‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’. Louise Rennison

two-timed anyone, said, “Yes, it was great.”

      Poor Angus is an innocent victim of Naomi’s red bottomosity. This is a lesson for me about where blatant and rampant red bottomosity can lead. I have had a lucky escape.

      10:45 p.m.

      I’m so exhausted by the tension of life that I barely have the energy to cleanse, tone and moisturise, let alone tape down my fringe. I am so looking forward to lying down to rest in my boudoir of love.

      11:00 p.m.

      Libby has got all her toys in my bed AGAIN! All their heads are lined up on my pillow. And some of her toys are quite literally just heads. I don’t know exactly how beheading is going to be useful in her future career but she is bloody good at it.

      Libbs popped out from my wardrobe in the nuddy-pants, but wearing A LOT of mum’s eyeshadow, and not on her eyes.

      “Heggo, Ginger, it’s me!!!”

      “I know it’s you, Libbs – look, sweetheart, wouldn’t you like to go in your own snuggly, cosy bed and—”

      “Shut up, bad boy. Snuggle.”

      “Libby, I can’t snuggle; you’ve got too many things in my bed.”

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

      “Get in.”

      “Look, let me just take something out to make a bit of room…look, I’ll just take this old potato—”

      “Grr…”

      “Don’t bite!!!”

      Midnight

      If I have to sing “Winnie Bag Pool” to Mr Potato one more time I may have to kill myself.

      I went to my so-called parents’ bedroom door and talked to them from outside in the hall. I’ve seen Dad in his pyjamas before and it’s not a sight for someone as artistic and sensitive as moi.

      “Hello…it’s me. Georgia. Remember Me? Your daughter. And your other daughter, Libby, do you remember her? Two foot six, blonde, senselessly violent?? Ring any bells?”

      Vati yelled, “Georgia, what is it now? Why aren’t you in bed? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

      “Hello, Father, how marvellous to speak with you once again…”

      “Georgia, if I have to get out of bed and listen to more rubbish from you…well, you’re not too old to smack, you know!”

      Smack? Has he finally snapped? He’s never smacked anyone in his life. The last time he lost his rag with me, he threw his slipper and it missed me and broke his hilarious (not) mug in the shape of a bottom.

      Mutti opened the bedroom door unexpectedly as I was leaning against it and I nearly fell into her basoomas.

      She finally persuaded Libby to go into her and Dad’s bed. So thankfully Libbs clanked off with Mr Potato, Pantalitzer, Charlie Horse, scuba-diving Barbie and the rest of her “fwends”.

      I was just snuggling down to go off into boboland when I heard her pitter-pattering back into my room. Oh dear God, she hadn’t left something disgusting lurking in the bottom of my bed, had she?

      She came right up to me and whispered in my ear, “I lobe you, Ginger. You are my very own big sister.”

      Awww. I put my hand on her little head. Sometimes I love her so much I feel like I would plunge into a vat of eels to save her. If she fell in one, which in her case is not as unlikely as you might think.

      As a lovely goodnight treat, she sucked my ear, which was not pleasant, especially as she was breathing very heavily. It was like a big slug snoring in your ear. Still, very sweet.

      Ish.

      12:10 a.m.

      I’ve accidentally got to Six and a half on the snogging scale with my little sister.

      12:12 a.m.

      The Sex God does varying pressure, like Rosie says foreign boys do. Soft, then hard, then soft. Yummy scrumboes.

      Oh Robbie, how could I ever have doubted our love?

      12:15 a.m.

      Dave the Laugh is a bit full of himself, anyway. What was it he said at the fish party? “You have to choose: a Sex God or me, who you can really have a laugh with.”

      Yes, well, I have chosen. And I have not chosen you, Mr Dave the Laughylaugh. She who laughs last laughs the laughingest

      12:20 a.m.

      He has got fantastic lip-nibbling technique, though.

      12:25 a.m.

      I have gone all feverish now. I wonder where Angus is? I’ve not heard any wildlife being slaughtered for ages. Or the Next Doors’ poodles Snowy and Whitey (also known as the Prat Brothers) yapping. He must be feeling really depressed. In a cat way.

      Haunted by his lost love.

      Half the cat he was, and only fading memories of his trouser-snake days.

      12:29 a.m.

      What is it with my bed? Angus had got a perfectly cosy cat basket, but oh no, he has to come in with me.

      12:37 a.m.

      And why does he like my head so much? It’s like having a huge fur hat on.

      Why does he do that?

      Why?

      Monday November 22nd 8:25 a.m.

      Everyone late for everything. When Mutti took Libby to kindy, both had hair sticking on end like they had been electrocuted. They should try the cat hat method – it keeps your hair very flat

      Run, run, pant, pant.

      Jas and I panted up the hill to Stalag 14, past the usual assortment of Foxwood lads. They are so weird. Two passed us and started doing impressions of gorillas. Why? Then another group went by, and the biggest one, no stranger to all-over-head acne, said, “Have you got a light?”

      Jas said, “No, I don’t smoke,” and he said, “No chance of a shag, then, I suppose?” And he and his mates went off slapping and shoving each other.

      I said to Jas, “They show a distinct lack of maturiosity, but never fear, that is where I come in. I have thought of something très très amusant to do with glove animal if it snows this winter.”

      Jas didn’t say anything.

      “Jas.”

      “What?”

      “I said something très amusant and you ignorez-voused me. You do remember good old glove animal, don’t you?”

      “I know I got three bad conduct marks because you made me wear my gloves pinned over my ears like a big doggy with a beret on top.”

      “Voilà, glove animal. Anyway, I think he should make a comeback this term and liven up the stiffs.”

      She was pretending not to listen to me but I knew she wanted to really. She was doing fringe fiddling; however, I resisted the temptation to slap her hand, and said, slowly so that she could understand me, “Glove animals have to wear sunglasses when it snows.”

      “What?”