‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’

Hoooooorrrrn!!

Saturday July 16th

11:45 p.m.

Run away, run away!!!

Pant, pant, pant.

And double pants.

How in the name of God’s novelty undercrackers and matching toga have I ended up running along the streets at midnight?

I’ll tell you how. You wait ages for a Sex God to come along and then two come along at the same time. Where is the sense in that? If it is all part of Big G’s divine plan, all I can say is this, “Keep it simple, Big G, just give me one Sex God to eat at a time. And then if I am not full up I’ll have another one. Thank you. Regards to Baby Jesus.”

That is all I am saying. Inwardly, obviously, as I am nearly dead with trying to run in my high-heeled boots. I may have to lie down in a ditch in a minute.

11:50 p.m.

I had to stop and sit in the hedge by the park. I’m so out of breath. Hurrah, I am sitting in the dark like a panting vole in a skirt.

Three minutes later

Pant, pant. So this is a brief résumé of Vole Girl’s evening:

Scene 1

A top night at the Stiff Dylans gig, including an excellent Viking disco inferno dance* in honour of Rosie and Sven’s forthcoming (well, in eighteen years time) wedding and Sven arriving in furry shorts.

*Note to the dim – and I mean this in a loving way – the Viking disco inferno dance goes stamp, stamp to the left, left leg kick, kick, arm up, stab, stab to the left… and HOOOOOOORN!

As the pièce de whatsit, Masimo, lead singer and Luuurve God that I have been dreaming of and longing for, asked me to go outside, and said, “So, Signorína Georgia, I am free man for you. If you still want for us to go out?”

Keep in mind that he said it in his gorgey porgey Pizza-a-gogo land accent. Looking at me like I was a Sex Kitty.

Scene 2

Just as I was experiencing Swoon City and melty pantaloonies a car pulled up and Robbie the original Sex God got out.

The one who had left me and gone to Kiwi-a-gogo land. To snog marsupials and so on for the rest of his life.

Not.

Scene 3

After a moment of silence I said in a quick-thinking and casual way, “Oh, hello, Robbie, do excuse me, I have a train to catch and time and tide wait for no man.” And walked quickly off before breaking into a slight trot. Then a light gallop. Then I ended up in the hedge and that is where all this started.

In conclusion I would say that after queuing up at the cake shop of luuurve for ages I have accidentally bought two cakes.

And I am sitting in a bush.

11:56 p.m.

Oh, yet more marvellous, marvellous news, the Blunder Boys are lurking around in the park. Probably setting fire to themselves and practising being crap. Which they needn’t bother doing as they are top at it anyway.

They’ll sense I’m here in a minute and come looming out at me. The Blunder Boys have got radar for girls within half a mile.

Thirty seconds later

Mark Big Gob (who lives in my street and who I accidentally snogged once, and who has the largest lips known to humanity) larged out of the gloom and saw me panting in the hedge. He was looking at my nungas, which were heaving up and down. Stop heaving and retreat into your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, you stupid nungas!

Mark said, “I see you are all pleased to see me, girls.”

How repellant is he? I ignored him and got up with a dignity-at-all-times sort of attitude. As I was brushing past him, he said, “Steady darlin’, you nearly knocked me over.”

The rest of the trainee idiots had sidled up by then and they sniggered and choked on their fags. Still, on the bright side cigarettes stunt your growth, so with a bit of luck most of them will remain about three foot eight.

Mark Big Gob said, “I see you’ve got the Horn. Is it for me?”

Is he mad? Is he implying that I have got the Horn for him? I would rather plunge my head into a bucket of whelks than let him anywhere near me. I can’t believe that his hand once rested on my basooma. And that his enormous gob had squelched around my face. Erlack. If anything, he gave me the Anti-Horn.

Sadly, it was then I realised that in fact he was right, I did have the horn. Horns actually. I was still carrying my Viking bison horns that I had worn to rehearse Rosie’s wedding dance.

Still, what is so very unusual about that?

Five minutes later

Quite a lot, actually, when you think about it.

Which I won’t.

Oh double merde and ordure and poo.

12:15 a.m.

Got to my street. My tootsies are killing me. The light is still on in the front room. Oh noooo. That means the terminally insane (Mutti and Vati) are still up. I must avoid them at all costs. I can’t speak to them. Not now. Not any time if I have my way.

I snuck really really quietly through the front door and stashed my horns in a secret place where they will never be found (the ironing basket).

