Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me

by Louise Rennison

  As I went up the stairs, she said, “Hang on a minute—those are my bloody Chanel shoes in your bag!!!”

  Damnity damn damn.

  How much shouting can one family do???

  And what a bloody fuss about nothing. Angus had, from the kindness of his own heart, taken a gift into the Prat poodles’ kennel. Alright, it was a half-alive pigeon that was probably flapping about a bit. And yes, the Prat brothers had fallen into the pond as they tried to escape. But what normal person dyes their poodles blue?

  And then complains if they fall into a pond that THEY built?

  That is the question.

  1:30 a.m.

  It’s all gone quiet now, thank the Lord.

  What a fiasco of a sham. At one stage, there was shouting inside and outside my house.

  Even Libby woke up and shouted through the open window and threw Mr. Cheese at Mr. Next Door before she snuggled back into bed…my bed.

  I tried to get in as well, but Libby, Gordy, Angus and Mr. Potato Head were all sleeping horizontally. In the end, I went in to Libby’s bed.

  I had to feel my way in the dark.

  I didn’t turn the light on because I really didn’t want to see her sheets. I’ll just say this: They crackled when I got in. And my feet touched something soft at the bottom. Pray God it was Play-Do….

  how to make any twit fall in love with you

  sunday september 25th

  morning

  Mutti and Vati are not speaking to each other….

  It was all, “Would you ask your mother to pass me the butter?” etc.

  So childish.

  Still, I had a Luuurve God, so what did I care? I was just about to go up to my room for a bit of a daydream about our poptastic lives together when Dad said, “Will you explain to your mother why Uncle Eddie and I were in the garden in our underpants?”

  I said, “Certainly, Father. Mum, Dad is going out with Uncle Eddie. Face it. Move on.”

  Dad hit me over the head with his newspaper.

  “Tell her we were practicing a new routine for the baldy-o-gram when the fool next door started—”

  Mum interrupted, “Tell your father I am sick of his japes with his pals.”

  I said, “She says you should go and live in a house with men like yourself and leave us alone. We’ll write.”

  That did it.

  Dad has “roared” off in his “car.”

  in my room

  Well, every clud has a silver lining. Dad “roaring” off having the numpty means that we won’t be able to go to the Wild Park to look at more horned budgies, etc.

  I’m distracting Libby from poking Bum-ty with a fork with cheese on it, by reading her Heidi in a Chinese accent. She is hysterical with laughter. It’s making me laugh actually. I do love my sister. There is something so gorgey about her little dimply face. She’s got amazingly long eyelashes.

  When we got to the famous wheelchair falling off the mountaintop bit she looked up from laughing and then said, “I lobe my funny Gingky.” And gave me a really big cuddle.

  Blimey, I got tears in my eyes as well.

  I’m having a blubbing fest. On my own.

  ten minutes later

  I could hear Mum on the phone and then she called up the stairs.

  “Georgia, get dressed. We’re off on our lovely trip to the Wild Park.”

  Oh God.

  twenty minutes later

  We are off to the Wild Park with two of Mutti’s mates, Pippy and Scottish Jo. They picked us up in their car. Wow, I am actually riding in a proper car that people don’t point to and laugh at. Also it’s quite peaceful because Mum, Pippy and Jo just talk all the time. Libby is combing what is left of Panda. She tried to warm him up by putting him in the oven. Most of his bottom is burnt to a crisp. She is happy, though.

  Gor blimey, Mum and her mates talk WUBBISH. I am glad that me and my mates are not so superficial. They are just talking about men and clothes and men.

  I can just dollydaydream about my boyfriend and what I will wear when I next see him.

  I must say I can’t really believe that he likes me.

  And really fancies me.

  Wow.

  I’m a bit tired from last night and my lips ache a bit.

  In a nice way.

  I wonder if you can strain lips by too much snogging?

  Jas said she did once. She got a sort of pucker spazerama.

  Didn’t she do puckering exercises for it?

  Pucker, relax.

  Pucker, relax.

  two minutes later

  Erlack, she will soon be kissing Wet Lindsay unless something good happens.

