‘Dancing in my nuddy-pants!’

My nose feels very heavy. I’d better have a look at it in case there is a lurking lurker situation.

10:47 p.m.

Hmm. I can’t see anything. It doesn’t get any smaller, though. I must make sure I always suck it in when I see the Sex God full on.

10:55 p.m.

On the plus side, my nungas don’t seem any more sticky out than they are normally. Perhaps they have stopped growing. Or maybe they are on Christmas vacation, before they burst (quite literally) into life in spring.

11:00 p.m.

I’ll just give them a quick measure.

11:05 p.m.

Sacré bloody bleu and also mon Dieu!! They measure thirty-eight inches!! That is more than a yard. There must be something wrong with the tape measure.

11:10 p.m.

I’ve done it again and it’s still the same. It amazes me that I can lumber around at all. It’s like carrying two small people around with me.

I’m really worried now. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this sort of thing. I know there is an unseen power at work of which we have little comprehension, but I don’t really feel I can consult with Jesus about my basoomas.

Or Buddha.

Anyway, I don’t want to offend Buddha and so on, just in case He exists, which I am sure He does…but…I have seen some statues of Buddha and frankly his nunga-nungas are not small either.

Midnight

When I was in M&S the other Saturday, I saw a sign that said they had a breast measuring service (top job…not). Maybe I should get properly measured by a basooma professional and learn the truth about my condition(s).

1:00 a.m.

Angus is on the road to recovery. I can hear him serenading the Prat Poodles with a medley of his latest hits: “Yowl!” and “Yowl 2 the remix”.

I got up to look. He is so brave in the face of his pain. I really love him, even if he has destroyed half my tights. He could have just given in, but no, there he was, biffing the Prat Brothers like normal. Naomi was parading up and down on the Next Doors’ window sill, sticking her bottom in the air and so on. She is an awful minx. She is making a mockery of a sham of her so-called love for Angus. It’s like in that old crap song where the bloke is wounded in the Vietnam War and his wife goes off with other men because he can’t get out of his wheelchair. He sings, “Ru-beeee, don’t take your love to town.”

That is what Angus would sing. “Naom-eeeee, don’t take your love to town.” If he could sing. Or speak. And had a wheelchair.

School panto fiasco (a.k.a. complete twats in tights) (#ulink_cccc4a1d-b3a9-5fde-9400-760dc3307a9e)

Tuesday November 23rd Breakfast

Dad was singing, “Sex bomb, sex bomb, I’m a sex bomb,” and doing hip thrusts round the kitchen. He’ll end up in casualty again if he’s not careful. He was being all interested in me as well. Red alert, red alert!

He gave me a hug(!) and said, “I thought we’d all go to the cinema tonight. My treat.”

I said “Fantastic!!!” He thought I meant it and went off happily to flood people’s homes or whatever it is he does at the Water Board.

I said to Mum, who was trying to get all the porridge out of Libby’s hair before she went off to kindergarten, “Mum, I can’t go to the cinema tonight, I…I’ve got to stay behind and help with…the school panto.”

She didn’t even look up. “I didn’t know you were in it.”

“I’m not, I’m just, er, helping backstage. Bye, Mutti. Byeeee, Bibbet.”

“Bye bye, Gingey, kiss Mr Cheese bye bye.”

It was disgusting kissing Mr Cheese. (Mr Cheese is a bit of old Edam in a hat.) Not as disgusting as it will be at the end of the day when Libby brings him home again from playschool. With a bit of luck Mr Cheese will have been eaten by one of Libby’s little pals.

I had a look at my pocket mirror as I walked round to Jas’s place. Eight out of ten on the hair bounceability front. I am sooo excited. I love the Sex God and it will be beyond fabulosity and into the Valley of Marv when we go on tour to America. I think I could easily write song lyrics myself.

I said that to Jas as we walked to school. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, this one is called “Sex God” and it goes like this: ‘Oh, Robbie, you’re the one for me, with your dark blue eyes and your…’ ”

I had a bit of writer’s block then and I said to Jas, “What rhymes with ‘me’?”

“What about ‘two-timer’? Or ‘crap mate’?”

“Jas, don’t start again…oh hang on, I know: ‘You’re the one for me, with your dark blue eyes and your…snoggability!!!’ I am clearly a genius.”

I put my arm round Jas in my happinosity and said, “You can show me your love bite when we get to Stalag 14.”

She went a bit red and said, “OK, but don’t tell anyone else about it.” Which is ironic coming from Radio Jas.

Assembly

Slim really on tip-top boring form this morning.

She bored us beyond the Valley of the Dim and into the twilight world of the Elderly Mad.

Speaking of which, we saw Elvis Attwood tapping at pipes with his hammer as we went out.

I said to him, “I think you should receive a knighthood, Mr Attwood, for your services to care taking. Surely you of all people deserve to be hit over the shoulders with an old sword.”

10:00 a.m.

What IS it with this place????!!! Rosie and I have got bad conduct marks AND have to stay behind and help with PeterPan every night this week after school. I cannot believe it! Just because we have naturally high spirits and joie de vivre. (And also got caught doing our “Let’s go down the disco” dance to “There is a Green Hill Faraway” in assembly.)

It is so obviously hilarious. And not at all “indicative of stupendous childishness”, as Hawkeye said.

10:30 a.m.

Perhaps I am Spawn of the Devil in a skirt and have the third eye. No, I mean the second whatsit…sight. Because I told Mum that I was staying behind to help with Peter Pan, even though I wasn’t, and now I am. I may have special powers.

11:00 a.m.

No, I haven’t got special powers. I tried for about a million years to make the wall clock fall on to Hawkeye’s head, but it just gave me a very bad headache.

In the loos