Aaahh. Safely in. Now quietly, quietly up the stairs to my room. Quietly, quietly like a little mousie. Mousie girl opening little doorsies. Shhhhh. Shhhh. Nearly safe. Quietly into the room like a quiet thing on quiet tablets. No sign of the Furry Freak brothers, a.k.a. my cats Angus and his cross-eyed son Gordon, thank the Lord.

As I opened my bedroom door Gordy’s face appeared upside down an inch away from my fringe. I looked into his mad cross-eyes. Why does he do that – lurk on top of the door like a bat? He did a little croaky noise and licked my face with his horrid rough tongue. I managed not to cry out or be sick.

12:25 a.m.

There is a half-eaten mouse on my pillow.

12:30 a.m.

Oh God, that means that Gordy licked my face after he had crunched up the mousey head. I am almost bound to get the Black Death. Nothing nicer than a few pustulating boils when you have boyfriend trouble.

One minute later

Crept downstairs to get rid of the mousey. I had it on a piece of cardboard. When I say mousey what I mean is two ears and a bit of tail. Too crunchy for Gordy’s delicate little murderer’s gob, I suppose.

As I was going back upstairs Mutti called out from the front room, “Is that you, Gee?”

I said, “No,” and went up to get into my snuggly bed of pain.

In bed under the sheets of life

One minute later

Can’t be bothered getting undressed as I’m so full of confusiosity.

Five minutes later

I’d better make an effort though and at least take my boots off. My feet are probably all swollen from my mad running and I don’t want to have them surgically removed again.

The boots, I mean, not my feet.

Anyway, the nub and gist is that I have accidentally acquired two Luuurve Gods.

I may never sleep again.

One minute later

I won’t have time to sleep if I’ve got two boyfriends, tee hee…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Sunday July 17th

7:00 a.m.

Woke up from a dream where Dr Clooney was looking at my head and saying, “I have never seen anything like it! Her head is one enormous boil!” and for a minute forgot that I have two boyfriends.

I checked in the mirror and there has been no pustulating boil extravaganza, so I seem to have escaped catching the Black Death from Gordy’s little mousey snack, thank the Lord. Although my head has exploded, hairwise. I may have to iron it.

7:35 a.m.

Crept downstairs and made some toast and tea. I must keep my strength up.

There is snoring coming from every room. Mum made Dad sleep in the spare room because of his snoring and she is louder than him! I must be kind, though: she probably has difficulty breathing because of the weight of her enormous nungas. If mine grow as big as hers I will definitely donate them to some charity.

It is a nice day. The birds are humming and the bees a-singing and I can see Angus the furry Luuurve Machine lolling around in the morning sun with Naomi. They are very much in love if the amount of bum-oley licking is anything to go by.

Back in my bed with snacksies

Five minutes later

I must consult with a book of wisdomosity.

Five minutes later

This double boyfriend fandango is not mentioned in Mutti’s book How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You.

Three minutes later

Maybe Robbie and Masimo will have to have fisticuffs at dawn to decide who gets me. Who knows what the right etiquette is in this scenario?

One minute later

One thing is for sure. I will not be asking Dave the Laugh, my Horn Adviser and occasional snoggee, to the fight. He will only think it is a laugh and start shouting out stuff like, “Hit him with your handbag, Masimo!” or “Mind the hair, love!” Anyway, Dave is too busy to give me advice these days. He will be with his “girlfriend”. I wonder what number they have got up to on the snogging scale?

Shut up, brain! I don’t want to think about Dave – he is an ex-snoggee. And just a mate. I have enough to worry about without Dave popping up all the time (oo-er).

7:55 a.m.

This does mean that I am going to have to be on high beauty and glamorosity alert at all times. One of my multi boyfriends may be so driven by snognosity that he rushes round here first thing in the morning. I must be prepared. But no one must know. I must exude glamour but in a natural just-tumbled-out-of-bed way.

Soooo just a hint of foundation, touch of bronzer, lippy, mascara and tiny bit of eyeliner. Which I like to think looks like I have a touch of the Egyptian in my genes.

That is what I like to think.

8:00 a.m.

Now what to wear? Nightwear or daywear?

What would you wear if you had unexpectedly woken up to the doorbell ringing and you didn’t know who it was but you suspected it might be a Luuurve or a Sex God?

8:01 a.m.

Not Teletubbies pyjamas, that is le fact.

8:06 a.m.

Denim skirt and a T-shirt?

Yep.

8:12 a.m.

