Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants

by Louise Rennison

  12:00 p.m.

  I think snow wear quite suits me. My hat deemphasizes on the conk front which is always a good thing. Lashings and lashings of mascara and lip gloss for extra warmth and I am just about ready.

  I managed to sneak out of the house without Libby hearing me. I love her, but she is being a pain about this cat costume thing—she won’t take it off and it is beginning to be a bit on the pingy pongo side.

  1:00 p.m.

  I was a bit late because Angus kept following me and I had to chuck snowballs at him to dodge him.

  Dave the Laugh, Ellen, Jools, Rollo, Mabs, Sam, Rosie, Sven, Jas and some lads I didn’t know were sledging down a hill on the back fields. Well, apart from Ellen, who was in a ditherama at the top of the hill. She was not exactly dressed for downhill sledging (her skirt was about half an inch long and she was wearing false eyelashes). But neither was anybody else exactly dressed for downhill sledging, and that wasn’t stopping them. As the rest of them whizzed down the hill in a sledge sandwich—boy-girl-boy-girl sledge—Ellen was fiddling with her hair and gazing down the hillside.

  She said, “I’ve been going out with him for nearly three weeks now. In hours, that is…er…a lot.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do you think he likes me as much as I like him?”

  I didn’t say anything. I am keeping my wisdomosity to myself.

  “Do you think I should ask him?”

  “What?”

  “Ask him how much he likes me?”

  “Er…I don’t know…I mean, boys are, you know, not girls with trousers on, are they?” I astonished even myself with my outburst of extreme wisdomosity. Ellen looked at me all blinky and expectant, like I was a fortune-teller or something. I felt a bit like that bloke in Julius Caesar, the one who says, “Beware the idle of March.”

  Ellen asked me why she shouldn’t ask him. Good question. Good. “Er…because Dave might feel like you are putting pressure on his individualosity.”

  “His individualosity?”

  “Yes.”

  “What, by asking him if he likes me as much as I like him?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, what should I do instead, then?”

  “Be cool, and, you know…er, funny and relaxed…and fun and happening and…er…so on.” What am I talking about? Alarmingly, Ellen seemed to think I made sense.

  By this time, Dave and the gang had struggled back up the hill with the sledge. Dave said, “Nippy noodles, isn’t it?” He was smiling at me. He’s got a really cool, sort of naughty, smile. It makes you think of lip nibbling. “Look, girls, I couldn’t put my hands down the front of your jumpers, could I? To warm them up? There would be nothing rudey-dudey in it, you understand. To me your nunga-nungas are just a pair of giant mittens.”

  Ellen looked a bit puzzled. As I have said many times, I wonder if Ellen is quite a good enough laugh for Dave the Laugh.

  friday december 31st

  new year’s eve

  2:00 p.m.

  The ace gang are going to SEVEN parties, but as a mark of respect Jas and I have decided not to go with them. We are having our own widows’ celebration.

  Actually, I would rather go out than be cooped up with Jas, but I know that Dave the Laugh will be there and I don’t want to entice my bottom into another display of redness. Especially as I have got snogging withdrawal VERY badly.

  11:00 p.m.

  This is the glorious start to my New Year…

  Jas and I stayed in and watched people on television kissing each other and waving their kilts around. Jas is staying over and my so-called parents and Libby have gone out to some sad party. They actually asked if I would like to go with them. When I indicated that I would rather set fire to myself they left me alone. However, as a special treat Mum got us some food. I said to Dad, “Jas is more of a champagne girl, really, so if you could just get a few bottles. I think that would make our fabulous evening go with a swing.”

  He didn’t even bother to reply.

  On the stroke of midnight, Jas said, “Shall we?”

  And I said, “Jas, don’t even think about asking me to snog you.”

  She got all huffy. “No, I wasn’t going to. I was going to say, shall we have a celebratory disco inferno dancing experience with the aid of soft toys?”

  12:30 a.m.

  And a happy New Year to one and all!!!

  Our New Year “Let’s go down the disco” experience, with the aid of Charlie Horse and Teddy as partners, was actually quite good fun on the funosity scale. Although I was slightly worried about Jas because she did actually snog Teddy.

