I lay on my arm until it went numb and then I lifted it (with the non-numb arm) on to my breasts. I wanted to see what it felt like to have a strange hand on them. It was quite nice, but what do I know? I’m too full of strange urges to think properly. Should I wear my bra to the party?

      10:05 p.m.

      Urgh, it’s horrible when the feeling starts coming back into your arm when it’s been numb.

      11:07 p.m.

      Kissing the back of your hand is no good because you can’t tell which is which – which is lip and which is hand – so you don’t get a proper sensation from either. Do boys have this trouble or do they just know how to do stuff?

      11:15 p.m.

      No, is the answer, if the “tickly bear” incident is anything to go by.

      Tuesday September 29th

      8:30 a.m.

      Biology, double maths, Froggie and geoggers. Qu-est ce que le point?

      In my room

      6:00 p.m.

      What a fiasco. Jackie and Alison decided that today was the day for the Aleisteir Crowley fandango in the 5C form room.

      It’s amazing how few people stand up to them, including the teachers.

      We all trooped up to 5C after second lunch. This in itself is a fiasco – you have to lurk outside the main door until the coast is clear, then dart to the downstairs loo, check if the coast is clear, then leap up the stairs to floor one and so on, up to the fifth floor.

      I was shattered by the time I got up there. There were seven of us all in peak condition – i.e. spluttering and coughing. Jackie said we were going to do a black art act of levitation, calling on the dark forces to help us. Oh goodie, we’re summoning the devil. What larks.

      Why, I thought, oh why am I here? Maybe if we are going to be forced to commune with the devil I could strike some sort of bargain with him, swap my dad’s soul in exchange for bigger breasts for the party on Friday.

      Abby Nicols “volunteered” to be the sacrificed one and she had to lie down on a desk. Jackie went at her head and Alison at her feet and then the rest of us spread out evenly around her. Jackie said, “Please be very quiet and concentrate, we are summoning dark forces. Put one finger of each hand underneath Abby’s body and then we will begin.”

      We all did as we were told. Then Jackie shut her eyes and started chanting in a low, husky voice, “She’s looking poorly. She’s looking poorly,” and we all had to repeat it after her one by one round the desk. Then she said, “She’s looking worse. She’s looking worse. She’s looking ill. She’s looking ill.”

      Actually, she was looking a bit peaky by this time. It went on for about five minutes as Abby’s condition deteriorated. Finally Jackie whispered, “She’s dying. She’s dying...” We all repeated it. “She’s dead. She’s dead.” She certainly did not look at all well and she was as stiff as a board. I couldn’t see her breathing.

      Then Jackie said, “Help us, oh master, to send Abby Nicols upwards.” And then she said, “Lift her up,” and it was really freaky-deaky because I just slightly lifted with my two fingers and she sort of rose up really easily as if she was light as a feather. She was right above our heads. It was weird.

      After a couple of minutes we all simultaneously got the jitters and let her down really heavily on to the desk. This seemed to perk her up a bit, because as we ran out I heard her saying, “I think I’ve broken my bottom.”

      11:00 p.m.

      I woke up with a start because I heard the bedroom door open. It just opened by itself...

      Wednesday September 30th

      7:30 a.m.

      I can’t move my head from side to side because I sat up in bed all night and I have cricked it now.

      1:00 p.m.

      Gemma said her friend Peter Dyer, the professional kisser, is going to be around tomorrow after school. All you have to do is go to his house and knock on the door after four thirty and before six thirty when his parents get home. Apparently it’s first come first served. Has it come to this? No it has not.

      9:30 p.m.

      Had to discuss again with Jas what she is going to wear on Friday. She can go in the nuddy-pants for all I care.

      

      Thursday October 1st

      4:30 p.m.

      For some reason I found myself outside Peter Dyer’s house and knocking on his door. Ellen and Jas, Jools, Patty, Sarah and Mabs were all hiding behind the hedge at the bottom of the garden. What is the matter with me? I am DESPERATE – that’s what the matter is.

      I didn’t know whether to wear lipstick or not. I don’t know what the point would be if it was just going to come off... What am I saying?

      4:31 p.m.

      Peter opened the door. He’s about seventeen and blond, sort of sleepy-looking, not unattractive in a sort of Boyzone way. I notice he is chewing gum. I hope he takes it out, otherwise I might choke to death. There is muffled giggling from behind the hedge. Peter hears it but doesn’t seem fazed.

      “Do you want to come in – er – what’s your name?”

      I say, “Georgia,” (damn, I meant to say a false name) and we go into his house.

      He has tight blue jeans on and there are those tinkly things that the Japanese have outside the doors. (Not on his jeans, obviously – on the door.) You know... wind chimes. Why do they do that? It’s such an annoying noise and do you really need to know that the wind is blowing? We’re doing Japan in geography and to annoy Hawkeye I have memorised the islands. Hokkaido, Honshu... er, well, I nearly have. I did it last year with Northern Ireland, and reciting the counties (you remember them by the mnemonic FAT LAD – Fermanagh, Antrim, Tyrone, Londonderry, Armagh, Down) can be very impressive to trot out when you are accused of not concentrating.

      Oh-oh, we are going up the stairs to Peter’s room. He hasn’t said a word. His room is much tidier than mine. He has made his bed, for a start. On the walls are posters of Denise van Outen and Miss December, and so on. On my walls there’s a poster of Reeves and Mortimer showing their bottoms and a group shot of the cast of Dad’s Army. Is this the big difference between girls and boys? Is this... oh-oh, Peter is sitting on his bed.

      “Do you want to sit down?” he says, patting the bed.

      I think, No thanks, I would rather put my head in a bag of eels, but I say, “OK,” and sit down.

      He puts his arm round me. I think of putting my arm round him like a hilarious Morecambe and Wise joke but I don’t because I remember the stuffed olive incident. Then, with his other hand, Peter turns my face towards his. It’s a good job he didn’t try that yesterday when I had rigor mortis of the head. Then he says, “Close your eyes and relax.”

      9:00 p.m.

      Phew, I suppose I am a woman now. Libby doesn’t seem to realise as she has made me wear her deely-boppers to bed. She is insisting I am a huge bee. If I say, “Look, it’s your bedtime now,” she just goes, “Bzzzz bzzz,” and looks cross.

      I have to say, “Bz bz bzzy buzz buzz,” and point at her bed with my feelers before she will go.

      9:20 p.m.

      When I got home neither Mum nor Dad seemed to notice the change in me. Mind you, I’d have to walk in with my head under my arm before Dad would get out of his chair. He’s getting very chunky.