I took a peek out of the front window. No sign of any Sex or Luuurve Gods. The reverse, in fact, because I was alarmed to see Mr Across the Road in his garden in a shortie dressing gown. I hope he is not going to become a homosexualist in his twilight years. Then Mrs Across the Road came out in a massive pair of pyjamas. Was there the suggestion of a small moustache on her upper lip? Maybe that’s what happens in the end when people are married: they change sex. My dad is certainly on the turn, but on the other hand no man alive has developed nunga-nungas like Mum.

8:30 a.m.

Why hasn’t Jas phoned?

You would think that Radio Jas would have been on the airwaves of life wanting to know what happened to me, and also wanting to report what had happened after I left the gig. I suppose I will just have to wait until she wakes up, or the rest of the Ace Gang wakes up to let me know what is going on. I must use the steely discipline for which I am world renowned.

8:35 a.m.

That’s it, I can’t stand it any more.

Crept out of the house. I won’t leave a note because no one will notice I am missing for hours. The last thing I want is a cross-examination from Herr Vati. Or Mum being “interested”.

Outside on the drive

Angus is still lying on his back on the wall while Naomi licks his face, and now she has started on his bum-oley. How disgusting. Kittyporn first thing in the morning.

Also, they are both covered in what looks like snot.

Oh, Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers, it isn’t snot; it’s frogspawn. They have been marauding about in Mr and Mrs Next Door’s new marine conservation area – known to other normal people as a bucket with disgusting tadpoles and slime in it. The Prat brothers, also known as Mr Next Door’s annoying and useless toy poodles, were on marine conservation lifeguard duty. So all Angus had to do was duff them up a bit, round them up into their kennel, and then it was a night of splashing around in the bucket to his heart’s content.

The Next Doors will go absolutely ballistic; they always do about the least thing. Mr Next Door has been hovering on the edge of a nervy spaz for the last year and this might drive him over the edge and into the rest home. His shorts will probably explode with the tension. Which is no bad thing, unless I happen to be around at the time and am exposed to the sight of his huge bottom looming about.

I said to Angus, “You are soooo bad, Angus, and in for big trub. That is a fact. Au revoir, dead kitty pal.”

I’m sure he understands every word I say because he got idly to his feet, stretched, and nudged Naomi off the wall. He treats his girls rough.

Naomi leaped back on the wall and arched her back and raised her hackles, making that really mad screechy noise that Burmese cats do. She was spitting at Angus and teetering backwards and forwards. Really, really mad.

Angus was frightened. Not. When she got near enough he biffed her with his paw and she disappeared over the wall again. You had to laugh.

Not for long, though, because after he had rolled about on the lawn to get rid of the frogspawn he began stalking me.

Oh no, not today, my furry friend. I am not having him tagging along with me all day causing mayhem and eating anything that moves. I said, “Clear off, Angus, stay there. Sit. Sit.”

I even threw him a stick to distract him and he ran bounding off after it, but then came back to trail along behind me.

I started running.

He started running.

I hid behind a wall.

His head loomed over the wall at me.

In the end, to give him the hint, I threw stones at him – some of them quite big.

Five minutes later

This is hopeless. He doesn’t care about having stones thrown at him at all. He is senselessly brave.

One minute later

He is trying to catch the stones in his mouth.

One minute later

He’s just slightly dazed himself by heading one of them.

In Jas’s garden

9:00 a.m.

No sign of Jas being up and her curtains are drawn. Damny damn damn. She is so lazy, snoozing in Pantsland. I don’t want to arouse any interest in the elderly mad by ringing the bell. Even though Jas’s M and D are on the whole more acceptable than most, in that they provide snacks and Jas’s dad doesn’t speak, they are still technically in the elderly-loon category.

Three minutes later

How can I get Jas to get up without ringing the doorbell?

One minute later

Oh, here we are! There is a ladder in the shed. I can use my initiative and Girl Guide training (which I haven’t got and never will have) and use the ladder to make a small fire to send smoke signals past her bedroom window. Shut up, brain.

Five minutes later

It must be a child’s ladder as it only reaches to just above the lounge window. I would have to have orang-utan arms on stilts to reach Jas’s window. Poo and merde.

Two minutes later

As I was looking up wondering how to make my arms grow, something bit my ankle really viciously. Angus was on the ladder with me, looking at me and playfully biting my legs. Ouch, bloody ouch.

I reached down to strangle him and I was just saying, “You bloody furry freak, I’ll kill you when I get down from here…” when I saw Jas’s dad standing on the garden path with his paper, smoking his unlit pipe. He was looking at me, like I was Norma Normal.