  She said, “I’m pretending it’s Tom.”

  I said, “Teddy is very very like Tom in many ways—his furry ears, for instance.”

  We were just biffing each other with Charlie and Teddy when the phone rang.

  It was SG and Tom phoning from the Isle of Man. Yeahhhhhhh!!!

  The Sex God said, “Happy New Year, gorgeous, see you soon.” Then he had to go and toss dwarfs or whatever it is they do in the Isle of Man to celebrate. I read that they still beat criminals with bits of old twigs there, so anything could happen.

  Jas was Mrs. Moony Knickers after talking to Hunky, and we just went back to watching people snogging and singing on TV.

  1:15 a.m.

  Ho hum pig’s bum.

  When my “family” got home, as a hilarious treat, Dad had brought home a bit of coal. He said, “It’s called ‘first footing.’” It should be called “first loon in.” He burst in like the original red-faced loon and said, “Happy New Year.” Then he tried to hug me and Jas. We beat him off with Teddy and Charlie Horse and then Libby joined in and hung on to his beard, as Jas and I made a bid for freedom to my room.

  sunday january 2nd

  11:30 a.m.

  To keep our spirits up, Jas and I made a list of things to take to Froggyland with us.

  “We are going to have to hire an extra ferry to take our hair products over,” I told her.

  monday january 3rd

  2:00 p.m.

  Moped around at Jas’s. We are united in widow sadness. We listened to sad songs and practiced being interviewed on Michael Parkinson. Jas is hopeless at it. When I (as Parky) asked her what her hopes for the future were, she said, “World peace and more freely available organic vegetables.” How interesting is that?

  Not, is the correct answer.

  Ooooh, I am soooo bored and lonely. NOTHING happens around here.

  I lolloped home up our street. At least Angus is happy, though. He is lolling around on the wall overlooking Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road. He is a very proud dad. I wonder how long it will be before we are allowed to name the kittykats? Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road are being very unreasonable about it all and won’t discuss it.

  When I got back to the house Mum said, “Robbie rang you. The number’s beside the phone.”

  I got the usual jelloid knickers (and added leg tremblers and a quick spasm of quivering-a-gogo).

  Should I phone him back or just wait for him to phone again? I must think.

  Perhaps if I ate some chocolate orange egg it would calm me down. There was one left under the tree.

  The front room was a nightmare of beardosity. Vati had some of his mates from work and Uncle Eddie round watching the football. He was slurping beer and being all jolly. “Georgia, this is Mike, Nick, Paul and Bingo…the lads!”

  Lads? Since when were lads eighty-five? And a half.

  The great tragedy is that the “lads” are going to be forming a football team. I was about to say, “Should men in your physical condition hurl themselves around a football pitch?” But then Dad dropped his bombshell.

  “Georgia, what is this with Robbie? Why is he phoning you all the time and coming round? How old is he?”

  I said with great dignosity, “Father, I am afraid I can’t discuss my private life with you as I have a date with Lord of the Flies.”

  He said, “Who
’s he, then?” And the “lads” all laughed.

  I said, again with great dignosity, “It is a book by William Golding that I have to study for my homework.”

  10:30 p.m.

  I can’t phone Robbie because then Dad will know that I am phoning him and that will make him even more full of suspiciosity.

  11:00 p.m.

  Lord of the Flies is so boring…and so weird. I always thought boys were very very strange, but I didn’t think they would start eating each other. Bloody hell, I must make sure I never end up on an island with a bunch of boys!

  wednesday january 5th

  Tom arrived back from the family Chrimboli. Jas was ridiculously excited. She is a fair-weather pal, because I know I will be dumped now that her so-called boyfriend is back. And SG isn’t back until next Tuesday.

  friday january 7th

  Snowed like billio overnight. Angus leapt out of the front door like he normally does and completely disappeared from view, the snow was so deep. He loves it and is leaping and sneezing about in the back garden.

  Rosie and the gang are going sledging down the back fields. But I am not in the mood for winter sports until my beloved returns. I explained this to Rosie and she said, “Make love, not war.” What is she talking about?

