Читать книгу Are these my basoomas I see before me? - Louise Rennison - Страница 8

Tuesday September 20th Stalag 14 Break It’s bloody nippy noodles outside.

Mabs said, “Shall we work out a new disco inferno dance for Saturday’s gig? To warm us up?”

I said, “Er, well, it’s a bit soon after our last triumph, don’t you think?”

Rosie said, “No. A triumph is not a triumph until you have gone too far.”

Jas said, “I’m freezing.”

To change the subject away from mad dancing, that I am now eschewing with a firm hand, I said, “Well, Jas, we are all freezing. Why don’t you use some of your very well-known forest skills and start a lovely campfire? I bet you’ve got your special fire-making stick in your rucky, haven’t you?”

Jas said, “Don’t be silly.”

I said, “I’m not being silly. I’m being frozen to within an inch of my life. Anyway, you can’t do it without Hunky, can you? You’re frightened of fire.”

“I am not frightened of fire.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Look at me, Jas. I’m a flame and I’m coming near your fringe.”

And I started doing an ad-hoc flame improv, wiggling my body and making my arms all snakey, touching Jas’s fringe and making a whooshing noise.

Jas was getting quite red and there was deffo a touch of tomato about her ears.

Rosie, Jools and the rest of the gang started snaking and shaking about, going “Whoosh whoosh”.

Jas finally lost her rag and said, “I can make a fire! Go and get some twigs and I’ll show you.”

Excellent!

Ten minutes later Brillopads.

Jas actually did it. She rubbed her special little fire-making stick in a wedge thing. She did happen to have her special “rubbing sticks” with her in her haversack. I don’t know why, but I knew she would have. She is very secretive about her rucky. I bet she has several changes of different type weight pants in there. And possibly a collection of molluscs. We may never know. At least, I may never know because I will never be putting my hand in there. My hand will never be upon her lock and that is a fact!!!

Anyway, it was really jolly sitting round our little campfire. It was made mostly out of crisp packets. To be fair, there was more smoke than flame, but we pretended we were really really warmey warm. I said, “Shall we sing the old traditional campfire song, little Ace Gang pallies?”

And they all went, “Yeah!!!”

And I said, “What is it?”

Then I remembered some old crap recording of Top of the Pops in the 70s that my dad had. I’d shown it to the gang. I said, “Let’s sing ‘Fire’ by that bloke who wore a helmet that was actually on fire. And when he sang on Top of the Pops, his helmet set fire to the ceiling. By the way, Ro Ro, do NOT mention that to Sven. He’s bound to want to do it and then it’s goodbye to any club that we go to.”

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, we were just sitting round our campfire singing, “FIRE!!! I’m going to teach you to burn. FIRE! I’m gonna teach you to learn!!!” when out of nowhere came Wet Lindsay. The octopus in the ointment. With her assistant fascist, ADM. She saw us round our innocent “campfire” and went absolutely ballisticisimus.

She was yelling, “You absolute twits!!!!! Step away, step away!!! Monica, get Mr Attwood and tell him there is a fire in the fives court…”

Twenty minutes later What a fuss and a kerfuffle.

Mr Attwood practically pooed himself with delight. He’s been standing by with flame retardant since MacUseless when somebody accidentally set fire to Nauseating P. Green. The fact that the “inferno” had gone out by the time he got there didn’t stop him. He came leaping up and made us stand and watch from “a safe distance” (the edge of the fives court) while he donned his special breathing apparatus. He was shouting through the mask, “There may be toxic fumes.”

I was yelling, “It’s out, Mr Attwood!”

But he couldn’t hear me.

He squirted his extinguisher thing until there was foam up to the top of his welligogs. Quite, quite extraordinarily bonkers.

Three minutes later He took off his mask and looked at the huge pile of foam.

He said, “I’ve made the area safe-I’ll just radio in to Headquarters to say I’ve achieved a result safety-wise and no casualties.”

From his “fire sack” he fished out an enormous walkie-talkie thing.

Wet Lindsay said, “Right, you lot, the headmistress’s office. NOW!”

Oh no, not Slim.

She frogmarched us off, chuntering on to ADM and giving me the evils every now and again. She just absolutely loves it times a million.

If she can upset me, she’s made up.

Jas said, “Oh, now I’ll never get to be a prefect. This is all your fault, Georgia. Again.”

I said, “Er, I think you are the firestarter, crazy firestarter Jas.”

Rosie said, “Do you think Slim will beat us to death with her chins?”

As we sloped along at one mile an hour, we could hear Mr Attwood shouted into his walkie-talkie. “Z Victor I to B.D. Are you receiving me? Over.”

Astonishingly barmy.

Jools said, “Who is he talking to?”

And I said, “He’s talking to Headquarters. And you know who that is, don’t you?”

Ellen said, “No, I…er…is it…erm, is it, like…Headquarters or something?”

We just looked at her.

I said, “He is talking to the radio in his shed. And do you know who is listening? No one.”

Outside Slim’s office I asked “permission” to go to the piddly-diddly department and Wet Lindsay came with me. Like I was going to escape through the loo window! Actually, I did do that once, but that is not the point. As I was in the cubicle, trying not to make any piddly-diddly noises because I didn’t want her to hear me, she said, “You really are the most appalling little tart, Georgia Nicolson. Robbie did the right thing dumping you and Masimo must be dying to get rid of you.”

