it’s me a-Kathy come home again.” Was that Kathy Bronte, one of the Bronte sisters? Or was that Kate Bush? Anyway, whoever it was wandered off into the rain and died from heartbreak. That will be me. I feel a bit tired now. If I just lie down here in the grass I might never be found.
3:35 p.m.
Angus keeps tugging at his lead. It was murder getting it on him but at least it means he can’t savage any small dogs that we see.
4:00 p.m.
Famous last words. Angus saw a Pekinese and dragged me to my feet and halfway across a field before I managed to get him under control. He’s senselessly brave. There is something about small dogs that really irritates him.
4:30 p.m.
Angus can fetch sticks!!! I was just carrying a stick along, hitting things with it. Then my arm got tired so I flung it away. And Angus pounced on it and dragged it back!! Superdooper cat!!!
5:00 p.m.
I wonder if I could get him to carry a little flask of tea round his neck in case I fancied a cuppa when we were having our walk?
Friday August 13th
My bedroom
1:00 a.m.
Hot and stuffy. Big full moon. Sitting on the windowsill. (Me, not the moon.)
1:05 a.m.
I hate him.
1:06 a.m.
Oh I love him, I love him.
1:10 a.m.
I hate him, but he will not break me. I will make him regret the day he said, “I know a bloke called Dave. He’s a good laugh.”
She who laughs last laughs last.
2:00 a.m.
I am going to be a heartless babe magnet as revenge.
2:05 a.m.
Oh no, no, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want to be a babe magnet, that would mean I was a lesbian.
2:05 and 30 secs
Still, what is wrong with that? Each to their own, I say. After all, Mum must have kissed Dad (erlack).
2:06 a.m.
If anyone asked me to comment on sexuality, say in the Mail on Sunday or something, I would say that it is a matter of personal choice and nothing to do with nosey parkers. Or else I would say, “Don’t ask me, I am on the rack of love.”
Sunday August 15th
In bed
9:40 p.m.
In bed early, healing my broken heart in the “privacy” of my bedroom.
9:41 p.m.
How can I stop Libby hiding her pooey knickers in my bed?
Monday August 16th
9:00 a.m.
Up. Up at nine a.m. in the holidays. Nine a.m.!! This just proves how upset I am.
Mum hasn’t even noticed, of course.
“Mum, shouldn’t even you be able to potty-train Libby by now? At this rate she’ll be a pensioner and still pooing all over the place. She’ll never get a boyfriend…Still, that will make two of us.”
Tuesday August 17th
8:30 a.m.
I think I’ve lost a lot of weight from my bottom. No one has noticed. Mum just wanders around in a dream. She has got a calendar up in the kitchen with the days marked off until Vati gets back and a heart drawn round the date. How sad is that at her age? I said, “Don’t worry yourself about my breakfast, Mutti. I’ll get it myself, you get on with your own very important life.”
She was humming and slathering herself with creams and ignoring me. So I said even louder, “Something quite interesting happened last night; I slit my throat and my head fell off. Have you seen it anywhere?”
Mum called from the bathroom. “Has Libby got her shoes on?”
“I think Mr Next Door might be another transvestite like Vati.”
She came out of the bathroom then. “Georgia, is it possible for you to help at all? Where is your sister?”
“Mum, have you noticed anything unusual about me? I am not happy…in fact, I am very unhappy.”
“Why? Have you broken a nail?” And she laughed in a very unpleasant way. Then she called out, “Libbsy, where are you, pet? What are you doing?”
I could hear Libby’s muffled voice from Mum’s bedroom and a bit of miaowing. Libby called, “Nuffing.”
Mum rushed in there, saying, “Oh God.”
I heard bang bang, and Mum yelling, “Libby, that is Mummy’s best lipstick!”
“It looks nice!!!!”
“No, it doesn’t…Cats don’t wear lipstick.”
“Yes.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes.”
“Owww, don’t kick Mummy.”
“Bad Mummy!!!”
Hahahaha. She who laughs last laughs…er…the last.
Thursday August 19th
11:00 a.m.
Raining. In August. Typical. Squelching along on my way to meet Mrs Big Knickers, I was thinking…I could either give in and be a miserable, useless person, like Elvis Attwood, our barmy, sad old school caretaker. Or if I truly gave up I could be like Wet Lindsay. When Robbie dumped her she got all pale and even wetter than normal. She was like an anoraksick. (A person who is both very thin and wears tragic anoraks.) I just made that up as a joke. Even though I am very upset I can still think of a joke. I’ll tell Jas when I see her. As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, I could be a sad old sadsack or I could gird my loins and be like in that song. The one where you have to search for the hero within yourself.
Jas was waiting for me at the bus stop. She said, “Why are you walking in that stiff way?”
“I’m girding my loins.”
“Well, it looks painful, like you’ve got a stick up your bottom. You haven’t, have you?”
“You really are sensationally mad, Jas. In olden days people would have thrown oranges at you.”
As I said, I can sometimes surprise myself with my own wisdomosity. And humourosity. Even in adversosity.
Monday August 23rd
2:10 a.m.
In bed. Oh God, it’s so boring being broken-hearted. I’ve spent so much time in bed I’ll probably start growing a long white beard soon, like Rip van Thing.
2:15 a.m.
Or