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Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants, Page 2

Louise Rennison

  She seems to think it is all quite funny. But then this is the same woman who, when I asked if she had ever two-timed anyone, said, “Yes, it was great.”

  Poor Angus is an innocent victim of Naomi’s red-bottomosity. This is a lesson for me about where blatant and rampant red-bottomosity can lead. I have had a lucky escape.

  10:45 p.m.

  I’m so exhausted by the tension of life that I barely have the energy to cleanse, tone and moisturize, let alone tape down my fringe. I am so looking forward to lying down to rest in my boudoir of love.

  11:00 p.m.

  Libby has got all her toys in my bed AGAIN! All their heads are lined up on my pillow. And some of her toys are quite literally just heads. I don’t know exactly how beheading is going to be useful in her future career, but she is bloody good at it.

  Libbs popped out from my wardrobe in the nuddy-pants, but wearing A LOT of Mum’s eye shadow, and not on her eyes.

  “Heggo, Ginger, it’s me!”

  “I know it’s you, Libbs—look, sweetheart, wouldn’t you like to go in your own snuggly, cozy bed and—”

  “Shut up, bad boy. Snuggle.”

  “Libby, I can’t snuggle; you’ve got too many things in my bed.”



  “Get in.”

  “Look, let me just take something out to make a bit of room…. Look, I’ll just take this old potato…”


  “Don’t bite!”


  If I have to sing “Winnie Bag Pool” to Mr. Potato one more time I may have to kill myself.

  Knocked on my so-called parents’ bedroom door and talked to them from outside in the hall.

  I’ve seen Dad in his pajamas before and it’s not a sight for someone as artistic and sensitive as moi.

  “Hello…it’s me. Georgia. Remember me? Your daughter. And your other daughter, Libby, do you remember her? Two-foot-six, blond, senselessly violent? Ring any bells?”

  Vati yelled, “Georgia, what is it now? Why aren’t you in bed? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “Hello, Father, how marvelous to speak with you once again.”

  “Georgia, if I have to get out of bed and listen to more rubbish from you…well, you’re not too old to smack, you know!”

  Smack? Has he finally snapped? He’s never smacked anyone in his life.

  Mutti opened the bedroom door unexpectedly as I was leaning against it and I nearly fell into her basoomas.

  She finally persuaded Libby to go into her and Dad’s bed. So thankfully Libbs clanked off with Mr. Potato, Pantalitzer, Charlie Horse, scuba-diving Barbie and the rest of her “fwends.”

  I was just snuggling down to go off into Boboland when I heard her pitter-pattering back into my room. Oh dear God, she hadn’t left something disgusting lurking in the bottom of my bed, had she?

  She came right up to me and whispered in my ear, “I lobe you, Ginger. You are my very own big sister.”

  Awww. I put my hand on her little head. Sometimes I love her so much I feel like I would plunge into a vat of eels to save her. If she fell in one, which in her case is not as unlikely as you might think.

  As a lovely good-night treat, she sucked my ear, which was not pleasant, especially as she was breathing very heavily. It was like a big slug snoring in your ear. Still, very sweet.


  12:10 a.m.

  I’ve accidentally got to six and a half on the snogging scale with my little sister.

  12:12 a.m.

  The Sex God does varying pressure, like Rosie says foreign boys do. Soft, then hard, then soft. Yummy scrumboes.

  Oh Robbie, how could I ever have doubted our love?

  12:15 a.m.

  Dave the Laugh is a bit full of himself, anyway. At the fish party he said, “You have to choose: a Sex God or me, who you can really have a laugh with.”

  Yes, well, I have chosen. And I have not chosen you, Mr. Dave the Laughylaugh. She who laughs last laughs the laughingest.

  12:20 a.m.

  He has got fantastic lip nibbling technique, though.

  12:25 a.m.

  I have gone all feverish now. I wonder where Angus is? I’ve not heard any wildlife being slaughtered for ages. Or the Next Doors’ poodles Snowy and Whitey (also known as the Prat Poodles) yapping. He must be feeling really depressed. In a cat way.

