Louise Rennison_Georgia Nicolson 05 (15 page)

That is really it for me now, I have endured too much heartbreakiosity for one lifetime. I am going to concentrate on getting good exam results and then maybe going off to the Congo (wherever that is) as a doctor to help sick people.

Even though sick people get on my nerves. I am at Dr. Clooney's on Tuesday, so I may pick up a few hints about not letting moaning minnies get on my nerves. Surely there are no Mr. Next Doors in the Congo?

I am sooooo depressed.

4:30 p.m.

About eighty messages from Jas. I suppose I should phone her.

5:00 p.m.

“Jas, it's me.”

“Hi, Georgia. Tom told me how weird you were with Masimo. I thought you really rated him.”

“I do.”

“Well, why did you just go off waggling your head to a Rolf Harris song?”

Before I could explain, she started her famous rambling.

“Tom and I have come to an agreement, we're going to swap rings—when Tom goes off to Kiwi-a-gogo our rings will mean that we will stay true to each other until he comes back.”

I didn't have the energy to stop her raving on.

“Also as he says, it is a great opportunity to collect loads of data and stuff that he can bring back and that we could, you know…look at.”

Old Rambley knickers is back then. I think I preferred her when she was all upset and clinging round my neck.

Still, at least someone is happy.

I said to her, “You know, after you left, Masimo took Wet Lindsay home on his scooter.”

Even Jas paid attention then.

“Non.”

“Oui.”

“Georgia, that is
très très merde
. Why did he do that?”

“I really don't know, boys are a bloody mystery to me.”

Jas said, “Shall I ask Tom to find out? He's a boy.”

“I don't know, Jas, I don't want any more pain and…”

“Well, if I just casually ask him and don't make a big deal about it.”

“Well, I suppose if it was a little secret…”

Then I heard her going, “TOM!! TOM!! GEORGIA WANTS TO KNOW WHY MASIMO WENT OFF WITH WET LINDSAY LAST NIGHT.”

I couldn't believe this was happening. I tried to get her to shut up. Then I heard her mum shouting from somewhere, “Jas? I thought that you said that Georgia liked Masimo. Why has he gone off with Lindsay?”

Jas said, “I don't know. That's why I asked Tom.”

Jas's mum shouted, “What do you think, Tom?”

 

When Jas's dad joined in the conversation I put the phone down.

9:30 p.m.

Ring on the doorbell. Oh now what? Everyone is at grandad's. It might be kitty trouble, because I don't know where the furry psychopath twins are
(Angus and Gordy).

I could just ignore the bell. No one would know anyone was in.

Except all the lights are on.

Oh God, if it is the cat vigilante group bringing the lads home on an assault charge, I'll go ballisticisimus, if I have the energy.

 

It can't be anything to do with the furry hooligans, because they are in the lavatory drinking out of the lavatory bowl. Erlack.

 

Opened the door in my jimmyjams, which I put on for comfort; they are a bit like Jas's knickers on the large and shapeless front, but who cares, nobody is going to see me in them.

Crikey!!! Dave the Laugh. He leant against the door. “Hi gorgeous, blimey, HUGE pajamas.”

I went into the goldfish routine. “I…well…I…”

He said, “Can I come in? I bring you tidings of great joy, and it's not even Christmas.”

I said, “Er, well…come in and er put the kettle on…”

“Do you think it will suit me?”

I dashed upstairs when Dave went into the kitchen and I did a rapid lip gloss, blusher, mascara fandango and pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt. No time for nunga-nunga holders, I would just have to move very slowly with my arms crossed.
Pant pant.
I went into the kitchen.

Dave was wrestling with Gordy on the kitchen floor and when he stood up Gordy was attached to his sleeve and just dangled there, like a tiny ginger loon, which he is.

“Speaking as your Horn advisor, I've come to tell you I've just seen Masimo.”

I went even more lurgified. Gordy crashed to the floor.

I managed to stutter, “Did, he say…was he, did he, was I…you know.”

“I still say he's flash, but anyway, what in the name of arse made you walk off on Saturday? He thought you were very up yourself.”

