Читать книгу ‘Stop in the name of pants!’ - Louise Rennison - Страница 51

It wasn’t a pig being pushed through the letter box, it was Gordy, cross-eyed son of Angus. I could see his ginger ears poking through.

Oh, bloody hell.

I said, “Libby, don’t put Gordy though the letter box. I’m opening the door.”

She yelled, “He laaikes it.”

When I got the door open, it was to find Libby in Wellington boots and a bikini. Gordy was struggling and yowling in her little fat arms and finally squirmed free and leaped off into the garden sneezing and shaking.

Libby was laughing. “Funny pussy. Hnk hnk.” Then she came up to me and started hugging my knees and kissing them. In between snogging, Libby was murmuring, “I lobe my Gingey.”

Mutti came up the steps in a really short dress, very tight round the nungas. So very sad. She gave me a hug, which can be quite frightening seeing her enormous basoomas looming towards your head. She said, “Hello, Gee, did you have a larf camping?”

I said, “Oh yes, it was brillopads. We made instruments out of dried beans and Herr Kamyer did impressions of crap stuff with his hands that no one could get except Jas. And, as a pièce de résistance, I fell in a pond and was attacked by great toasted newts.”

She wasn’t even listening as usual, off in her own Muttiland.

“We went to see Uncle Eddie’s gig at The Ambassador last night. It was like an orgy; one of the women got so carried away she stole his feather codpiece.”

Is that really the sort of thing a growing, sensitive girl should have to listen to? It was like earporn.