Mum laughed, but Dad said, âRight, thatâs it, Iâm off. Donât wait up.â
Mum shouted, âDonât worry, I wonât.â The door slammed and there was silence.
Then there was the sound of the clown car being driven off at high speed (two miles an hour) down the driveway.
And silence again as it whirred away into the distance.
Then a little voice said, âMummy, my bottom is stuck in the bucket.â
9:30 p.m.
Dear God, what a nightmare. This has taken my mind off the oven of luuurve situation.
Libby has wedged herself into the outdoor metal bucket. We pulled her and wiggled her about but we canât get it off.
Mum said, âGo and get me some butter from the fridge. We can smear it on her and sort of slide her out.â
Of course, we didnât have any butter; we had about a teaspoon of cottage cheese but Mum said it wasnât the same.
Twenty-five minutes later
In the end Mum made me go across the road and ask Mr Across the Road if we could borrow some butter. She said I could lie better.
Mr Across the Road was wearing a short nightshirt and I kept not looking anywhere below his chin. He was all nosey about the late-night butter scenario though.
âDoing a bit of baking, are you?â
I said, âEr⦠yes.â
âItâs a bit late to start, isnât it?â
I said, âEr, well, itâs emergency baking. It has to be done by tomorrow.â
He said, âOh, what are you making?â
How the hell did I know? I was lying. And also the only kind of confectionery I knew were the cakes I had got from the bakery of love. The Robbie éclair, the Masimo cream horn and then I remembered the Dave the Tart scenario and quickly said, âErm, weâre making tarts. For the deaf. Itâs for charity.â
He said, âTarts for the deaf? Thatâs a new one on me. Iâll have to go down to the storeroom for some packets.â And he ambled off.
And that is when Junior Blunder Boy and full-time twit came in. Oscar.
He looked at me and said, âYo, waâappen, bitch?â
What was he talking about and also what was he wearing? He had massive jeans on about fifty sizes too big for him. He had to sort of waddle about like a useless duck to keep them from falling down. And pull them up every five seconds. How spectacularly naff and sad he was. I just looked at him as he waddled over to the kitchen counter. He reached up to get a can of Coca-Cola from a shelf and momentarily forgot about his elephant jeans. They fell to his ankles. Leaving him standing there in his Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers.
I said to him, âOscar, you are wearing Thomas the Tank Engine undercrackers. I know this because, believe it or not, your trousers have fallen off.â
He said, âYes man, me mean to do that. Be cool, it is righteous.â And he shuffled off, still with the trousers round his ankles.
I will never, ever tire of the sheer bonkerosity of boydom.
11:00 p.m.
It took us nearly half an hour to get Mr Bucket off Libby. We greased as much of her bottom as we could reach, like a little suckling pig. Eventually we cut through the top of her panties and managed to make a bit of leeway and free the bum-oley.
For some toddlers, being greased up and pulled by brute force out of a metal bucket might have been a traumatic experience. But then not all toddlers are insane. Libby laughed and sang through the whole episode, amusing herself by gobbling stray bits of butter and smearing other bits on my head. Oh, how I joined in the merry times. Not.
In addition, Gordy and Angus lolloped in to lick at the leftover butter on her botty. Soooo disgusting. Libby was shouting, âThey is ticklin me!!! Heggy heggy ho!!!â
Back in bed
It is like the botty casualty department in here. My bottom, which I have had no time to attend to, is being supported by Libbyâs swimming ring and I have a buttered-up child rammed in next to me.
Also, have I got a boyfriend or not?
Midnight
And I am still thinking about the Dave the Laugh accidental snogging in the forest incident.
12:10 a.m.
Perhaps this is Godâs little way of saying, âShe who lives by the red bottom gets to lie in a rubber ring.â
Monday August 1st
8:00 a.m.
Oww oww and double owww!! I think my botty has taken a turn for the worse. I wonder if it is swollen up?
Looking in the mirror
It does look a bit on the swollen side. Oh marvellous. I will have to ask Jas if I can borrow some of her enormous winter pants. She will have got them out of her winter store by now. She starts ironing her school pants about a month before we are forced back to Stalag 14. Which reminds me, we only have about four weeks of holiday left. Sacré bleu and merde.
Libby has already scarpered off to get ready for nursery, so I can just have a little dolly daydream about snogging the Luuurve God. If I make a mental picture of us snogging, I might attract him to me through the psychic ethery stuff.
Ten minutes later
I can hear the postman coming up the drive. Ah, the postie. Itâs a lovely job being a postie; you see it in all ye olde films that ye olde parents watch. Mr Postie coming up the drive with a cheery whistle and a handful of exciting letters for the family. A âGood morning, maâamâ to the mistress of the house and thenâ
âIâve got a bloody stick, you furry freak, and Iâm not afraid to use it!!!â
Charming. Utterly, utterly charming.
I looked out of the window. Angus was sitting on the dustbin showing off to Naomi, his mad Burmese girlfriend and slag, by taunting the postie â hissing and doing pretend biffing, sticking his claws in and out. The postie had to get by the dustbin to get to the door and he was waving a big stick about in Angusâs direction. Angus loves a stick. The larger the better. He lay down and started purring so loudly I could hear it in my bedroom. I donât know why he loves sticks so much, but he does. Almost as much as he loves cars.
He thinks cars are like giant stupid mice on wheels. That he can chase after.
He brought a stick home the other day that was so big, it took him half an hour to figure out how to get it through the cat flap. He did it, though, because he is top cat.
Two minutes later
It was the same with