‘… and that’s when it fell off in my hand.’

Alone, all aloney, on my owney

Saturday March 5th 11:00 a.m. as the crow flies

Grey skies, grey cluds, grey knickers.

I can’t believe my knickers are grey, but it is typico of my life. My mutti put my white lacy knickers in the wash with Vati’s voluminous black shorts and now they are grey.

If there was a medal for craposity in the mutti department, she would win it hands down.

I am once again wandering lonely as a clud through this Vale of Tears.

I wish there was someone I could duff up but I have no one to blame. Except God, and although He is everywhere at once, He is also invisible. (Also, the last person who tried to duff God up was Satan, and he ended up standing on his head in poo with hot swords up his bum-oley.)

11:20 a.m.

This is my fabulous life: the Sex God left for Whakatane last month and he has taken my heart with him.

11:25 a.m.

Not literally, of course, otherwise there would be a big hole in my nunga-nungas.

11:28 a.m.

And also I would be dead. Which quite frankly would be a blessing in disguise.

12:00 p.m.

It is soooo boring being brokenhearted. My eyes look like little piggie eyes from crying. Which makes my nose look ginormous.

Still, at least I am a lurker-free zone. Although with my luck there will be a lurker explosion any minute.

Alison Bummer once had a double yolker on her neck; she had a big spot and it had a baby spot growing on top of it.

I’ll probably get that.

12:05 p.m.

Phoned my very bestest pally, Jas.

“Jas, it’s me.”

“What?”

“Jas, you don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.”

“Well… I would be, but it’s only five minutes since you last phoned and Tom is just telling me about this thing you can do. You go off into the forest and—”

“This hasn’t got anything to do with badgers, has it?”

“Well… no, not exactly, it’s a wilderness course and you learn how to make fire and so on.”

Oh great balls of merde here we go, off into the land of the terminally insane, i.e. Jasland. I said as patiently as I could because I am usually nice(ish) to the disadvantaged, “You are going off on a course to learn how to make fire?”

“Yes, exciting, eh?”

“Why do you have to go on a course to learn how to open a box of matches?”

“You can’t use matches.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a wilderness course.”

“No, wrong, Jas, it’s a crap course where people are too mean to give you any matches.”

She did that sighing business.

“Look, Georgia, I know you’re upset about Robbie going off to Kiwi-a-gogo land.”

“I am.”

“And you not having a boyfriend or anything.”

“Yes, well…”

“And, you know, being all lonely, with no one to really care about you.”

“Yes, all right Jas, I know all th—”

“And the days stretching ahead of you without any meaning and—”

“Jas, shut up.”

“I’m only trying to say that—”

“That is not shutting up, Jas. It is going on and on.”

She got all huffy and Jasish.

“I must go now. Tom has got some knots to show me.”

I was in the middle of saying, “Yes I bet he has…” in an ironic and très amusant way when she brutally put the phone down.

12:30 p.m.

Alone, all aloney.

On my owney.

The house is empty, too. Everyone is out at Grandad’s for lunch.

I was nearly made to go until I pointed out that I am in mourning and unable to eat anything because of my heartbreak.

Mine is a pathetico tale that would make anyone who had a heart weep, but that does not include Vati. He said he would gladly leave me behind because talking to me made him realise the fun he had had when he accidentally fell into the open sewers in India.

1:15 p.m.

Looking out of my bedroom window. Entombed in my room for ever. Like in that book, The Prisoner of Brenda, or whatever it’s called.

Except I could go out if I wanted.

But I don’t want to.

I may never go out again.

Ever.

1:30 p.m.

This is boring. I’ve been cooped up for about a million years.

What time is it?

Phoned Jas.

“Jas?”

“Oh God.”

“What time is it?”

“What?”

“Why are you saying ‘what’? I merely asked you a civil question.”

“Why don’t you look at your own clock?”

“Jas, have you noticed I am very, very upset and that my life is over? Have you noticed that?”

“Yes I have, because you have been on the phone telling me every five minutes for a month.”

“Well, I am soo sorry if it’s too much trouble to tell your very bestest pal the time. Perhaps my eyes are too swollen from tears to see the clock.”

“Well are they?”

“Yes.”

“Well how come you could see to dial my number?”

Mrs Huffy Knickers was so unreasonable.

“Anyway, I’m not your bestest pal any more, Nauseating P. Green is your bestest pal now that you rescued her from the clutches of the Bummer twins.”

I slammed down the phone.

Brilliant. Sex Godless and now friend to P. Green, that well-known human goldfish.

Sacré bloody bleu and triple merde.

And poo.

Oh Robbie, how could you leave me and go off to the other (incredibly crap) side of the world? What has Kiwi-a-gogo land got that I haven’t? Besides forty million sheep.

I think I’ll play the tape he gave me again. It’s all I have left to remind me of him and our love. That will never die.

2:20 p.m.

