Читать книгу The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10 - Louise Rennison - Страница 168

Raining. In August. Typical. Squelching along on my way to meet Mrs Big Knickers, I was thinking…I could either give in and be a miserable, useless person, like Elvis Attwood, our barmy, sad old school caretaker. Or if I truly gave up I could be like Wet Lindsay. When Robbie dumped her she got all pale and even wetter than normal. She was like an anoraksick. (A person who is both very thin and wears tragic anoraks.) I just made that up as a joke. Even though I am very upset I can still think of a joke. I’ll tell Jas when I see her. As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, I could be a sad old sadsack or I could gird my loins and be like in that song. The one where you have to search for the hero within yourself.

Jas was waiting for me at the bus stop. She said, “Why are you walking in that stiff way?”

“I’m girding my loins.”

“Well, it looks painful, like you’ve got a stick up your bottom. You haven’t, have you?”

“You really are sensationally mad, Jas. In olden days people would have thrown oranges at you.”

As I said, I can sometimes surprise myself with my own wisdomosity. And humourosity. Even in adversosity.