no, no, hang on, I forgot – I am enjoying my lovely holiday. Mum was right. I am exaggerating. Something did happen at Scotland’s premier hotspot. One Jock McThick lit up a fag and had such a coughing fit that he spilt his Coke on his trousers and had to go home.
1:00 a.m.
Honestly.
I am not kidding.
1:30 a.m.
I wonder if it would be uncool to walk the forty-eight miles into town and phone the SG?
1:35 a.m.
Or walk home to England?
Sunday October 24th 10:20 a.m.
Still in Och-aye land. Tartan trousers for as far as the eye can see.
10:31 a.m.
How many hours has it been since I saw Robbie now? Hmmm, ninety hours and thirty-six minutes.
10:46 a.m.
How many minutes is that?
11:04 a.m.
Oh God, I don’t know. I can’t do multiplication very well; it’s too jangly for my brain. I’ve tried to explain this to Miss Stamp our maths Oberführer (and part-time lesbian). It is not, as she stupidly suggests, that I am too busy writing notes to my mates or polishing my nails to concentrate, it is just that some numbers give me the mental droop.
Eight for instance.
It’s the same in German. As I pointed out to Herr Kamyer, there are too many letters in German words.
The German types say Goosegot in the morning; how normal is that? In fact, how can you take a language like that seriously? Well you can’t, which is why I only got sixty per cent in my last German exam.
11:50 p.m.
I’m just going to lie in bed conserving my strength for a snogging extravaganza when I get home.
Midday
Mutti came into my room with a tray of sandwiches. I said, “Goosegot in Himmel, Mutti, have you gone mad? Food? For me? No, no, I’ll just have my usual bit of old sausage.”
She still kept smiling. It was a bit eerie actually. She was all dreamy. Wafting around in a see-through nightie. Good Lord.
“Are you having a nice time, Gee? It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it?”
I looked at her ironically.
She raved on. “It’s fun, though, isn’t it?”
“Mum, it’s the best fun I’ve had since … er … since Libby dropped my make-up into the loo.”
She tutted, but not even in her usual violent tutting way. Just like, nice tutting.
Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.
She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”
I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.
“It will be a laugh.”
“No it won’t. When did we last have a laugh as a family? Apart from when Grandad’s false teeth went down that woman’s bra?”
1:00 p.m.
The “lovebirds” went off to the pencil factory. They only got Libby to go with them because she thinks they are going to go and see the pencil people.
And I do mean pencil people. Not people who make pencils. Pencil people. People who are pencils. She’ll go ballistic when she finds out it’s just some boring Scottish bloke making pencils.
Oh I am SO bored. Hours and hours of wasted snogging opportunities.
1:20 p.m.
I’d go out but there is nothing to look at. It just goes trees, trees, water, hill, trees, trees, Jock McTavish, Jock McTavish. What is the point of that?
On the plus side, I am going out with a SEX GOD!
1:36 p.m.
Oh Gott in Himmel! What is the point of going out with a Sex God if no one knows? Not even me at this rate.
4:00 p.m.
I wonder if I should phone him?
4:30 p.m.
I was even nearly pleased to see James and Grandad arrive with Uncle Eddie.
For about a second. Uncle Eddie had hired a van specially. He probably had to get a special kind that accommodates the very bald.
James’s voice has gone all weird. It’s sort of deep and then all squeaky. How normal is that? He is by no means a lurker-free zone either, I notice. Tout au contraire.
Dad said, “Cum awa’ in!” in a really crap Scottish accent and Grandad started to jig around “dancing”, and had to be helped into the cottage.
Uncle Eddie said, “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I’ve brought supplies of large Union Jack underpants!” What in the name of Louis the Fourteenth is he on about?
7:00 p.m.
Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.
I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”
Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?
This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.
11:00 p.m.
Despite the incredible crapness of my life my nunga-nungas have made me laugh.
Nunga-nungas is what Ellen’s brother and his mates call girls’ basoomas. He says it is because if you pull out a girl’s breast and let it go … it goes nunga-nunga-nunga.