Love Is a Many Trousered Thing

by Louise Rennison

  in the kitchen

  9:00 p.m.

  I must have toast to calm down.

  I was buttering it when my mad little sister Libby popped her head out of the airing cupboard.

  “Heggo, Ginger. Come in my nest. Now.”

  I looked up at her.

  “Libbs, I’m too big for it.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her face went all frowny and she started snorting and tutting like she has heard Mum do. I wasn’t liking this. The frowny face is not one I like to see because usually I am in agonizing pain seconds later.

  However, this time it wasn’t my turn to suffer. Libby disappeared into her “nest” and then Scuba-diving Barbie came flying out, quickly followed by Mr. Potato, Pantalitzer doll (well, the head) and finally, after a lot of panting and heaving and squealing, Gordy came hurtling through the air. He came to a skidding halt on the dish rack and then did that shivering thing before he hurled himself through the catflap.

  Libby popped her head out again and smiled in a terrifying way.

  “Come on, Gingey…it’s naaaaaice.”

  Oh dear, God. Still, what else was I doing this fine evening that I couldn’t squeeze into an airing cupboard with my clearly insane sister? She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I lobe you VELLY times twice.”

  Aahhh. At least she “lobes” me, unlike my so-called bestie Jas. Who is dead girl to me now that she can’t even perform the slightest task.

  five minutes later

  Sitting in the dark little cupboard, I had to bend double with my knees practically up my nose. Libby had snacks in there, which was nice—if you like bits of banana covered in fluff.

  11:00 p.m.

  Libby was only persuaded out of her “nest” by Mum saying she could sleep in my bed. Thanks, Mum.

  For a little girl, Bibbs is very full of gas. Her farts are like gunshots and sooo smelly. If anyone lit a match, we would all be blown to kingdom come. And back. And there would still be some fart left over to cook on for the rest of the year.

  11:20 p.m.

  And the snoring. It’s like comedy snoring except that I’m not laughing.

  11:25 p.m.

  Tried to shove Libby over onto her side to stop her snoring and got a smack around the head for my trouble. She is even violent when she is unconscious.

  11:30 p.m.

  I wonder what Robbie really came home for? I can’t believe it was to see Wet Lindsay, surely Tom would have told me if he knew that Robbie fancied her. I bet she has been writing to him, pretending to be a nice person. How could he fancy her? Still, facts have to be faced, he did actually go out with her once before he started seeing me. And they must have been doing something in those months. They weren’t talking about her ludicrous forehead.

  He must have snogged her. If he went out with her for three months that is a lot of snogging opportunities. And she is bound to have been puckering up pretty nonstop because she has no pridenosity. I wonder—what number on the snogging scale they got to?

  five minutes later

  Clearly not No. 7 (upper-body fondling), otherwise her false nungas would have made a surprise appearance. Maybe that is what happened!!!

  I wish.

  Anyway, I don’t want her nungas in my head.

  Get out.

  two minutes later

  Does he like me or not?

  one minute later

  Do I like him or not?

  11:40 p.m.

  Hang on a minute, I’ve just realized something. I am on the rack of love again. How did this happen?

  Well, I’m not dangling about up here anymore. I say no no no and thrice no to the rack. I am a free woman. That woman Emily Plankton chained herself to a policeman and chucked herself under a horse and so on so that I could vote. I must not let her down.

  11:50 p.m.

  Although it does seem a bit over the top to chuck yourself in front of a horse so that you get to vote.

  one minute later

  Especially as, in fact, she was dead, so she couldn’t vote anyway.

  two minutes later

  And neither can I.

  Like I have always said, history is crap.

  midnight

  On the other foot, Masimo said, “Now I is free man.”

