him off to bed.
I don’t know why he lets her do anything she likes with him. He almost had my hand off the other day when I tried to take his plate away and he hadn’t quite finished.
Monday July 19th
11:00 a.m.
I am feeling sheer desperadoes. It’s a day and a half now since I snogged the Sex God. I think I have snog withdrawal. My lips keep puckering up.
I HAVE to find a way of not going to Kiwi-a-gogo land. I went on hunger-strike this morning. Well, apart from a Jammy Dodger.
2:00 p.m.
Phone rang.
Mum yelled up at me, “Gee, will you get that, love? I’m in the bath.”
I yelled back, “You can wash the outside clean, but you can’t wash the inside!”
She yelled again, “Georgia!!!”
Dragged myself up from my bed of pain and went all the way downstairs and picked up the phone.
“I said, “Hello, Heartbreak Hotel here,” and all I could hear was just crackle, crackle, surf, swish, swish. So I shouted really loudly, “HELLO, HELLO, HELLO!!!!” and this faraway voice said, “Bloody hell!”
It was my father, or Vati as I call him. Phoning from New Zealand. He was, as usual, in a bad mood for no reason.
“Why did you shout down the phone? My ears are all ringing now.”
I said, reasonably enough, “Because you didn’t say anything.”
“I did, I said hello.”
“Well I didn’t hear you.”
“Well you can’t have been listening properly.”
“How can I not listen properly when I am answering the phone?”
“I don’t know, but if anyone can manage it, you can.”
Oh, play the old record again, it’s always me that does things wrong. I said, “Mum’s in the bath.”
He said, “Just a minute, don’t you want to know how I am?”
“Er, let me guess…funny moustache, bit bulky round the bottom department?”
“Don’t be so bloody cheeky! Get your mum. I give up on you. I don’t know what you learn at that school besides how to put on lipstick and be cheeky.”
I put the phone down because he can grumble on like that for centuries if you let him. I shouted, “Mutti, there is a man on the phone. He claims to be my dear vati but I don’t think he is because he was quite surly with me.”
Mum came out of the bathroom with her hair all wet and dripping and in just a bra and pants. She really has got the most gigantic basoomas, I’m surprised she doesn’t topple over. Good Lord.
I said, “I am at a very impressionable age, you know.”
She just gave me her worst look and grabbed the phone. As I went through the door I could hear her saying, “Hello, darling. What? I know. Oh I know. You needn’t tell me that…I have her all the time. It’s a nightmare.”
That’s nice talk, isn’t it?
As I point out to anyone who will listen (i.e. no one), I didn’t ask to be born. I am only here because she and Vati…urgh…anyway, I won’t go down that road.
My room
2:10 p.m.
I could hear her rambling on to Dad, going, “Hmmm– well I know. Bob…I know…Uh huh…I KNOW…I know. Yes, I know…”
In the name of pantyhose, what are grown-ups like? I shouted down to her, “Break the news to him gently that I’m definitely not in a TRILLION years coming.”
He must have heard me because even upstairs I could hear muffled shouting from down the other end of the phone. I wasn’t amazed by the shouting as my vati is prone to violence. Once I poured aftershave into his lager and lime when he was out of the room. For a merry joke. But he didn’t get the joke. When he stopped choking he went all ballisticisimus and shouted, “You complete IDIOT!!!” really loudly at me. It’s the kind of thing that will cost me hundreds of pounds in therapy fees in later life. (Should I have a life, which I don’t.)
2:30 p.m.
Playing sad songs in my bedroom, still in my jimjams.
Mutti came into my room and said, “Can I come in?”
I said, “No.”
But that didn’t put her off.
She came and sat on the edge of my bed and put her hand on my foot. I said, “Owww!!!”
She said, “Look, love, I know this is all a bit complicated, especially at your age, but this is a really big opportunity for us. Your dad thinks he has a real chance to make something of himself over in Whangamata.”
I said, “what’s wrong with the way he is now? Quite a few people like fat blokes with ridiculous moustaches. You do.”
She came on all parenty then. “Georgia, don’t think that rudeness is funny because it isn’t.”
“It can be.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Well you laughed when Libby called Mr Next Door’nice tosser’.”
“Well Libby is only three and she thinks that tosser is like Bill or Dad or something. Can’t you see this trip as an exciting adventure?”
“What, like when you are on your way to school and then suddenly you get run over by a bus and have to go to hospital, or something?”
“Yes, like when…NO!! Come on, Georgie, try to be a pal, just for me.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know that your dad can’t get a job here. What else is he supposed to do? He’s only trying to look after us all.”
After a bit she sighed and went out.
Life is treès merde and double bum. Why doesn’t Mutti understand I can’t leave now? She can be ludicrously dim. It’s not her that I get my intelligence from. It is certainly no thanks to her that I came top in…er…well anyway, it’s nothing to do with her what I do. I am just the unfortunate recipient of some of her genes. The orang-utan eyebrow gene, for instance. She has to do a lot of plucking to keep her eyebrows apart and she has selfishly passed it on to me. Since I shaved mine off by mistake last term they seem to have gone even more haywire and akimbo. The shaving has encouraged them to grow about a metre a week. If I left them alone I’d be blind by October. Jas has got ordinary eyebrows, why can’t I?
Also, while I am on the subject, the worst news of all is that I think I have inherited her breast genes. My basoomas are definitely growing. I am very worried that I may end up with huge breasts like hers. Everyone notices hers.
Once, when we were on the ferry to France, Dad said to Mum, “Don’t stand too near to the edge, Connie, otherwise your chest might be declared a danger to shipping.”
5:00 p.m.
I’ve just had a flash of whatsit!! It’s so obvious, I am indeed a genius! Simple pimple. I’ll just tell Mum that I’ll stay behind and…LOOK AFTER THE HOUSE!! The house can’t just be left empty for months because…er…squatters might come in and take it over. Anarchists who will paint everything black, including, probably, Mr and Mrs Next Door’s poodles. They’ll be begging for Angus to come back.