  Haunted by his lost love.

  Half the cat he was, and only fading memories of his trouser snake days.

  12:29 a.m.

  What is it with my bed? Angus has got a perfectly cozy cat basket, but oh no, he has to come in with me.

  12:37 a.m.

  And why does he like my head so much? It’s like having a huge fur hat on.

  monday november 22nd

  8:25 a.m.

  Everyone late for everything. When Mutti took Libby to kindy, both had hair sticking on end as if they’d been electrocuted. They should try the cat hat method—it keeps your hair very flat.

  Run, run, pant, pant.

  Jas and I panted up the hill to Stalag 14, past the usual assortment of Foxwood lads. They are so weird. Two passed us and started doing impressions of gorillas. Why? Then another group went by, and the biggest one, no stranger to all-over-head acne, said, “Have you got a light?”

  Jas said, “No, I don’t smoke,” and he said, “No chance of a shag, then, I suppose?” And he and his mates went off slapping and shoving each other.

  I said to Jas, “They show a distinct lack of maturiosity, but never fear, that is where I come in. I have thought of something très très amusant to do with glove animal if it snows this winter.”

  Jas didn’t say anything.



  “I said something très amusant and you ignorez-voused me. You do remember good old glove animal, don’t you?”

  “I know I got three bad conduct marks because you made me wear my gloves pinned over my ears like a big doggy with a beret on top.”

  “Voilà, glove animal. Anyway, I think he should make a comeback this term and liven up the stiffs.”

  She was pretending not to listen to me, but I knew she wanted to really. She was doing fringe fiddling. However, I resisted the temptation to slap her hand, and said, slowly so that she could understand me, “Glove animals have to wear sunglasses when it snows.”


  “Is that all you can say?”


  “You are doing it to annoy me, mon petit pal, but I Iove you.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Anyway, we will have to wear sunglasses with glove animal if it snows, to prevent…snow blindness!!”

  She didn’t get it, though. I have to keep the comedy levels up at school all by myself.


  9:20 a.m.

  I told the rest of the ace gang about the glove animal and snow blindness hilariosity and they gave me the special Klingon salute. Then I got the ferret-eye from Hawkeye and had to pretend to listen to our large and glorious leader, Slim. Her feet are so fat that you can’t actually see any shoe at all. It is only a question of time before she explodes.

  Slim was rambling on about the splendor of Shakespeare’s Hamlet as an allegory for modern times.

  For once she is right. Shakespeare is not just some really old boring bloke in tights, because after all it was he who said, “To snog or not to snog, that is the question.”

  How true, Bill.


  Our new pastime to fill in the long hours before we are allowed to go home is called “Let’s go down the disco.” Anytime any one of the ace gang says it, we all have to do manic disco dancing from the seventies (excess head shaking and arm waggling). Even if I do say it myself, it is a piece of resistance.


  We disco danced at our desks pretty much all the way through German whilst Herr Kamyer wrote ludicrous things on the board about Herr Koch. I said to him when we
were leaving class, “Vas is der point?”


  Very nippy noodles shivering around outside.

  I said to the gang, “What harm have we ever done to anyone that we are made to go outside in Antarctic conditions?”

  Rosie, Ellen, Jools and Mabs all said, “None, we have never done anything.”

  But Jas, who seems to have turned into the Wise Woman of the Forest, said, “Well, there was the locust thing, and the dropping of the blodge lab skeleton onto Mr. Attwood’s head and…”

  Honestly, if I wasn’t the girlfriend of a Sex God I would have had to duff Jas up, she is so ludicrously “thoughtful” these days. I think I liked her better when she was all depressed and didn’t have a boyfriend. Regular snogging has brought out the worst in her.

  The Bummers came by all tarted up. Jackie wears even more makeup than those scary circus people. You know, when you go to the circus and you accidentally see a trapeze artist close-up and they are orange.

  Alison Bummer, unusually spot free, with just the one gigantic boil on her neck, shouted over to us as they headed for the back fields and town. “Bye-bye, little girls, have a nice time doing your lessons.”