  And that means he wants to go out with me. So that is that. I have been to the bakery of love and I have got an Italian cakey.

  five minutes later

  But I might also have an éclair called Robbie, in case I’m peckish and the Italian cakey isn’t filling enough.

  five minutes later

  Some people, naming no names, but Jas, will probably say I’m greedy, but I’m not, I am just having a choice. I am not sad like Jas, who only stays with one boyfriend because she has no special talents. Other than an unerring eye for a crap owl, or being able to spot a vole at a hundred yards. Or having the largest knicker collection in the Northern Hemisphere. And being the biggest and most annoying twit on the planet.

  two minutes later

  Yes, the Good Lord has been kind enough to give me a couple of special gifts.

  one minute later

  Oh that was a bit freaky-deaky, I had Dave the Laugh’s voice in my head when I said “a couple of special gifts.” And his voice said, “Ah, yes…the nunga-nungas.” He is even rude when I make him up in my head. That is very rude, indeed. It is rudey-dudey in absentia, as we say in Latin.

  Every time I think about Dave the Laugh, it makes me laugh.

  I’ve just remembered him (accidentally) switching all the lights off during MacUseless and the entire Forest of Dunsinane falling off the stage. God, it was funny.

  one minute later

  And his vair amusing “pant” thing—as in the famous song “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of PANTS.”

  two minutes later

  And when he put a FOR SALE sign on his school’s roof—tee hee hee.

  one minute later

  Oy, shut up, brain! This is a Dave-the-Laugh-free zone!

  five minutes later

  If I do decide on the Luuurve God, it will serve Robbie right. He will just have to check into Heartbreak Hotel, like I had to when he dumped me. He should ask for the sobbing suite.

  12:30 a.m.

  I have never had to check in to Heartbreak Hotel because of the Luuurve God. Except, I suppose, I thought I might have to make a booking when he said he would tell me in a week’s time if he was going to be my one and only one.

  12:40 a.m.

  But that was then, and now he has said, “I am for you if you want.” Which is vair vair good.

  12:45 a.m.

  Good night, Luuurve God.

  12:50 a.m.

  I hope he doesn’t think it’s odd that I had to catch a train from near the shopping center.

  At midnight.

  When there wasn’t a train station there.

  1:00 a.m.

  To be fair, I haven’t really given Robbie much of a chance. Maybe I should at least talk to him before I, you know, choose my cake.

  1:10 a.m.

  I don’t suppose they would both consider a time-share girlfriend….

  ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  snot disco dancing

  monday july 18th

  8:00 a.m.

  This is the first day of the rest of my life. So why is my hair sticking up like a cockerel?

  8:10 a.m.

  Mum caught me ironing my hair. God, she made a big deal out of it. It’s probably the first time she has seen an iron.

  Bloody hell, ramble on, why don’t you?

  She was all red-faced. “By the time you are twenty-five, your hair will be like nylon.”

  I said, “Mum, who cares what I look like at twenty-five? I will be in the twilight zone of life by then, like you.”

  If I hadn’t used my athletic responses, I could have been quite badly injured by Mum’s hairbrush. She is very unstable.

  8:20 a.m.

&nbs
p; Scavenging around in the kitchen for something to eat. Luckily a piece of toast popped out of the toaster. Ah, good. I buttered it and ate it. Blimey, being a Love Goddess can make you peckish.

  Vati came dadding in. He didn’t even say “Good morning.” He said, “Is that my toast you are eating?”

  I said, “To be honest, Dad, I don’t think you need any more toast, you seem to have plenty stored away around the trouser area.”

  As usual in this house when anyone (me) tries to be light and amusing, Dad goes ballisticisimus. Mum came in trying to force Libby into her dungies whilst she still had a cup of milky pops in her hand which she would not let go of.

  Dad was still moaning on about me. “Where does she get all this rudeness from, Connie? You are too easygoing on her.”

  Mum said, “I know, she’s been ironing her hair.”

  Dad forgot about the toast fiasco and started on beauty. Something which quite frankly he is not an expert on.

  “How bloody ridiculous is that? You’ll end up like Uncle Eddie.”

  I said, “Oh right, I’m going to turn into a mad bloke on a motorbike because I straighten my hair. I think women everywhere should be told.”

  8:30 a.m.

  I hate my parents. They are so unreasonably mad.

  8:35 a.m.

  And so self-obsessed. They don’t seem to understand that their lives are over, and I am covered in cake.

  8:36 a.m.