  Maybe I could suggest to Miss Wilson that we do mime kissing?

  I am a genius!! Miss Wilson loves mime.

  I wonder if Rudi and Miss Wilson have snogged yet?

  fifteen minutes later

  Even though I am trying not to listen, Mum and her mates are going to join this women’s group that teaches you how to become a goddess and make men do anything for you.

  Blimey.

  It sounds a bit like How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You.

  Apparently the nub and the thrust is that men like to do stuff for women. So, you ask them to do something and then you say thank you. And that is how you train them.

  I said, “Are there any dog biscuits involved?”

  But they were too full of themselves to reply.

  wild park

  Wow and wowzee wow. We had the tippy-top of times. Honestly. When we got there I said I was very happy to stay in the car.

  I said, “I’ve seen a bison on Look North or something and also some monkeys that Lady Dave Attenborough was lolling about with and that will do me, thank you.”

  But I was glad as a glad thing on glad tablets that Mum made me get out.

  Because we found Angus’s wild family.

  Honestly.

  His Scottish wildcat cousins.

  They were sooo cool. The kittens looked just like Angus when I first found him in the garden in Och Aye land. Doing flying face-pouncing. One kitten would unexpectedly and for no reason hurl itself through the air and pounce directly on another kitten’s face. Then it would grab on with its front paws and do bunny kicks with its back legs.

  Libby kept yelling, “Me want naaaice pussycats,” and trying to climb into their cage with them.

  One of the keepers said, “They are not pets. They are wild animals.”

  I said, “You don’t need to tell me that. I used to keep Angus on a lead, but he ate it. Let us in, mister.”

  Libby even said, “Please, Mr. Arsey man.”

  ten minutes later

  We’re in!!!

  Oh, what a hoot. Libby and I had a bucket each of dead chicks and some rabbit legs.

  We took some photos of us tugging one end of a rabbit leg and the kittykats pulling on the other end. In between spitting at us.

  I love them, I love them.

  We have got some pictures to take home with us to show Angus what his family look like and also a little tartan mousy.

  Mum and her mates were ridiculously embarrassing around the keepers, who were quite fit, in an overall and welligoggy way….

  on the way home

  Libby is “feeding” tartan mousy with bits of chicken feather she has stuffed in her welligogs. I hope that is all she has down there. She was very interested in what the wild kittens’ poo looked like.

  5:30 p.m.

  When we got home, Dad wasn’t in so Mum decided to have a bath.

  She is sensationally cheered up and all full of herself now.

  I said, “What’s for supper?”

  And she said to me, “Find something in the fridge. And give some to Bibbs. She’s allowed to watch children’s TV for half an hour. I’m having a long aromatherapy bath. I will use ylang ylang, I think, for its sensual overtones.”

  I said, “Mum, you don’t need sensual overtones, you need sensual undertones.”

  Sh
e didn’t get it, though, she just went rambling on.

  “This is ‘me’ time.”

  And she went off into the bathroom.

  ten minutes later

  I made Bibbs and me cheese on toast, but remembered that we must eat a balanced diet, so put some tomato sauce on for the vit. C content. If my legs start getting all bendy like Grandvati’s because of rickets, I hope Mum will find her ylang-ylang-smelling skin a comfort.

  Libby is sharing her sandwich with tartan mousy. They are watching Pudsey and Sudsey Go on Holiday or something. Anyway, weird creatures with no necks in bathing suits.

  As I left, she went to get her swimming costume and rubber ring. She lobes Pudsey and Sudsey’s holiday.

  in my bedroom

  ten minutes later

  Mum’s not the only one who can have “me” time. I can have “me” time for me to have some “me” time.

  Aaaah…sooo, the Luuurve God.

  I’ll start with the tongue-kissing episode and—

  “GET OUT! Oooh, how disgusting. Don’t stand on there, you’ll…” SPLASH!!!!!