  I said, “Honestly, I don’t know how they get away with it. They turn up for register, hang around torturing P. Green for a bit, have fifty fags in the loos and then bog off to town at lunchtime, to see their lardy boyfriends.”

  We had a tutting outbreak as we shared our last snacks.

  Rosie was shivering. “It is vair vair nippy noodles. I think I have got frostbite of the bum-oley.”

  Eventually, in between Nazi patrols led by Wet Lindsay—who may be head girl, but is still: a) wet and b) boyfriendless—we managed to sneak into the Science block.

  science block

  on our usual radiator

  Ellen said, “It was a groovy fish party, wasn’t it?”

  Rosie said, “Magnifique. I found bits of fish-finger everywhere, though. Sven got a bit carried away.”

  I said, “He should be.”

  Jas said to Ellen, “What happened at the end? With you and Dave the Laugh, you know, when he walked you home?”

  Ellen went all red and girlish. “Oh, you know.”

  I was prepared to leave it at that, but not old Nosey Knickers. She rambled on. “Did you and Dave the Laugh…do anything?”

  Ellen shifted around on the knicker toasting-rack (radiator) and said, “Well…”

  I said, “Look, if Ellen wants to have some personal space, well…”

  But Ellen was keen as le moutarde (keener) to talk about my dumpee. “He did, er, walk me home and…”

  The ace gang were all agog as two gogs, apart from me. I was ungogged. In fact, I was doing my impression of a cucumber (and no, I do not mean I was lying on some salad…I mean I was being cool).

  They all said, “Yes…AND???”

  “Well, he, you know, well, he, well…”

  God’s shortie pajamas, I was going to be a hundred and fifty years old at this rate.

  Ellen went red and started playing with her piggies (very annoying) and went on. “It was cool, actually. We got, well, we sort of got to number three and a bit.”

  What is “sort of number three and a bit” on the snogging scale? Perhaps I should “sort of” give her a good slapping to make her talk some sense. But no, no, no, why did I care? I was a mirage of glaciosity.

  As the bell went for resumption of abnormal cruelty (Maths), Ellen said to me, “Dave does this really groovy thing, it’s like, er…lip nibbling.”

  He had nip libbled with her!! The bloody snake in the tight blue jeans had nip libbled her. How dare he??

  Ellen was rambling on. “We should add lip nibbling to our snogging scale.”

  Jas said, “We already have, it’s six and a quarter.”

  Ellen said to Jas, “Oh, have you done lip nibbling, then? With Tom?”

  Jas went off into the dreamworld that she calls her brain. “No, because Tom really respects me, and knows that I want to be a prefect, but Georgia has done it. And she’s done ear snogging.”

  Then they all started. “Is that what the Sex God does?” “Does it make you go deaf?” and so on. Triple merde.

  As we went into Maths, Ellen said, “You know when we played that game and you were supposed to snog Dave, well…did you?”

  I went, “Hahahahahahahahahahaha.” Like a hyena in a skirt. And that seemed to satisfy her.

  Once again I am in a state of confusiosity. In fact, I can feel my bottom throbbing again when I get a picture of Dave the Laugh nibbling my lips.

  And now Ellen’s.

  He is a serial nip libbler. I am better off without him.


  Mon Dieu. Fabulosity all round. We are going on a school trip to le gay Paree next term. We were yelling, “Zut alors!” and “Mon Dieu!” and “Magnifique!” until Madame Slack threw a complete nervy strop. The fabby news is that Gorgey Henri is going to take us. The unfabby news is that Madame Slack and Herr Kamyer, dithering champion for the German nation, are also going. Still, that will be a bit of light relief. Herr Kamyer is almost bound to fall in the Seine at some time over the weekend.

  I wrote a note to Rosie: “How much do you bet we can do the famous ‘Taking a souvenir photograph’ of Herr Kamyer on the banks of the Seine and he falls in when we say, ‘Just step back a bit, Herr Kamyer, I haven’t quite got your lederhosen in yet’?”

  4:20 p.m.