I said, “My boy entrancers got stuck together and then one fell off.”

Dave said, “Your boy entrancers stuck together and then one fell off.” And he was looking at my nungas to see if I still had two.

I said, “No, no, I mean my false eyelashes. First
of all, I looked down and they got glued together and I was blind. So I sort of shuffled off to the music to try and unglue them, and then one fell off, so I had to go to the tarts' wardrobe.”

Dave said, “Tarts' wardrobe?”

“Loos.”

Dave said with sort of admirationosity in his voice, “Outstanding”

midnight

As my official Horn advisor, Dave says I must be friendly and smiley but play hard to get and not give up if I really like Masimo. Dave also said that because Masimo is so flash and Italian, even if he does quite rate me—even after the Rolf Harris fiasco—that will not stop him falling for flattery from other girls. Even Wet Lindsay. Dave also said that Masimo does not know anyone in town or any history, so he wouldn't know that Lindsay was wet and a worm and a thong wearer.

12:10 a.m.

Anyone would know that Lindsay was wet and a worm; just look at her legs for God's sake.

Anyway, if he falls for old knobbly knees, why
should I want him? Mind you, the ex-Sex God went out with her for a bit. Hmmm.

Dave says that boys fall for that useless obvious stuff because they have boy insecuriosity different from girl insecuriosity. It's because they are knob centered, allegedly. Although I think that Dave just likes to talk dirty.

1:00 a.m.

Dave says you can't drop hints with boys because they don't get it.

1:10 a.m.

In my
How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You
it says,

• 1.
  You can never flatter boys too much; they will never know you are being ironic.
  
• 2.
  Never use hints with boys because they don't get it; you have to ask for what you want.
  

It is vair vair tiring, this boy bananas.

2:00 a.m.

Also why does my Horn advisor always snog me?

2:05 a.m.

More to the point, why do I always snog him?

I suppose in the Land of Cosmic Horn everything is fair.

monday april 25th

german

Tried out my flattery technique on the dithering champion for the German nation. Herr Kamyer was wearing a pair of tartan socks, clearly visible beneath his shin-length leisure slacks. He was telling us about his riveting childhood in the Bavarian Alps. His childhood mostly consisted of camping and clapping games interspersed with two tons of sausages. And the
volk
of Lederhosen land wonder why they have a reputation for total crapness.

 

At the end of the lesson I went up to Herr Kamyer as he was packing up his books; I startled him a bit by coming up quietly behind him and there was a minor ditherspaz incident. As he was picking his books up from the floor, I said, “That was really
sehr
interestink, Herr Kamyer, and may I compliment you on your attractive socks.”

To my absolute amazement, he said, “Ach, thank you very much, Georgia. Der socks are from my mother and are a personal favorite of mine. I also have a matching tie.”

I said, “Oh, I'd love to see that.”

Herr Kamyer adjusted his glasses. “Vell, I vill wear it to show you.”

I said, “That would be marv.”

He went off all smiley and twitchy. Surely it can't be this easy. It must be because I have chosen quite literally a soft option.

break
knicker toaster headquarters

I told Rosie and Jools my news and the advice from Horn Headquarters (Dave the Laugh).

Rosie said, “I believe Dave, but Herr Kamyer is not really a bloke, is he? He is a German teacher. I bet you can't make it work on Elvis.”

lunchtime

The ultimate test.

Elvis Attwood, the grumpiest bonkerist man in the universe.

Rosie and Jools insisted on being witnesses
to what they said would be an abysmal failure. They hid behind the Science block loos.

Elvis was as usual prodding around (ooer) pretending to do gardening. It is, as we all know, just a perving tactic so that he can try and see girls in their sports knickers. He should become a gym mistress, he easily could. If he grew his hair and wore a gym skirt, he would be Miss Stamp's double.

I approached Elvis casually.

“Afternoon, Mr. Attwood. I'm sorry to hear that you will be leaving us.” (I could hear Rosie practically exploding behind the loos.)

Mr. Attwood looked up with that incredibly attractive grimace he keeps especially for me. I gave him a beaming smile, letting my nostrils flow free and wild for once.