Good grief, now I am really depressed. His song about Van Gogh, “Oh No, It’s Me Again”, has to be one of the most depressing songs ever written.

2:30 p.m.

Second only to track four, “Swim Free”, about a dolphin that gets caught in a fishing net, and every time we eat a tuna sandwich we’re eating Sammy the dolphin. Fortunately I never eat tuna, as Mum mostly stocks up on Jammy Dodgers and there is definitely nothing that was ever alive in them.

2:35 p.m.

If I am brutally honest, which I try to be, the only fly in the ointmosity of the Sex God was that he could be a bit on the serious side. Always raving on about the environment and so on. Actually, his whole family is obsessed with vegetables. Let’s face it, his brother Tom (otherwise known as Hunky) has chosen one to be his girlfriend!

Hahahahahaha. That’s a really good joke about Jas that I will never tell her but secretly think of when she flicks her fringe about or shows me her Rambler’s badge.

I will never forget Robbie, though. The way he used to nibble my lips. He will always be Nip Libbler Extraordinaire.

2:50 p.m.

Oh no, hang on. The Sex God used to snog my ears. It was Dave the Laugh who enticed me into the ways of nip libbling. Which reminds me. I wonder why he hasn’t phoned me? Did I remember to tell him that I was thinking about letting him be my unserious boyfriend?

I should punish him, really. It was, after all, he who introduced me to the Cosmic Horn when I was happy just having the Particular Horn for the Sex God.

2:55 p.m.

Phoned Rosie.

“RoRo.”

“Bonsoir.”

“I am having the cosmic droop.”

“Well, fear not, my pally, because I have le plan de la genius.”

“What is it, and does it involve the police?”

Rosie laughed in a not-very-reassuring way if you like the sound of sane laughter. She said, “I’m having a party for Sven’s return from Swedenland next Saturday.”

“What kind of party is it going to be?”

“Teenage werewolf.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Good grief.”

“Bless you.”

“Rosie, what has Sven been doing while he’s been away working for Santa Claus on a reindeer farm?”

“He hasn’t been to Lapland.”

“How can you be sure? Geoggers is not your best subject, is it?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m right, but it isn’t yours either, Gee. You missed out the whole of Germany on your world map.”

“Easily done.”

“Not when you’re copying from the atlas. Anyway, I must go. I have a costume to make. See you at Stalag 14 on Monday.”

Bathroom 3:00 p.m.

Sometimes I amaze myself with my courageosity. Even though I have been through the mangle of love and beyond, I can still be bothered to cleanse and tone.

3:30 p.m.

But the effort of a high-quality beauty regime has made me exhausted. I am going to go to my room and read my book on my inner dolphin or whatever it’s called. Anyway it is to do with peace and so on. I may even make a little shrine to Robbie to celebrate our undying love. Even though he hasn’t bothered to write to me since he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land.

3:45 p.m.

Hmm. I have covered all the cosmic options with my shrine: I’ve put a photo of Robbie in the middle of some shiny paper, it has a figure of Buddha on one side of the beloved Sex God, and one of Jesus and a little dish for offerings on the other. Also, when I was accidentally going through Mum’s knicker drawer, I found some incense stuff. I don’t like to think what she and Vati do with it: some horrific snogging ritual they learned in Katmandu or something.

3:50 p.m.

I had to BluTack Jesus on to my dressing table because Libby has been using him as a boyfriend for scuba-diving Barbie and one of his feet is missing.

4:00 p.m.

Phoned Rosie.

“RoRo, explain this if you can with your wisdomosity. I only had the Particular Horn for SG before I met Dave the Laugh and then Dave the Laugh lured me into the web of the General and Cosmic Horns.”

RoRo said, “He’s groovy, isn’t he, Dave the Laugh?”

“Yeah… sort of.”

“Shall I ask him on Saturday?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, because I am eschewing him with a firm hand.”

“A nod is as good as a wink to a blind badger.”

What in the name of Miss Wilson’s moustache is she talking about?

My bedroom, in my bed of pain (quite literally) 10:00 PM

Libby’s bottom is bloody freezing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been sitting in a bucket of frozen mackerel. Still, she has been round to Grandad’s, so anything could have happened; he is, after all, the man who set fire to himself with his own pipe.

10:05 p.m.

She might have a cold botty and be mad as a snake, but she looks so lovely when she’s asleep and she is my little sister. I really love her. I kissed her on her forehead and without opening her eyes she slapped me and said, “Cheeky monkey.” I don’t know what goes on in her head. (Thank God.)

10:15 pm

Do the Prat Poodles deliberately wait until I’m drifting off before they start their yowling fest? What is the matter with them? Have they been startled by a vole?

I looked out the window. Mr and Mrs Next Door have put a kennel outside in the garden for the Prat Poodles, but the poodley twits are too stupid and frightened to go into it. They are barking at it and running away from it. How pathetic is that? It’s only a kennel, you fools. What kind of dog is frightened of a kennel?