  Walking home with Jas. I was trying to use her as a windbreak, but she kept dodging away from me. She is unusually full of selfishosity for someone who loves me.

  I said, “Thank Cliff Richard’s Y-fronts that nobody knows about my accidental snogging incident.”

  “What snogging incident?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret I’m taking to my grave.”

  Oh sacré bleu. What is the matter with Jas (besides the obvious)?

  When I accidentally told her my secret that I will never tell, even in my grave, she went on and on about how I should be ashamed. She is so annoyingly good, like Mother Teresa with a crap fringe.


  Mutti in an unusually good mood. She had even bought a pie for us on the way home. Scarily like a real mum—apart from the ludicrously short skirt. She’s not going to tell me that I’m going to have another little brother or sister, is she?

  Still, I can’t think of everyone else. I am not God. I have enough to worry about thinking about myself.

  8:00 p.m.

  I am so worried about school tomorrow. I have so much to do.

  8:10 p.m.

  I can do my nails and foundation and eye stuff during R.E.—Miss Wilson won’t notice, as she will be sadly rambling on about the Dalai Lama or yaks or whatever it is she does talk about. But I suppose even she might notice if I took my curling tongs into class. I’ll have to do my hair at lunchtime and hope the Bummers don’t decide to put their chewing gum in it for a laugh.

  looking out of my bedroom window

  I’m amazed to see Naomi the sex kitten lounging around on the roof of our shed, showing off her fat tummy. She has got very little shame for an illegitimate bride. Angus is in the garden below her, blinded by his love. Well, actually he’s mostly blinded by the dirt he’s digging up. He’s got a huge bone from somewhere and he’s burying it. Maybe for a midnight snack. He doesn’t really seem to understand that he is not a dog. I may have to do some diagrams of mice for him to explain it.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to find M and V absolutely all over each other. It’s like living in a porn movie to be in our house. Honestly, isn’t she sick of him yet? (I am.) He’s been back about a month; surely by now they must be discussing divorce.

  I said, “Erlack,” in a caring way to let them know I was there. But my finer feelings make no difference to the elderly snoggers. They just started giggling, like…giggling elderly snoggers.

  I said, “Vati, I don’t want to be the person responsible for one of you
r unreasonable outbursts of rage, but—”

  He said, “OK, as I am in a good mood you can have a fiver, because you did so well on your French test.”

  I was quite literally gobsmacked. For a second. Then I grabbed the fiver.

  “Er, thanks…but, erm, I feel, in all fairness to you, I should let you know that Naomi is on our shed roof and that Angus is not a million miles away from her. In fact, as I left my room, he was licking her bottom.”

  No one went ballisticisimus, because apparently Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road have worked out that the pedigreed boy cat they had over to visit with Naomi must have had more than a few fishy snacks with her.

  Vati said, “Either that or she is having a virgin birth.”

  Hey, she might be! She might be having a little furry Baby Jesus (lots of them, in fact). She is due to give birth at Christmas, after all. And God works in mysterious ways, as everyone knows.

  I said to Jas on the phone, “It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  She was all weird and huffy. “No, what makes me think is this: How come some people, naming no names, but you, Georgia, can tell such porkies to their so-called friends?”

  She was rambling on about Ellen and Dave the Laugh, of course.

  I said with deep meaningosity, “Jas, she who casts the first stone has to cast the logs out of her own knickers first.”

  That made her think. Then she said, “What in the name of frankincense are you talking about?”

  I had to admit she had me there.

  Her trouble is that she has never done anything adventurous, her bottom has never glowed with the red light of…er…red-bottomosity.

  I said to her, “Jas, Jas, my little nincompoop, I didn’t MEAN to snog Dave the Laugh. It was an accident. I am a teenager and I can’t always control my bits and pieces.”

  “What bits and pieces?”

  “Well, you know, I have very little control over my nunga-nungas, for instance…and at the fish party with Dave my lips just sort of puckered up.”

  “I’m a teenager and I can control my bits and pieces.”

  “What about your fringe?”

  “That is not the same as snogging someone else’s boyfriend.”