  I am nearly at Jas’s house. I must exude calmnosity and friendlinosity. I must put the egg incident behind me and be nice to Jas, so she will tell me all she knows.

  8:40 a.m.

  When I got to Jas’s gate, it was to see her bottom waggling off in the distance. Of course Eggy had set off. She will still be having the huff with me. I must be at my most charming. I did my fast walking until I caught up with her and gave her a lovely smile as I linked arms with her.

  “Hello, Jas, my little chummly-wummly.”

  She shook me off. “Don’t hang on to my arm, Georgia, I’m not dragging you up the hill to school just because you are tired.”

  “I’m not tired, I am just so glad to see you, you lovely big-pantied loon.”

  I chucked her under the chin, but she still wasn’t having it. So I stopped and stood in front of her and looked into her eyes.

  “Jazzy Spazzy, you know I love you.”

  She went all red. Some Foxwood lads who had been trailing us uselessly as usual shouted, “Oy you lezzies, won’t she give you a kiss?”

  And another one said, “Can we see your breasts, please?”

  Good grief.

  Jas started flicking her fringe like a mad thing.

  “Now look what you’ve started.”

  We set off at a spanking space for Stalag 14. As we went along, I was doing my special pleading, it was very touching.

  “Jas, please forgive me. Did you find out anything? I know you will have done, because you are so vair vair clever. And top girl at blodge and…er, everything.”

  As we took our coats to the cloakroom she relented a bit. “Well, I did talk to Tom in a casual way, even though you said I couldn’t.”

  “Jas, Jas, I knew you could do casualosity big time, don’t forget I have seen you in your nighttime panties, relaxing and at play.”

  As the bell rang for Assembly I could see the Hitler Youth (prefects) approaching, keen to do a bit of poncing around like prats.

  I said, “Please, pleasey please tell me what Tom said.”

  “Well he said…”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Well he said…he didn’t know anything.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Robbie is having a break from farming in Kiwi-a-gogo, but he doesn’t know how long he is staying.”

  Is that Detective Inspector Jas of Scotland Yard’s idea of finding out stuff?

  I wanted to kick her in the shins, but just in the knickers of time I remembered that she is my best pally and I gave her my “interested” smile.

  Jas was starting to say, “Yes, so I don’t really know if he likes you or not,” when Wet Lindsay slimed up alongside me with Astonishingly Dim Monica as sidekick slug and weed.

  Wet Lindsay’s hair extensions have been redone, how vair vair chav and naff she is. Having longer hair only draws attention to her lack of forehead and general octopus tendencies.

  I forced myself to look at Wet Lindsay’s forehead as if Jas had told me a good joke about it and laugh merrily. Wet Lindsay said to me, “What have you got to laugh about, Nicolson? Have you caught sight of yourself in a mirror?”

  Oh my aching sides!!! How I laughed. Not. Astonishingly Dim Monica did, though, sniggering and snorting like a fool on fool tablets. I just said, “How very natural your hair looks, Lindsay. It really suits you and brings out all your best features, especially your knees.”

  She went a bit red round the earlobes and said, “Prat.”

  Charming. Absolutely charming. I said to Jas as we went into the hall, “Charming, utterly utterly charming. Who wouldn’t want to go out with her?”

  ace gang headquarters

  break

  Rosie blew a bubble-gum bubble that exploded all over her nose. Very amusing. She had a big blob hanging off her nose like a huge bogey.

  She said, “Look how it dangles about. I bet I can swing it round and round in time to some music. Like a snot disco. You lot sing something jolly and I’ll improvise on bogey work.”

  five minutes later

  I think despite being slightly singed in the oven of luuurve, I may be going to die of laughing. The snot disco dance is officially born. Danced to the tune of EastEnders, it is, “Swing your snot to the left, swing to the right. Full turn, shoulder shrugging, now nod to the front, dangle dangle, hands on shoulders and kick kick to the right, dangle dangle, kick kick to the left, dangle dangle and then full snot around and shimmy to the ground.”

  Excellent in every way.