  Besides, I saw Ellen and Dave the Laugh holding hands down at Churchill Square yesterday and it made me feel a bit funny. I don’t know why.

  saturday january 8th

  10:00 a.m.

  Robbie phoned from East Jesus (or Prestan-a-gogogogoch…anyway, somewhere in Welsh country). The gigs are going really well, but he is shattered and can’t talk much because his throat is sore from singing. He said, “I miss you, gorgeous.”

  Boo hoo, this is so sad.

  Still, he is back on Tuesday. I may distract myself by doing snogging exercises to limber up.

  sunday january 9th

  3:00 p.m.

  My exercise regime: doing my yoga sun salute ten times and then pucker-ups (like Mick Jagger) forty times.

  6:00 p.m.

  Stalag 14 starts again tomorrow. Shall we never be free? On the bright side, the snow gives a very good comedy opportunity for an outing of glove animal.

  8:00 p.m.

  Rang around the ace gang.

  “Rosie.”

  “D’accord. It’s me.”

  “Is it you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Rang back. “I’ll just say this: Operation Glove Animal and Snow Blindness.”

  “Pip, pip.”

  Phoned Jools and Mabs and Ellen, who are all prepared. Then I phoned Mrs. Useless Knickers. “Jas, it’s snowing. Prepare glove animal.”

  “Oh no, we’ll only get bad conduct marks immediately.”

  “Yes, but think of the hilariosity of it.”

  “But…”

  “Jas, if you can’t think of the hilariosity, think of the severe duffing you will get if you don’t do it.”

  monday january 10th

  8:30 a.m.

  Rendez-voused at the bottom of the hill, where we all clipped on our glove ears under our berets and put on sunglasses. As we bobbled up the hill, Rosie was nearly going to the piddly-diddly department on the spot as she was laughing so much.

  8:55 a.m.

  Mabs did actually walk into a tree because she couldn’t see through her sunglasses. Oh, how we laughed.

  As we approached the school gate, we could see Hawkeye lurking. We tucked our ears up under our berets but kept our sunglasses on.

  Hawkeye tutted and ferreted at us as we walked by. She said, “What is this nonsense?”

  I said, “It’s to prevent snow blindness, Mrs. Heaton.”

  She said, “It’s a pity there’s no way to prevent stupidity.” Which I think is quite bad manners for someone who is teaching the youth of today, but I didn’t say so.

  tuesday january 11th

  8:25 a.m.

  Sex God back today AND the kittykats have opened their eyes!!! They are soooooo sweet and, as I explained to Jas, “Now they can see to fight properly.”

  9:00 p.m.

  Robbie came round to see me as soon as he got back. How cool is that?

  When he arrived at the door, Dad called me and then he and Mum spent about a million years raising their eyebrows and looking “wise.” And trying to be modern and to get on with the youth, which is ludicrous.

  Vati started to talk about Kiwi-a-gogo land. I said, “Fancy going for a walk, Robbie? I’m a bit…er…hot.”

  And Dad said, “It’s pitch-black and about minus seven outside.” He was going to go on and on, but then I saw Mutti give him a look, a “modern, understanding mum look,” that said, Come on, Bob, remember when you were that age? Which is a physical impossibility for my dad. How very very embarrassing. Shut up, stop looking, shut up, shut up.

  Vati said, “Be back by eleven.”

  Oh, how sad and embarrassing.

  Robbie took my hand and once we got away from our house into the dark street he snogged me. Yipppppeeeee!

  midnight

  Cor, bloody nippy noodles out there. But I have my love to keep me warm (that and the extra pair of knickers I put on).

  I must say, I think my puckering exercises have paid off, because I haven’t got any aches or pains. Robbie told me about being on tour. He said he wasn’t sure that he really liked it. But I’m sure that is just a phase he is going through. Once we are squillionaires he will change his mind.

  1:00 a.m.

  I wonder why he asked me if I liked the countryside? Maybe he wants us to go and snog in the great outdoors?

  wednesday january 12th

  8:15 a.m.

  Dad brought me a cup of tea in bed this morning! I said, “Vati, why are you waking me up in the middle of the night? Are you on fire?”

