‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’

I wonder why the Sex God hasn’t phoned me? The Stiff Dylans got back yesterday from their recording shenanigan. Maybe he got van lag from travelling from London? Or maybe he has spoken to Tom and Tom has just happened to say, “Oh Robbie, we all went to a fish party last night and when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise your new girlfriend Georgia accidentally snogged Dave the Laugh. You should have been there, it was a brilliant display of red bottomosity. You would have loved it!”

Oh God. Oh Goddy God God. I am a red-bottomed minx.

12:35 p.m.

On the other foot, no one saw me accidentally snog Dave the Laugh, so maybe it can be a secret that I will never tell. Even in my grave.

12:45 p.m.

But what if Jas has accidentally thought about something else besides her fringe and put two and two together vis-à-vis Dave the Laugh, and blabbed to her so-called boyfriend Tom.

She is, after all, Radio Jas.

1:00 p.m.

I would phone Jas but I am avoiding going downstairs because it’s sheer bonkerosity down there. Mr and Mrs Across the Road have been over at least a trillion times saying, “Why? Oh why???” and, “How?” and occasionally, “I ask you, why? And how?”

At least I am not the only red-bottomed minx in the universe, or even in our street, actually. Naomi, their pedigree sex kitten is pregnant, even though she has been under house arrest for ages. Well, as I have pointed out to anyone who can understand the simplest thing (i.e. me and…er…that’s it), Angus cannot be blamed this time. He is merely an innocent stander-by in furry trousers.

2:05 p.m.

I was forced to go downstairs in the end to see if I could find a bit of old Weetabix to eat. Fortunately Mr and Mrs Across the Road had gone home. However, the Loonleader (Dad) was huffing and puffing about trying to be grown-up, twirling his ridiculous beard and adjusting his trousers and so on.

I said, “Vati, people might take you more seriously if you didn’t have a tiny badger living on the end of your chin.”

I said it in a light-hearted and trés amusant way, but as usual he went sensationally ballistic. He shouted, “if you can’t be sensible, BE QUIET!”

Honestly, the amount of times I am told to be quiet I might as well have not wasted my time learning to speak.

I could have been a mime artist.

2:15 p.m.

I mimed wanting to borrow a fiver but Mutti pretended she didn’t know what I wanted.

Back in my bedroom 2:45 p.m.

Mr and Mrs Across the Road came around again with the back-up loons (Mr and Mrs Next Door). I thought I had better sneak down and see what was going on. No sign of Angus, thank the Lord. I don’t think this is his sort of party (i.e. a cat-lynching party).

Mr Across the Road (Colin) is a bit like Vati, all shouty and trousery and unreasonable. He said, “Look, she’s definitely, you know, in the…er, family way. The question is, who is the father?”

Dad (the well-known cat molester) said, “Well, Colin, as you know, we took Angus to the vet and had him…er, seen to. So there is no question in that department.”

Mr Across the Road said, “And they were…dealt with, were they? His…well…I mean they were quite clearly…er, snipped?”

This was disgusting! They were talking about Angus’s trouser-snake addendums, which should remain in the privacy of his trousers. They rambled on for ages, but as Gorgey Henri, our French student teacher, would say, it is “le grand mystère de les pantaloons”.

Which reminds me, I should do some French homework so that I stay top girl in French.

2:55 p.m.

This is my froggy homework: “Unfortunately while staying in a gîte, you discover that your bicycle has been stolen. You decide to put an advert in the local paper. In French, write what your advert would say.”

3:00 p.m.

My advert reads, “Merci beaucoup.”

3:00 p.m.

I cheered up a bit because Grandad came round and set fire to himself with his pipe. He didn’t put it out properly and then put it in his trouser pocket. It was only my quick thinking with the soda siphon that prevented an elderly inferno.

4:05 p.m.

Still no call from SG. I am once more on the rack of love.

4:10 p.m.

Phoned Jas.

“Jas.”

“What?”

“Why did you say ‘what’ like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know sort of…funny.”

“I always say ‘what’ like that, unless I’m speaking French; then I say ‘quoi?’ or if it’s German I say…”

“Jas, be quiet.”

“What?”

“Don’t start again, let me get to my nub.”

“Oo-er.”

“Jas.”

“Sorry, go on then, get to your nub.”

“Well, you know when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise…”

She started laughing in an unusually annoying way, even for her – sort of snorting. Eventually she said, “It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well, apart from when you made me put all those vegetables down my knickers. There’s still some soil in them.”

“Jas, now, or any other time is not the time to discuss your knickers. This is a situation of sheer desperadoes, possibly.”