Читать книгу ‘Knocked out by my nunga-nungas.’ - Louise Rennison - Страница 44

Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.

I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”

Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?

This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.