I said, “Ah yes, I was just… thinking I’d see what your garden looked like from up here. And yep, yep, it looks very, very nice indeed. Full of stuff. Growing and so on.”

What was I talking about?

Five minutes later

Jas’s dad is sensationally nice, or insane, it’s hard to tell. He let Angus carry his newspaper into the house, and didn’t even seem to mind when he ate it.

In Jas’s bedroom

I managed to dig Jas out from underneath her owls. How many stuffed owls can one person collect? A LOT is the answer in her case. What is the matter with her? Also, she was vair vair grumpy when I woke her up with a kiss. It was only on her cheek but you would think she had been attacked by hordes of lesbians in cowboy outfits.

Blimey. She looks very odd in the mornings and her fringe was akimbo to the max. She looked like a startled earwig in jimmy-jams.

I said, “So, so? What happened?”

She looked at me and started early-morning fiddling with her fringe. Vair annoying.

She said, “You just ran off like a fool.”

I said, “Yes, I know, I was there.”

“Yes, you say that, but you weren’t there, that is the whole point. And everyone was going, ‘What’s Georgia doing? Has she gone mad?’ and so on.”

“Jas, if I get you a little cup of tea and a snacklet will you try to be normal and tell me everything that happened? It is a matter of life and death. YOUR life and YOUR death.”

Ten minutes later

It’s quite nice and cosy tucked up in bed with Jas and snacksies. Except that I think I have an owl’s beak up my bum-oley.

Jas was munching and rambling. “Well, first of all, after you had run off like a ninny – by the way, you run in a really weird way in those high heels. You looked like Nauseating P. Green when she’s playing hockey. Her legs go all spazzy and—”

I hit her with Snowy Owl. She almost choked on her toast.

I said, “Jas, get on with it, I have only got about fifty more years to live.”

“Well, first of all, the boys did that boy thing with Robbie.”

“What boy thing?”

“You know, slapping each other on the shoulders, shaking hands, and so on.”

“Yeah.”

Jas went on, “Robbie was saying hello to a lot of people and Masimo got his jacket on. You were just approaching the park by then; we could still see you. Masimo said to Tom, ‘She asked me about footie results. Then she ran away. Is she normal?’”

Ohmygiddygod. I said to Jas, “What did Tom say?”

“Well, he stood up for you, of course.”

“I love Hunky very much, as you know, Jazzy Spazzy.”

“Yes, he said you were quite often normal. He had seen you being normal once or twice himself. Usually when you were asleep.”

Marvellous.

Apparently after I had run off to “catch my train”, Masimo had gone home with the band, and just after he’d gone Wet Lindsay had come stropping back looking for him. Jas said her no-forehead was all crinkly and mad and her hair extensions were swishing around in a Nervy B. Central way. Then she had seen Robbie and was all over him like a rash and they had gone off together.

What, what???

I said, “Wet Lindsay went off with the Sex God?”

“Well, they did go out together once, didn’t they?”

“Yes, Jas, I know, I was heartbroken. Do you remember?”

“I mean, maybe he still likes her. I don’t know, maybe he has had a secret thing for her. Some people like lanky girls.”

“Jas, shut up now.”

“Well, I am just saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and so on. It’s an ill wind that—”

“Jas, that is not shutting up, that is rambling on and on about rubbish.”

She was chomping away on her Jammy Dodger like Wise Mabel of the Forest. I really, really wanted to shove it down her throat, but I knew it would take another million years to get the end of the story if I did, so I just said, “Jas, you know when you were going on and on about ‘maybe something good will happen’, and I didn’t want to go to the gig in the first place but you persuaded me? Well, did you know that Robbie was going to be there?”

“Well, I sort of thought he might. I knew he was coming home because he rang Tom and said that he had booked his ticket. And that he would be back in time for the gig.”

“But did he say why he was coming home?”

“Erm, no, not exactly, no.”

Oh noooooo. I have left the cake shop of luuurve thinking I have accidentally bought two cakes and found out that I may have only got one cake. And I might have already eaten that. I may in fact be cakeless.

I said to Jas, “We must call an emergency Ace Gang meeting.”

“Well, I thought I might go to the river with Tom and—”

“No, Jas, you thought wrong.”

Park

Midday

Angus is still trailing me around like Inspector Morse in a furry coat (and on all fours).

On the swings

Rosie said, “I hope this is worth it. Sven and me were going to practise artificial respiration on each other in case anyone chokes on the vats of mead at our wedding.”