I started to say, “Actually, I think boys like girls with foreheads…”

But she said, “Nicolson, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the term recovering from a very bad hockey injury, I advise you to SHUT UP right now.”

As I walked back under armed guard, I thought, how could Robbie kiss her?

Erlack.

I think he must have clinical depression after I stopped going out with him. When she had been yelling at me, I could see right up her nostrils. Also she didn’t have mascara on and her eyelashes were like albino mouse eyelashes. No, they weren’t as nice as that; they were like duck eyelashes. And ducks don’t have eyelashes.

I hate her times a million. When I get over enticing Masimo back into my web of luuurve, I will concentrate on ruining her life and saving Robbie.

Outside Slim’s office Three minutes later The Little Titches, also known as the Dave the Laugh fanclub, were in the outer torture chamber with the Ace Gang when I got there. Wet Lindsay went off to get Elvis.

I said, “Hello, Titches, what are you up for? GBH? Titchiness?”

Ginger Titch said, “We were making up a tribute to Dave the Laugh in the loos.”

And I said, “Where is the crime in that?”

And the littlest one said, “We broke the loo seat with our stamping.”

“There is no justice in this place. It squashes any sign of creativitosity.”

The Little Titches nodded. Ginger said, “Miss, do you like Dave the Laugh the bestiest? We do.”

All of the gang looked at me and I went a bit red.

Jas said, “Yes, do you “accidentally” like Dave the Laugh, Georgia?”

Ellen was looking and blinking and started saying, “Why would…I mean, what…Dave and…well, what is that…”

Rosie started shouting “FIRE!! I’m gonna teach you to burn, FIRE!!” and doing whooshing and flame dancing when Slim opened her door suddenly and said, “I’m glad that you are all in such a jolly mood. Let’s see if we can change that. You two first-formers in my room, now.”

The two Little Titches started to follow her. After her gigantic bottom had waddled off, they got to her door and looked round. I saluted them by putting my finger on my nose and making it stick up like a piggie.

They saluted back and even did a little grunt.

They are top girls for Little Titches.

Five minutes later We could hear muffled shouting and then a bit of crying.

Rosie said, “She is beating them with her chins.”

God, if Slim was going to go ballistic over a loo seat, we were deffo going to get a severe mental thrashing.

Then Wet Lindsay arrived, accompanied by Mr Attwood. In a wheelchair. What????

Was he too lazy even to walk across the playground?

A man in his physical condition should not be in charge of the safety of high-spirited youth.

Or any people.

Or anything.

Wet Lindsay looked at me like I was snot in a skirt. It turned out that Elvis had slipped in his own foam and done his back in. I bet he hasn’t.

He was moaning on for England, as usual.

“How am I supposed to do my job now?”

I was going to say, “Oh, you know, the usual way, sitting perving in your hut.”

But I didn’t.

He was rambling on.

“You have no thought for others. When I was a boy, we had respect for our elders.”

Moan moan. Here we go. It will be, “In my day we used to enjoy ourselves just by picking our own noses.”

I said, “Well, as it happens, Elvis, er, I mean Mr Attwood, I agree with you. You are clearly too old to be working. It’s cruel. In fact, I am going to have a word with our headmistress and suggest she gives you the big goodbye you so richly deserve.”

Wet Lindsay had her usual spazerama attack.

She said, “Shut up and grow up!”

Charming.

Slim’s office Oh, I am soooo bored with being told off. It is giving me the megadroop. I should be at home glamming myself up for the Luuurve God and practising my new sophisticosity. Just in case he forgives me. Instead of which I am in an office counting chins.

Slim was completely jelloid. In fact, her whole body was having a chin-a-thon. Of course, it was me who got it in the neck. As if I started the bloody fire. I just did a bit of whooshing.

Slim said, “It’s always you, isn’t it, Georgia? What happened this time? Is it another miscarriage of justice?”

Well, at least she was being reasonable for once.

I said, “Well actually, Miss, yes it is. You see it was minus 50 outside and we were terribly cold, so I mean we, decided to use our woodland skills that we learned on our magnificent camping trip with Herr Kamyer and…”

Slim looked at me.

“You mean you set fire to some rubbish in the fives court.”

I said, “Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

Mr Attwood lurched to life.

“I’m in agony, Headmistress, because of an act of senseless arson. By arsonists.”

I don’t know what it is about the word arse-onists, but it does give me the inward hysteria. Mr Attwood had more or less said “arse” in front of Slim. I daren’t look at Rosie.

Slim looked at me.

“It’s always you, Georgia. Why can’t you grow up?”

I nearly said, “I’m growing as fast as I can. Look at the size of my nungas!”

Wet Lindsay had to put her oar in.

“The trouble is, of course, that she does lead the others into it.”

Oh yeah, that’ll be the day.

I started to say, “Well actually, funnily enough, this time it was…”

And Jas looked at me like an annoying fringey puppy. Dear God, she actually did 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 ploughed 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 firey 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 arm as she left for home and 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.

1. “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.

NB. 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.)

2. 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 recognise 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 3. Be nice. This means regrettably I will not be disco dancing like a tit any more. 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…

4. 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 Jule 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 what I am.

Ten minutes later Great mates scale.

1 Offer a mate a Midget Gem without being asked.

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

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

4 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 Number 5.

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 scale.

6 Even when they have all the reason in the universe to be top dog (i.e. when they are the girlfriend of a Luuurve God, even if it is slightly on a sale-or-return basis) a top mate does not blow their 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 theatre, 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 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 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 Bibbs, “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.