all, he who introduced me to the Cosmic Horn when I was happy just having the Particular Horn for the Sex God.
2:55 p.m.
Phoned Rosie.
“RoRo.”
“Bonsoir.”
“I am having the cosmic droop.”
“Well, fear not, my pally, because I have le plan de la genius.”
“What is it, and does it involve the police?”
Rosie laughed in a not-very-reassuring way if you like the sound of sane laughter. She said, “I’m having a party for Sven’s return from Swedenland next Saturday.”
“What kind of party is it going to be?”
“Teenage werewolf.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Good grief.”
“Bless you.”
“Rosie, what has Sven been doing while he’s been away working for Santa Claus on a reindeer farm?”
“He hasn’t been to Lapland.”
“How can you be sure? Geoggers is not your best subject, is it?”
“Well, excuse me if I’m right, but it isn’t yours either, Gee. You missed out the whole of Germany on your world map.”
“Easily done.”
“Not when you’re copying from the atlas. Anyway, I must go. I have a costume to make. See you at Stalag 14 on Monday.”
Bathroom 3:00 p.m.
Sometimes I amaze myself with my courageosity. Even though I have been through the mangle of love and beyond, I can still be bothered to cleanse and tone.
3:30 p.m.
But the effort of a high-quality beauty regime has made me exhausted. I am going to go to my room and read my book on my inner dolphin or whatever it’s called. Anyway it is to do with peace and so on. I may even make a little shrine to Robbie to celebrate our undying love. Even though he hasn’t bothered to write to me since he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land.
3:45 p.m.
Hmm. I have covered all the cosmic options with my shrine: I’ve put a photo of Robbie in the middle of some shiny paper, it has a figure of Buddha on one side of the beloved Sex God, and one of Jesus and a little dish for offerings on the other. Also, when I was accidentally going through Mum’s knicker drawer, I found some incense stuff. I don’t like to think what she and Vati do with it: some horrific snogging ritual they learned in Katmandu or something.
3:50 p.m.
I had to BluTack Jesus on to my dressing table because Libby has been using him as a boyfriend for scuba-diving Barbie and one of his feet is missing.
4:00 p.m.
Phoned Rosie.
“RoRo, explain this if you can with your wisdomosity. I only had the Particular Horn for SG before I met Dave the Laugh and then Dave the Laugh lured me into the web of the General and Cosmic Horns.”
RoRo said, “He’s groovy, isn’t he, Dave the Laugh?”
“Yeah… sort of.”
“Shall I ask him on Saturday?”
“It doesn’t matter to me, because I am eschewing him with a firm hand.”
“A nod is as good as a wink to a blind badger.”
What in the name of Miss Wilson’s moustache is she talking about?
My bedroom, in my bed of pain (quite literally) 10:00 PM
Libby’s bottom is bloody freezing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been sitting in a bucket of frozen mackerel. Still, she has been round to Grandad’s, so anything could have happened; he is, after all, the man who set fire to himself with his own pipe.
10:05 p.m.
She might have a cold botty and be mad as a snake, but she looks so lovely when she’s asleep and she is my little sister. I really love her. I kissed her on her forehead and without opening her eyes she slapped me and said, “Cheeky monkey.” I don’t know what goes on in her head. (Thank God.)
10:15 pm
Do the Prat Poodles deliberately wait until I’m drifting off before they start their yowling fest? What is the matter with them? Have they been startled by a vole?
I looked out the window. Mr and Mrs Next Door have put a kennel outside in the garden for the Prat Poodles, but the poodley twits are too stupid and frightened to go into it. They are barking at it and running away from it. How pathetic is that? It’s only a kennel, you fools. What kind of dog is frightened of a kennel?
10:20 pm
Oh, I get it!! Angus is in their kennel. I just saw his huge paw come out and biff one of the Prat Poodles on the snout. Supercat strikes again!!!
Hahahaha and ha di hahaha, he is a très très amusant cat. He has set up a little cat flatlet in the Prats’ kennel. It’s his pied-à-terre. Or his paw-de-terre.
10:25 PM
Uh-oh. Mr Next Door is on the warpath. Surely it must be against the laws of humanity to sell pyjamas like his. He looks like a striped hippopotamus, only not so attractive and svelte.
He’s trying to poke Angus out with a stick. Good luck, Mr Hippo.
Angus thinks it’s the stick game. He LIKES being prodded with a stick, it reminds him of his Scottish roots. Next thing is, he will get hold of it and start wrestling with Mr Next Door to try to get it away from him.
10:28 PM
Yes, yes, he’s clamped on the end! Mr Next Door will never get him off by shaking it around. He will be there going round and round the garden for the rest of his life.
10:33 PM
Sometimes for a laugh Angus lets go of the stick and Mr Next Door crashes backwards. Then Angus strolls over and gets hold of the stick again. I could watch all night long… uh-oh, Mr Next Door has seen me. He is indicating that he would like me to step downstairs. Although I think shouting and saying “bugger” at this time of night is a bit unneighbourly.
Honestly, I am like a part-time game warden and careworker for the elderly mad. I should get a net and a badge.
Mr Next Door’s garden 10:40 p.m.
Mr Next Door was sensationally red as he tried to shake Angus off the end of his stick.
He said, in between wheezing and coughing, “This thing is demented, it should be put down!!”
Oh yeah, fat chance – Angus nearly had the vet’s arm off the last time he was in surgery. The vet has