  Then more yelling and splashing and Mum saying, “Don’t let it touch my…Ohmygod, it’s touched me…. Put that snorkel, owwww…”

  MIAOOOOWWWWWW…

  “Lalalalalala…heggyheggyho…”

  What the hell was going on?

  four minutes later

  Mum’s “me” time turned into “us” time.

  I went down to see what had happened and there was water everywhere in the bathroom. Mum was standing in a bath towel, shouting. Libby was in her bathing costume with a snorkel, sitting in the bath singing, “Bum bum pooey pooey bum bum” in two centimeters of water. And Angus and Gordy were sneezing and soaking and trying to scrabble up the sides of the bath.

  Mum stormed off into her bedroom and I said to Libby, who was now putting her rubber ring on, “What happened, Bibbsy?”

  She looked at me cross-eyed, like I was a fool, and said very deliberately, “Me came on my HOLIDAYS wif my fwends. Get in, Gingie.”

  back in my bedroom

  All is calm again.

  I will get into my bed to look at my part (oo-er) in Rom and Jul.

  Lovely and snugly, I may just have a little zizz before I settle down to…

  Not.

  Have you any idea what it is like to have two wet cats, a soaking tartan mouse and a toddler covered in soap in your bed?

  fifteen minutes later

  Libby has dried off a bit now and the cats have bogged off to murder stuff. They only stayed in my bed long enough to get warm and dampen the sheets.

  Libby still has her rubber ring on, but it could be worse, she could have Mr. Fish in here with us.

  three minutes later

  It IS worse.

  She has got Mr. Fish in here with us.

  five minutes later

  If I hear “Maybe it’s beCOD I’m a Londoner” one more time, I may have a nervy spaz.

  three minutes later

  Mr. Fish’s batteries went. I will never be mean about Baby Jesus again.

  Also I was just saying to Libby that she should lie down and have a little snooze when she dropped off to sleep, sitting up.

  Amazing.

  I carried her to her own room, which wasn’t very easy actually with the rubber ring, but it does mean I have the whole of my bed to myself!!!!

  ten minutes later

  Now then, back to Billy Shakespeare land. Otherwise known as “Twits in Tights.”

  ten minutes later

  Mercutio just lurks around Rom, more or less telling him off, and then dies. I am going to call him Merc-lurk-io.

  twelve minutes later

  I wish I could be bothered to get up and phone Jas. In Act II she has a whole night of snogging with her boyfriend, Wet Lindsay. She will have got further on the Snogging Scale than she has with Hunky. I bet she wishes she hadn’t been so mean about my brilliant papier-mâché head idea now.

  She is vair stubborn.

  Right, I am going to get some shut-eye.

  10:32 p.m.

  Oh, how vair vair inconsiderate some people are. I can hear Mum’s voice booming all over the house. She is on the blower to one of her mad aquarobic mates.

  Mum said, “Well, I’m deffo going to do it. At the very least it will shake Bob up, and stop him being so bloody lazy. Madame Betty said be there at seven. The workshop actually starts at seven thirty p.m…. What? Oh, yes, OK, look, I’ll just get the list, hang on.”

  I heard the phone being put down and Mum going off somewhere.

  Oh, really, some people are trying to sleep.

  I could hear her scuffling around.

  I shouted down, “Mum, it is a school night, you know. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  Libby shouted from her bedroom, “Shut up, Ginger.”

  one minute later

  Mum was just going on and on.

  “Right, you have to bring a towel, a sarong to wear…it says you can keep your pants on if you wish. Erm…some colored scarves and a boiled egg. Yep, yep. Oh and some oil. OK, see you there…. S’laters.”

  God. Her workshop thing sounds horrific. What does a boiled egg and colored scarves have to do with being a goddess? It sounds more like one of Miss Wilson’s improvised drama workshops. Although, thank the Lord, Miss Wilson has never said, “You can keep your pants on if you wish.”

  How utterly horrific.

  ten minutes later

  Oh, that reminds me, I mustn’t forget to ask Miss Wilson about fake blood for my dying scene.