  As we strolled back for an action-packed morning of being bored and depressed I said to the gang, “I bet we could have the snot coming out of our nostrils all during German and Herr Kamyer wouldn’t notice. Or if he does, we could pretend we have really bad colds. Hand over the bubble gum, girls, and get chewing!”

  german

  It was a triumph, darling, a triumph!!! We were all translating from our textbooks—what larks! The Koch family were off on another camping trip, taking an enormous amount of food with them, as usual. In our books there are hilariously bad illustrations of the Koch family, drawn by a blind person. Mrs. Koch looks vair like Herr Kamyer in a frock. I never get tired of the Kochs. In fact, I am thinking of writing to the author of the textbook (A. Schmidt, no, I’m not joking), and asking where the Kochs live. I want to write a letter to them, thanking them for the endless hours of fun they have given us all.

  I put up my hand to ask a pressing Koch question. When Herr Kamyer noticed my hand blowing in the wind he said, “Jah, Georgia?”

  “Herr Kamyer, there is a strange-looking thing in one of the pictures of the Kochs. It looks like a very tiny poo on a plate. But that doesn’t seem right.”

  Herr Kamyer blinked through his moley glasses. “Ah, bring up ze picture, Georgia, und we will see.”

  I quicky attached my bubble-gum bogey as I pretended to sneeze into my hankie and went up to his desk with the snot rag still covering my nose.

  Herr Kamyer didn’t notice. He is so INTERESTED in things; it’s tragic, really. He actually seems to believe that we want to learn things. I put the textbook down in front of him at the picture of the Kochs and pointed to the poo on a plate.

  “Ach so, Georgia, der spangleferkel…oh jah, I remember ven as a youngen ve vent into the voods camping, we would cook up the spangleferkel and sing our songs around ze campfire. The fun ve had camping. You vould have loved it, girls.”

  I still had my hankie out to disguise the bogey, but when he started humming, “Gif me ze campfire light und komt mit me to der liebe liebe Rhein,” and took hi
s glasses off to clean them. Or perhaps he was crying. Who knows? Who cares? Anyway, when he did that, I took the opportunity to let the bogey run free and wild. I even did a bit of the bogey dance slightly behind him and managed to get the hankie back in place before he finished. When I walked back to my desk the whole class spontaneously clapped. Herr Kamyer thought it was for his crap camping song and bowed. Quite sensationally German.

  five minutes later

  Sadly, Herr Kamyer really thinks we love his camping stories. He’s going on and on about what they did. How they sang songs and cooked over the campfire.

  twenty minutes later

  Swapping notes. Rosie wrote, “Dear fellow loons, Let us have a scoring system for bogey work. Gee gets 5 points for her excellent letting the bogey run free and wild over Herr Kamyer’s head. Similar acts earn 5 points and the first to get to 20 gets free Jammy Dodgers for life. Well, for a bit, anyway. Ro Ro, advisor to the stars xxxxx.”

  Of course there is always a dog in the manger of life. Jas wrote back and said it was “silly” and “childish.” Hilarous really, coming from someone who practically snogs owls. Ellen was dithering about. Even in her notes. She wrote, “Hi everyone, it’s me. Erm, about the snot disco, well, you know, I don’t know. Like, er, what if we er, get into er, like trouble? What do you think, or something?

  Er…Ellen

  xxx”

  on our way to french

  Jas and Ellen have formed their own little breakaway gang and they are living in a snot-free zone. They should grow up.

  french

  Drat and dratty drat drat Rosie is catching up pointswise by letting her bogey dangle over Mme. Slack’s head as Mme. Slack is checking her homework. We were all trying not to laugh and Mme. Slack must have sussed something because she unexpectedly looked up and nearly got the pretend bogey in her eye. As she was looking at Rosie, Rosie casually popped the “snot” into her mouth and started chewing.

  Mme. Slack went ballisticisimus and Rosie has got detention.

  4:10 p.m.

  Home time for some. As we went by the hall we saw Rosie’s face at the window. She pressed her nose against the pane of glass so that it spread out like a trapped piglet. Vair funny. She mouthed “I love you all,” and then disappeared from view.