‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’. Louise Rennison

      “Well, you know Dave the Laugh?”

      DID I KNOW DAVE THE LAUGH????!!!!!!

      I sounded a bit vague. “I know Dave the woman, but Dave the laugh…? Oh er, Dave the Laugh…yes, what about him?”

      “Well, you know I really think he’s groovy and so on and he did the lip nibbling thing, and that was, you know, quite groovy and not, you know, ungroovy…and how I have thought he is quite groovy for a long time and lip nibbling would, like, mean he thought I was groovy as well…”

      (It was going to be the twenty-second century at this rate by the time she got round to telling me what in the name of Father Christmas’s elfin mates Nobby and Les she was on about.)

      She was still rambling on for England. “Well, anyway, it’s nearly Tuesday.”

      “Yes and…?”

      “Well, he hasn’t called me yet,” she went on. “Well, what should I do?”

      “Did he say he’d call?” (Not that I am remotely interested in what my ex-snogees say. I am just being a great pal.)

      “Not exactly.”

      “What did he say exactly?”

      “He said, ‘I’m away laughing on a fast camel – see you later.’”

      “Oh.”

      “What?”

      “It’s the old ‘see you later’ thing, isn’t it?”

      “You mean it might be see you later, as in see you later not see you later?”

      “Exactamondo.”

      She went on and on about Dave the L and about how surely he wouldn’t nip libble her if he didn’t like her, etc., etc.…I was so tired I tried to lie down on the floor, but couldn’t because of my rollers. Good Lord, what am I? The Oracle of Delphinium?

      Eventually she rang off.

      10:00 p.m.

      What if Ellen finds out about me and Dave the Laugh? Will she still like me and realise that it is just one of those things? Or will she beat me to within an inch of my life?

      How would I feel if the boot was on the other cheek?

      I wish I wasn’t so caring and empathetic. As Hawkeye said in English, I have a very vivid imagination.

      10:15 p.m.

      Actually what she said was that I had a “hideous” imagination. But she is just jealous because she has no life to speak of (apart from torturing us).

      10:40 p.m.

      My nose feels very heavy. I’d better have a look at it in case there is a lurking lurker situation.

      10:47 p.m.

      Hmm. I can’t see anything. It doesn’t get any smaller, though. I must make sure I always suck it in when I see the Sex God full on.

      10:55 p.m.

      On the plus side, my nungas don’t seem any more sticky out than they are normally. Perhaps they have stopped growing. Or maybe they are on Christmas vacation, before they burst (quite literally) into life in spring.

      11:00 p.m.

      I’ll just give them a quick measure.

      11:05 p.m.

      Sacré bloody bleu and also mon Dieu!! They measure thirty-eight inches!! That is more than a yard. There must be something wrong with the tape measure.

      11:10 p.m.

      I’ve done it again and it’s still the same. It amazes me that I can lumber around at all. It’s like carrying two small people around with me.

      I’m really worried now. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this sort of thing. I know there is an unseen power at work of which we have little comprehension, but I don’t really feel I can consult with Jesus about my basoomas.

      Or Buddha.

      Anyway, I don’t want to offend Buddha and so on, just in case He exists, which I am sure He does…but…I have seen some statues of Buddha and frankly his nunga-nungas are not small either.

      Midnight

      When I was in M&S the other Saturday, I saw a sign that said they had a breast measuring service (top job…not). Maybe I should get properly measured by a basooma professional and learn the truth about my condition(s).

      1:00 a.m.

      Angus is on the road to recovery. I can hear him serenading the Prat Poodles with a medley of his latest hits: “Yowl!” and “Yowl 2 the remix”.

      I got up to look. He is so brave in the face of his pain. I really love him, even if he has destroyed half my tights. He could have just given in, but no, there he was, biffing the Prat Brothers like normal. Naomi was parading up and down on the Next Doors’ window sill, sticking her bottom in the air and so on. She is an awful minx. She is making a mockery of a sham of her so-called love for Angus. It’s like in that old crap song where the bloke is wounded in the Vietnam War and his wife goes off with other men because he can’t get out of his wheelchair. He sings, “Ru-beeee, don’t take your love to town.”

      That is what Angus would sing. “Naom-eeeee, don’t take your love to town.” If he could sing. Or speak. And had a wheelchair.