‘Stop in the name of pants!’. Louise Rennison

watched her bustling about making our delicious supper (i.e. opening a tin of tomato soup). She was so full of herself burbling on and on.

      â€œHonestly, you should have been there, it was a hoot.”

      I said, “Oooooooh yeah, it would have been great to have been there. Really great.” But she didn’t get it.

      Libby was still kissing my knees and giggling. She had forgotten that they were my knees; they were now just her replacement friends for Josh. But then she had a lovers’ tiff with her knee-friends, biffed me on the knee quite hard and went off into the garden, yelling for Gordy.

      I said, “Mum, you didn’t take Libby with you to the baldy-o-gram fiasco, did you?”

      â€œDon’t be silly, Georgia, I’m not a complete fool.”

      I said, “Well, actually, you are as it happens.”

      She said, “Don’t be so rude.”

      I said, “Where’s Dad? Have you managed to shake him off at last?”

      And then Vati came in. In his leather trousers. Oh, I might be sick. Not content with the horrificnosity of the trousers, he kissed me on my hair. Urgh, he had touched my hair; now I would have to wash it.

      He was grinning like a loon and taking his jacket off.

      â€œHello, no camping injuries then. No vole bites. You didn’t slip into a newt pond or anything?”

      I looked at him suspiciously. I hoped he wasn’t turning into Mystic Meg as well in his old age. I said, “Dad, are you wearing a woman’s blouse?”

      He went completely ballisticisimus. “Don’t be so bloody cheeky! This is an original sixties Mod shirt. I will probably wear it when I go clubbing. Any gigs coming up?”

      Mum said, “Have you heard anything from the Italian Stallion?”

      Dad had his head in the fridge and I could see his enormous leather-clad bum leering at me. I had an overwhelming urge to kick it, but I wasn’t whelmed because I knew he would probably ban me from going out for life.

      I gave Mum my worst look and nodded over at the fridge. I needn’t have worried, though, because Dad had found a Popsicle in the freezer and was as thrilled as it is possible for a fat bloke in constraining leather trousers to be. He went chomping off into the front room.

      Mum was adjusting her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and looking at me.

      I said, “What?”

      And she said, “So… have you heard anything?”

      I don’t know why I told her, but it just came tumbling out.

      â€œMum, why do boys do that ‘see you later’ thing and then just not see you later? Even though you don’t even know when later is.”

      â€œHe hasn’t got in touch then?”

      â€œNo.”

      She sat down and looked thoughtful, which was a bit alarming. She said slowly, “Hmm – well, I think it’s because – they’re like sort of nervous gazelles in trousers, aren’t they?”

      I looked at her. “Mum, are you saying that Masimo is a leaping furry animal who also plays in a band and rides a scooter? And snogs?”

      She said, “He snogs, does he?”

      Damn, drat, damnity dratty damn. And also merde. I had broken my rule about never speaking about snognosity questions with old mad people.

      I said quickly, “Anyway, what do you mean about the gazelle business?”

      â€œWell, I think that boys are more nervous than you think. He wants to make sure that you like him before he makes a big deal about it. How many days is it since he went?”

      â€œI don’t know. I haven’t been counting the days actually, I’m not that sad.”

      She looked at me. “How many hours then?”

      â€œOne hundred and forty.”

      We were interrupted by Gordy and Angus both trying to get through the cat flap at once. Quickly followed by Libby.

      In my bedroom

      8:45 p.m.

      I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs because he hasn’t taken the rubbish out. And never does. On and on.

      I will never behave like this when I am married. Mind you, I will not be marrying a loon in tight trousers who thinks Rolf Harris is a really good artist.

      Who will I be marrying at this rate? I haven’t been out of my room for years and the phone hasn’t rung since it was invented.

      Why is no one phoning me? Not even the Ace Gang. I’ve been home for hours and hours. Don’t they care?

      The trouble with today is that everyone is so obsessed with themselves. They just have no time for me.

      Five minutes later

      At last, a bit of peace to contemplate my broken bum. Oh no, here they go again. They are so childish. Mum shouted out, “Bob, you know that sort of wooden thing in the bedroom, in the corner? Well, it’s called a set of drawers and some people, people who are grown up and no longer have their mummy wiping their botties, well those sort of people put their clothes in the drawers. So that other people don’t have to spend their precious time falling over knickers and so on.”

      Uh-oh. Fight, fight!!

      Then I could hear him shambling into their bedroom and singing, “One little sock in the drawer, two socks in the drawer and two pairs of attractive undercrackers on the head then into the drawer, yesssss!!”

      How amazing. I shouted down, “Mum, is Dad on some kind of medication? Or have his trousers cut off the circulation to his head?”

      That did it. Vati hit number seven on the losing it scale (complete ditherspaz). He yelled up, “Georgia… this isn’t anything to do with you!”

      I said, “Oh, that’s nice. I thought we were supposed to be a lovely family and do stuff together.”

      He just said, “Anyway, where is your sister? Is she up there with you?”

      Why am I Libby’s so-called nanny? Haven’t I got enough trouble with my own life? I am not my sister’s keeper, as Baby Jesus said. Or was it Robin Hood? I don’t know. Some bloke in a skirt anyway.

      I said, “No. Have you tried the airing cupboard or the cat basket?”

      Five minutes later

      Things have got worse. While Mum went hunting for Bibbsy, Dad unfortunately decided to check the phone messages. He heard Mum’s mate’s message. I could hear him tutting. And then it was Josh’s mum’s message.

      He had the nervy spaz of all nervy spazzes, shouting and carrying on. “What is it with this family??? Why did Libby have a bread knife in her bedroom? Probably because you are too busy pratting around with your so-called mates to bother looking after your children!”

      That did it for Mum. She shouted back, “How dare you! They’re MY children, are they? If you took some notice of them, that would be a miracle. You care more about that ridiculous bloody three-wheeled clown car.”

      Mum had called his car a clown car. Tee-hee.