  I had to pull the sheets up really quickly in case he could see any bits of my body. He hung around after he had put the cup down. He was sort of all red and beardy.

  “Georgia, I’m not trying to…well, I know you have your own mind…and Robbie seems like a really, you know, great bloke…but he’s, you know, a big lad and well…well, it’s just that…well, don’t get too serious too soon.”

  What in the name of Buddha’s bra is he going on about now?

  Then he ruffled my hair (very very annoying) and went out. Robbie’s a “big lad.” What does that mean?

  I really will have to break the news soon that I am going off on tour to Hamburger-a-gogo land with The Stiff Dylans. Vati obviously doesn’t think I am capable of maturiosity. But he is wrong.

  Wrongy wrong wrong.

  I wonder how much money I will need for le gay Paree weekend, for essentials and so on? I might test the water vis-à-vis spondulicks for my trip to Hamburger-a-gogo land with a simple enquiry about available finance for Froggyland.

  front room

  7:30 p.m.

  Vati was actually doing a push-up when I came in. I hope he is insured.

  “Vati.”

  “Urgh.”

  “Can I have two hundred and twenty pounds for my weekend in Paris, please?”

  I thought I was going to have to use my first-aid skills on Vati. Which would have been a shame as I only know how to force a boiled sweet out of someone if they are choking to death.

  saturday january 15th

  11:00 a.m.

  The snow has melted, thank the Lord. It is so hard on the elderly. However, they can be quite suspicious, the elderly. I offered to go shopping for Mr. and Mrs. Next Door yesterday in case they were frightened of going out. And they were quite surly about it. I said to Mr. Next Door, “I couldn’t help noticing that you are even more unsteady than usual on your feet in this kind of weather.” And he told me to go annoy someone else, which is a bit rude, I think.

  2:00 p.m.

  As everyone is out, SG came round. We snogged for thirty-five minutes without stopping (I timed it because I could see the clock over Robbie’s
shoulder). Rosie rang whilst he was here and said they were having an indoor (!) barbecue at her house tonight. The theme is “sausages.” Robbie couldn’t make it, though, because he is rehearsing.

  Bye-bye, dreamboat.

  8:30 p.m.

  I didn’t go to the sausage extravaganza. Heaven only knows what sausages would bring out in me; I was bad enough at the fish party. I will concentrate on my French vocabulary instead so that I can ask for things in Paris.

  9:00 p.m.

  Sausage is saucisson in French. Shut up, brain.

  9:05 p.m.

  I am a bit worried because Robbie turned up this afternoon not in his groovy mini, but on a secondhand bike.

  11:30 p.m.

  I hope he doesn’t suggest we go for bike rides together. It is minus a hundred and eighty degrees, and the last time I rode a bike my skirt got caught in the back wheel and I had to walk home in my knickers.

  frogland extravaganza

  monday january 17th

  stalag 14

  quatre days to our frogland extravaganza french

  M’sieur “Call Me Henri” really is sooo cool and gorgey. He told us what we are going to do on our school trip to la belle France and what we should bring. We’re going to stay in Hôtel Gare du Nord and visit the Champs Elysées and the Pompidou Centre. Loads of très bon stuff. Madame Slack came in and took all our forms that we had to take home for signing—the forms saying that even if we were set fire to by raving French people, the staff are not responsible, etc. She also said, “Girls, on Saturday there will be a choice of excursion in the morning. You can go on a grand tour of the sewage system of Paris with me, go up the Eiffel Tower with M’sieur Hilbert or to the Louvre with Herr Kamyer. Please come and sign up for your choice.”

  As we queued up we argued about which trip to go on as a gang. Jas was the only one who wanted to go down into the sewers. I said to Jas, “What is the point of going down the sewers?”

  “Because it is historical and we might learn a lot of stuff we don’t know.”

  I said, “Au contraire, we will learn a lot of things we DO know. We will learn that French sewers are like English sewers, only French.”

  Jas looked like a goggle-eyed ferret.

  I explained. “It is just tunnels full of French poo—how different can French poo be from English poo?”