  We’ve got another read-through on Thursday. I wonder if Jas’s new boyfriend will be there. She might be. Maybe I could accidentally chop her head off with my sword.

  two minutes later

  Ouch. I just lay on my pouch by mistake. I must remember to replenish my supplies. You must never be caught with an empty pouch.

  phone rang

  Oh, this is so selfish!!!!

  I yelled down, “Mum, will you please not discuss your lady parts on the phone with your friends. I have an artistic temperament.”

  Mum yelled up, “Georgia, it’s Masimo, or are you asleep for school tomorrow?”

  Ohmygod.

  I tore out of bed and quickly applied a bit of lippy from my pouch. I did a quick bit of puckering up on the way down the stairs so that he could sense my Sex Kittykatnosity down the phone. (Oo-er!)

  Picked up the phone and…

  “Hello.”

  “Ciao, Cara, I just have phoned to say…”

  Then he started singing a song down the phone. Something in Italian. Also he was playing the guitar as an accompaniment. How was he holding the phone? Perhaps he had an assistant?

  It’s nice and everything, but what do you do? Nod along to it? Join in? I was just holding the phone away from my earlug, because it was a bit loud, when the key turned in the lock and Vati came in. And he looked at me with the phone and a song coming out of the end of it.

  He said, “Don’t tell me there’s a bloody singing clock now.”

  And he stumbled off into the bedroom.

  monday september 26th

  in the kitchen

  I noticed an egg boiling away. I can’t even begin to think what Mum and her mad mates are going to be doing with that.

  on the way to stalag 14

  How many times do we all have to do this? Get up, go to school, again? Before everyone admits it’s a crap idea?

  break

  Thank the Lord.

  fives court

  Brrr! Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers, it’s nippy noodles.

  We’ve buttoned our coats together like in the old days. We are quite literally a tent with six heads and sleeves.

  three minutes later

  Snuggly buggly. We have to sort of thread the snacks up to our mouths through the collar bits.

  Rosie and Jools made me laugh a lot by doing duo Twix eating. One started at one end and the other at the other end. Vair amusant
. And as Rosie said, “Strangely erotic.”

  Wet Lindsay came by, but apart from tutting at us, what is she going to punish us for? Coat abuse?

  She said, “The rest of them I am not surprised at, but I am sorry you have chosen to join in, Jas.”

  Jas didn’t say anything, but after Ms. Slime had gone off we all went, “Ooohhh,” like in “Ooohhh, get you!”

  geoggers

  We are learning about deserts.

  What would you do to survive if you got stranded in one?

  I said, “Phone a friend?”

  But, as usual, I got nuls points for my hilarious sense of fun and adventure.

  It’s all so tremendously dull. You have to put your car mirrors out to catch the sun and blind any passing plane etc. Dig a ditch and lie in it. Dear God, just kill me, that’s what I say.

  Jas, of course, is in seventh heaven.

  Her hand was shooting up all the time.

  Saying stuff like, “You could catch water at night because of the diurnal change in temperature.”

  Oh, SHUT UP!!!!

  Just as I thought I might have to pull my own head off to stop the boredom, Rosie passed me a questionnaire that she had made up.

  Dear All,

  Suppose you were stranded on a desert island with your family and with no food. Not even Jammy Dodgers. Who in your family would you eat first? Here are a few ideas.

  Who does least work?

  Who eats most?

  Who would make the most nutritious meal?

  Who would be the easiest to track down and catch?

  And my answer to all of the questions: Dad.

  p.e.

  As a “treat” and because the weather is so bad, Miss Stamp has allowed us to stay indoors. It’s a miracle really because she is such a sadist. Once she made us play hockey in the fog. You couldn’t see a thing beyond a few centimeters in front of you. You’d hit the ball off in the general direction of where you thought someone was and then go after it if you heard someone go, “Owwwww.”

  When I reached the goal, the goalie had wandered off into the fog somewhere. By the time she got back I had scored nineteen goals, but Miss Stamp disallowed them.

  Which is typical.

  When I protested, she said, “Georgia, no one else was playing, you were just running about by yourself and shooting goals into an empty net. That is not hockey.”