10:20 pm

Oh, I get it!! Angus is in their kennel. I just saw his huge paw come out and biff one of the Prat Poodles on the snout. Supercat strikes again!!!

Hahahaha and ha di hahaha, he is a très très amusant cat. He has set up a little cat flatlet in the Prats’ kennel. It’s his pied-à-terre. Or his paw-de-terre.

10:25 PM

Uh-oh. Mr Next Door is on the warpath. Surely it must be against the laws of humanity to sell pyjamas like his. He looks like a striped hippopotamus, only not so attractive and svelte.

He’s trying to poke Angus out with a stick. Good luck, Mr Hippo.

Angus thinks it’s the stick game. He LIKES being prodded with a stick, it reminds him of his Scottish roots. Next thing is, he will get hold of it and start wrestling with Mr Next Door to try to get it away from him.

10:28 PM

Yes, yes, he’s clamped on the end! Mr Next Door will never get him off by shaking it around. He will be there going round and round the garden for the rest of his life.

10:33 PM

Sometimes for a laugh Angus lets go of the stick and Mr Next Door crashes backwards. Then Angus strolls over and gets hold of the stick again. I could watch all night long… uh-oh, Mr Next Door has seen me. He is indicating that he would like me to step downstairs. Although I think shouting and saying “bugger” at this time of night is a bit unneighbourly.

Honestly, I am like a part-time game warden and careworker for the elderly mad. I should get a net and a badge.

Mr Next Door’s garden 10:40 p.m.

Mr Next Door was sensationally red as he tried to shake Angus off the end of his stick.

He said, in between wheezing and coughing, “This thing is demented, it should be put down!!”

Oh yeah, fat chance – Angus nearly had the vet’s arm off the last time he was in surgery. The vet has asked us to not come back again.

However, I used my natural talents of diplomosity with Mr Mad. I spoke clearly and loudly. “You need another broom to beat him off with.”

I said again, “YOU NEED ANOTHER BROOM TO BEAT HIM OFF WITH.”

He said, “There’s no need to shout, I’m not deaf.”

And I said, “Pardon?”

Which is an excellent display of humourosity in anyone’s book. Except Mr Mad’s. In the end, I lassoed Angus with the clothesline and dragged him home and locked him in the airing cupboard. Dad’s “smalls” (not) will be in tatters by morning, but you can’t have everything.

Sunday March 6th

Dreamed about the Sex God and our marriage. It was really groovy and gorgey. I wore a long white veil, and when I was at the altar SG pushed it back and said, “Why… Georgia, you’re beautiful.” And I didn’t go cross-eyed or speak in a stupid German accent. I even remembered to put my tongue at the back of my teeth to stop my nostrils flaring when I smiled. The church was packed with loads of friends, and everyone looked nice and relatively normal. Even Vati had shaved the tiny badger off his chin, and Uncle Eddie had a hat on so that he didn’t look quite so much like a boiled egg in a suit.

The choir was singing “Isn’t She Lovely?” and for some reason the choir was made up of chipmunks and Libby was in charge of them. It was sweet, even if the singing was a bit high-pitched.

And then the vicar said, “Is there anyone here who knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony?”

I was gazing into the dark blue of Sex God’s eyes, dreamy dreamy. Then from the back, Jackie Bummer (smoking a fag) shouted, “I’ve got a reason: Georgia has got extreme red-bottomosity.”

And Alison Bummer (smoking two fags) joined in, “Yeah, and the Cosmic Horn.”

And I could feel myself getting hotter and hotter, and I couldn’t breathe. I woke up crying out to find Libby sitting on my nungas with Charlie Horse and singing, “Smelly the elepan bagged her trunk and said goodguy to the circus.”

8:15 a.m.

It’s only 8:15 a.m. On Sunday. I want to sleep for ever and ever and never wake up to life as a red-bottomed spinster.

8:30 a.m.

Maybe if I make a special plea to Baby Jesus for clemency he will hear me. If I promise to put my red bottom aside with a firm hand, he might send the SG back to me.

8:35 a.m

I can’t pray here – Baby Jesus won’t be able to hear a thing above Libby’s singing. Maybe I should make the supreme sacrifice and go to God’s house. Call-me-Arnold the vicar would be beside himself with joy; he would probably prepare a fatted whatsit… pensioner.

9:05 a.m

What should I wear for church? Keep it simple and reverential, I think.

9:36 a.m.

My false eyelashes are fab.

9:37 a.m

Maybe I shouldn’t wear them, though, because it might give the wrong impression. It might imply that I’m a bit superficial. I’ll take them off.

9:38 a.m

It has taken me ages to stick them on, though. Anyway, if God can read your every thought because of his impotence ability, He will know that I really want to wear my eyelashes and have only taken them off in case He didn’t like them. They didn’t have false eyelashes in ye olde Godde tymes so it is a moot point

Perhaps He will think they are my real ones.