promise to be really mature and grown-up and responsible. I mainly want to stay in England because of the terrifically good education system. That is how I will sell it to Mutti.
“Mutti,” I will say, “this is a crucial time in my schooldays. I think I may be picked for the hockey team.”
Thank goodness I didn’t bother Mum with my school report from last term. I saved her the trouble of reading it by signing it myself.
5:05 p.m.
You would think that Hawkeye could think of something more imaginative to write than, Hopelessly childish attitude in class. Just because she caught me doing my (excellent) impression of a lockjaw germ.
5:10 p.m.
I could have groovy parties that everyone would really want to come to. I’m going to make a list of all the people I will ask to the parties:
First– Sex Gods
Robbie…er, that’s it.
Second– the Ace Crew
Rosie, Jools, Ellen and, I suppose, Jas if she pulls her pants up and makes a bit more effort with me. She has been a bit of a Slack Alice on the pal front since she got Tom.
Third– close casuals
Mabs, Sarah, Abbie, Phebes, Hattie, Bella…people I like for a laugh but wouldn’t necessarily lend my mum’s leather jacket to…then acquaintances and fanciable brothers.
5:20 p.m.
I may even allow crap dancers like Sven to come if they have pleasing or amusing personalities (and gifts).
5:23 p.m.
I tell you who I won’t be asking– Nauseating P. Green, that’s who. She is definitely banned. If I am made to sit next to her again next term I will definitely kill myself. Why is she so boring? She does it deliberately to annoy me. She breeds hamsters. What is the matter with her?
Who else will be on the exclusion list? Wet Lindsay, Robbie’s ex. It would be cruel to invite her and let her see Robbie and me being so happy and snogging in front of her, etc. Also she would kill me and that would spoil the party atmosphere.
Who else? Oh, I know, Jackie and Alison, otherwise known as the Bummer Twins. They can’t come because they are too common.
9:10 p.m.
Looking out of my window. I can see Mark, the boy with the biggest gob in the universe, going off to town with his mates. People are out there having fun. I hate that. I haven’t got any real friends– as soon as a boy comes along they just forget about me, it’s pathetic.
I could never be that shallow.
I wonder if the Sex God is having second thoughts about me because of my nose?
9:15 p.m.
Jas phoned. Tearing herself away from Tom for a second. She said, “Have you told her you are not going, yet?”
“No, I try but she takes no notice. I told her that it is a very important time for me as I am fourteen and poised on the brink of womanhood.”
“On the what?”
Jas can be like half girl, half turnip. I said, “Doyou remember what our revered headmistress, Slim, said at the end of summer term? She said, ‘Girls, you are poised on the brink of womanhood, which is why I want to see no more false freckles painted on noses. It is silly and it isn’t funny or dignified.’”
“False freckles are funny.”
“I know.”
“Well why would Slim say they weren’t?”
“Jas.”
“What?”
“Shut up now.”
9:30 p.m.
I’ve got Libby, her scuba-diving Barbie doll, which has arms like steel forks, and her Thomas the Tank Engine, all in my bed. It’s like sleeping in a toy box only not so comfortable. Plus Libby has been making me play Eskimo kissing; it has made my nose really sore. I said, “Libby, that’s enough Eskimo now,” but she just said, “Kwigglkwoggleugug,” which I suppose she thinks is Eskimo.
What is the matter with my life? Why is it so deeply unfab?
10:00 p.m.
Looking at the sky outside my window and all the stars. I thought of all the people in history and so on who have been sad and have asked God for help. I fell to my knees (which was a bit painful as I landed on a plate of jam sandwiches I had left by my bed). Through my tears I prayed, “Please, God, let the phone ring and let it be Robbie. I promise I will go to church all the time if he rings. Thank you.”
Midnight
So much for Our Vati in Heaven. What on earth is the point of asking God for something if you don’t get it?
Decided to buy a Buddha tomorrow.
1:00 a.m.
As time is short it might be all right to ask Buddha for something before I actually invest in a statue of him.
I don’t really know how to speak to Buddha. I hope he understands English. I expect, like most deities, it’s more a sort of reading your thoughts job.
1:30 a.m.
Because I haven’t been a practising Buddhist for long (half an hour) I’ll restrict my requests to the essentials.
Which are:
1. When I suggest to Mum that she leaves me behind to look after the house, she says, “Of course, my darling.”
2. The SG rings.
1:35 a.m.
I’ll just leave it at that. I won’t go into the nose business (less of it and more sticky up) or breast reduction requests, otherwise I will be here all night and Buddha may think I am a cheeky new Buddhist and that I’m only believing to get things.
Tuesday July 20th
10:00 a.m.
My room…soon to be a shrine to Buddha. Unless God gets his act together. Birds tweeting like birds at a bird party. Lovely sunny day. For some. I can see the sunshine glancing off Mr Next Door’s bald head. He’s playing with his stupid yappy little squirt dogs. Just a minute, I’ve spotted Angus hanging about in the potting shed area. Uh-oh, he looks a bit on the peckish side, like he fancies a poodle sandwich. I’d better go waggle a sausage at him and thereby avert a police incident.
How in the name of Mr Next Door’s gigantic shorts am I supposed to be a Buddhist with these constant interruptions? I bet the Dalai Lama hasn’t got a cat. Or a dad in New Zealand. (I wonder if the Dalai Lama’s father is called the Daddy Lama?…I amaze myself sometimes because even though my life is a facsimile of a sham I can still laugh and joke!!)
10:36 a.m.
What is the point? Mum just laughed when I told her about looking after the house and told me to go and pack.
Midday
Even though it is quite obvious I am really depressed and in bed Mum comes poking around being all efficient and acting