am sorry times a million, but at least you have been kind enough not to send a plague of tadpoles into my pantaloonies.”

      Sunday July 31st

      11:00 a.m.

      I must say, it was a lot easier getting our tent down than up. I pulled all the peg-type things out of the ground, Rosie and Jools kicked the pole over, and though it wouldn’t go in its stupid bag thing, we made a nice bundle of it in about three minutes flat.

      Jas and her woodland mates and Herr Kamyer and Miss Wilson were folding and sorting and putting things in little pockets and so on for about a million years.

      Ten minutes later

      Rosie, Jools and me stashed our tent bundle in the suitcase holder thing at the side of the coach and got on board past Mr Attwood. The only reason we got on without some sort of Nazi investigation and body search was because he was slumped at the wheel with his cap pulled down over his face.

      Rosie said, “That’s how he drives.”

      And she is not wrong if the nightmare journey home was anything to go by.

      Twenty minutes later

      We were having a little zizz on the back seat under a pile of our coats when Jas, patron saint of the Rambling On Society, came on board. I knew that because she came to the back of the coach and shook my shoulder quite violently. I peered at her. She was tremendously red-faced.

      I said, “Jas, I am trying to sleep.”

      â€œYou didn’t pack your tent up properly.”

      I said, “Oh, I’m sorry, are the tent police here?”

      She said, “You have just made a big mess of yours in the boot. We had to take it out and pack it up so that we could get ours in!”

      â€œYes, well, Jas, as you can see, I am very, very busy.”

      â€œYou are soooo selfish and lax and that is why you have a million boyfriends, none of whom will stay with you.”

      She stormed off to sit at the front near her besties Miss Wilson and Herr Kamyer.

      God, she is annoying, but luckily no one else heard her rambling on about the million boyfriends scenario. I wonder if the boys are home yet?

      Five minutes later

      Herr Kamyer stood up at the front of the bus and said, “Can I haff your attention, girls.” Everyone carried on talking, so he started clapping his hands together.

      Mr Attwood jerked to life and said, “It’s time to go.”

      Herr Kamyer said, “Ja, ja, danke schön, Herr Driver, but first I vill count zat ve are all pre—”

      At which point Mr Attwood put his foot down and Herr Kamyer fell backwards into Miss Wilson’s lap.

      Quite, quite horrific.

      We just watched the young lovers as they got redder and redder. Like red things at a red party.

      Herr Kamyer tried to get off her lap, but the coach was being driven so violently by Mr Mad that he kept falling back again, saying, “Ach, I am sehr sorry I…”

      And Miss Wilson was saying, “No, no, it’s quite all right. I mean I…”

      Eventually, when Mr Attwood was forced to stop at the lights, Herr Kamyer got into his own seat and pretended to be inspecting his moth collection. Miss Wilson got out her knitting but kept looking over at him.

      I said to Rosie, “Just remember this – he was there when Nauseating P. Green did her famous falling into the shower tent fiasco and Miss Wilson was exposed to the world having a shower. He has seen Miss Wilson in the nuddy-pants.”

      I was just thinking about popping back to Snoozeland when Ellen dithered into life.

      â€œEr, Georgia… you know when Jas said… well, when she said that you had… like a million boyfriends or something, I mean have you or something?”

      Rosie said, “Ellen, gadzooks and lackaday, OF COURSE Georgia hasn’t got a million boyfriends. She would be covered in them if she had.”

      Ellen said, “Well, I know but, well, I mean, she’s only got Masimo, and that is like… well…”

      Mabs said, “Yeah, Masimo… and the rest.”

      I said to Mabs, “Who rattled your cage?”

      And Mabs said, “I’m just remarking on the Dave the Laugh factor.”

      Ellen sat up then. “What Dave the Laugh factor?”

      Oh Blimey O’Reilly’s nose massager! Here we go again, once more into the bakery of love. I am going to have to nip this Dave the Laugh thing in the bud.

      I said, “Ellen, did you snog Declan and, if so, what number did you get up to?”

      Ellen looked like she had swallowed a sock full of vole poo, which is not a good look.

      â€œWell, I… well, you know, I, well, do you think I did or something?”

      I said, “A yes or no any time this side of the grave would be fab, Ellen.”

      Ellen said she had to get her cardi from Jas’s rucky and tottered off to sit next to her. Hahahahaha. I am without doubtosity top girlie at red-herringnosity.

      4:00 p.m.

      Dropped off at the bottom of my road. By some miracle we have arrived home not maimed and crippled by our coach “driver” and school caretaker Elvis Attwood. He hates girls.

      I don’t think he has a driving licence. When I politely asked to see it after a near-death experience at a roundabout, he suggested I remove myself before his hand made contact with my arse. Which is unnecessary talk in a man who fought for his country in the Viking invasions. I said to him, “You are only letting yourself down by that kind of talk, Mr Attwood.”

      Two minutes later

      Walked up the drive to Chez Bonkers. Opened the door and yelled, “Hello, everyone, you can get out the fatted hamster, I am home!!!”

      Two minutes later

      No one in.

      Typico.

      I don’t know why they ramble on so much about where I’m going and what time I will be in, when they so clearly don’t give two short flying mopeds.

      Kitchen

      I’m starving.

      Nothing in the fridge of course.

      Unless you like out-of-date bean sprouts.

      Four minutes later

      Slightly mouldy toast, mmmmm.