He said, “What do you want? Have you been messing around in the Science block? I found a drawing that was supposed to be me on the blackboard.”

I said, “Oh, that's nice.”

He said, “No it is not bloody nice, it was disgusting.”

I said, “Was it the one of you in the nuddy
pants with an enormous pipe?”

He said, “Yes, that's it.”

I said, “No, I haven't seen that one.”

He grumbled on. “It's a scandal the way you lot carry on, call yourselves young ladies. In my day you would have had your ears boxed.”

I said, “Well, I agree with you, Mr. Attwood. I think discipline has gone right out of the window. I mentioned it to Miss Heaton in detention but she wasn't interested. Do you know that in the Isle of Man they still beat people with twigs if they do wrong.”

He drew himself up to his full height (two and a half feet). “Yes well, it would make you think twice if you got some twigs across your derriere instead of all this talking.”

I said, “Yes, I do so agree talking is crap, Mr. Attwood, 'scuse my language. I have often said in R.E. I would rather be beaten by twigs, but you can't tell people, can you?”

Mr. Attwood looked a bit puzzled at the turn of events.

I said, “I don't know if you know this, but us girls all sort of look to you for a firm lead, Mr. Attwood. I know you think we mess about, but
actually we have a deep respect for you. You are a sort of father figure and naturally we rebel a bit, but at the end of the day we respect you.”

You could see Mr. Attwood squaring his shoulders. “When I was a lad we were given a decent set of rules. I was in bed by eight thirty and up by six thirty to do my chores.”

I said, “Actually my parents are much the same with me: early to bed, early to rise and so on.”

There was a crash from behind the loos, as if someone had fallen over.

I said, “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Attwood. It's very good to have someone who is like a father figure.”

Mr. Attwood lit his pipe. “Well…yes, well, anytime. Do you know you've made me go back a bit to when we had simple pleasures, for instance, I've got a train set I had as a lad, in perfect condition, still in its box…”

“Gosh is that the bell!! I must get along to English, we are doing
Blithering Heights
.”

When I got behind the loos Rosie had her coat buttoned over her head to stop her laughing.

on the way home
4:15 p.m.

Lolloping along with Jas, I said, “It can't be this easy. It just can't be.”

Jas said, “I know, it just can't be.”

Four boys from Foxwood came by doing their usual orangutan walk and shouting rubbish at us.

“Come on, girls, get them out for the lads.”

I said to the one with terminal acne, “Hey, you're really nice-looking, would you like to see my nunga-nungas?”

He stopped doing his orangutan impression. They all stopped.

He said, “Er…yes.”

And I said, “Well, I wouldn't just for anyone, but, well, I've noticed you before…meet me by the park loos at seven thirty.”

And he straightened his tie and said, “Oh yeah, I think I can make that.”

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbloodybelievable.

Me and Jas just looked at each other.

tuesday april 26th

Today is my work experience day at Dr. Clooney's,
so up at the crack of nine.

Quite groovy to put on makeup and ordinary clothes on a school day.

Mmmm, I wonder what is suitable wear for a doctor's surgery.

Black?

Yes, I think so.

Boy entrancers?

Oh yes, I think so. Even though there will most definitely be no boys to entrance, apart from Dr. Gorgeous, it means I can get my staying-on technique right in the safety of the Valley of the Unwell.

5:10 p.m.

Good grief. Said good-bye to Dr. Gorgeous. God Bless Him and all who sail in him, but I will never, ever, be returning to his surgery except on a stretcher and unconscious. It is Hell on Wheels in there.

Just a load of sick people moaning and sneezing. If I haven't got scarlet fever or Old Person's Lurgy, I will be amazed.

Moaning and moaning on for hours. How can Dr. Gorgeous stand it? And such a terrible pingy pongoes smell. It's the old men, mostly. I wonder if
they get mixed up with their aftershave and mothball liquid. Or Bovril.

Perhaps there is a perfume called “Old Bloke” that is a big hit with the elderly and sends all the older ladies wild, knitting neckless jumpers and so on.