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Love Is a Many Trousered Thing RB/SB

Chapter One

hoooorn!!!

saturday july 16th
11:45 p.m.
Run away, run away!!!

Pant, pant, pant.

And double pants.

How in the name of God's novelty undercrackers and matching toga have I ended up running along the streets at midnight?

I'll tell you how. You wait ages for a Sex God to come along and then two come along at the same time. Where is the sense in that? If it is all part of Big G's divine plan, all I can say is this: "Keep it simple, Big G. Just give me one Sex God to eat at a time. And then if I am not full up, I'll have another one. Thank you. Regards to Baby Jesus."

That is all I am saying. Inwardly, obviously, as I am nearly dead with trying to run in my high-heel boots. I may have to lie down in a ditch in a minute.

11:50 p.m.
I had to stop and sit in the hedge by the park. I'm so out of breath. Hurrah, I am sitting in the dark like a panting vole in a skirt.

three minutes later
Pant, pant. So this is a brief résumé of vole girl's evening.

Scene 1
A top night at the Stiff Dylans gig, including an excellent Viking disco inferno dance* in honor of Rosie and Sven's forthcoming (well, in eighteen years' time) wedding, Sven arriving in furry shorts and, as the pièce de whatsit, Masimo, lead singer and Luuurve God that I have been dreaming of and longing for, asked me to go outside, and said, "So, Signorína Georgia, I am free man for you. If you still want for us to go out."

Keep in mind that he said it in his gorgey porgey Pizza-a-gogo land accent.Looking at me like I was a Sex Kitty.

Scene 2
Just as I was experiencing Swoon City and melty pantaloonies a car pulled up and Robbie the original Sex God got out.

The one who had left me and gone to Kiwi-a-gogo land.

To snog marsupials and so on for the rest of his life. Not.

Scene 3
After a moment of silence I said in a quick-thinking and casual way, "Oh hello, Robbie, do excuse me, I have a train to catch and time and tide wait for no man."

And walked quickly off before breaking into a slight trot. Then a light gallop. Then I ended up in the hedge and that is where all this started.

In conclusion I would say that after queuing up at the cakeshop of luuurve for ages I have accidentally bought two cakes.

And I am sitting in a bush.

11:56 p.m.
Oh yet more marvelous, marvelous news, the Blunderboys are lurking around in the park. Probably setting fire to themselves and practicing being crap. Which they needn't bother doing as they are top at it anyway.

They'll sense I'm here in a minute and come looming out at me. The Blunderboys have got radar for girls within half a mile.

thirty seconds later
Mark Big Gob (who lives in my street and who I accidentally snogged once, and who has the largest lips known to humanity) larged out of the gloom and saw me panting in the hedge. He was looking at my nungas, which were heaving up and down. Stop heaving and retreat into your over-the-shoulder boulder holder, you stupid nungas! Mark said, "I see you are all pleased to see me, girls."

How repellent is he? I ignored him and got up with a dignity at all times sort of attitude. As I was brushing past him, he said, "Steady darlin', you nearly knocked me over, then."

The rest of the trainee idiots had sidled up by then and they sniggered and choked on their fags. Still, on the bright side cigarettes stunt your growth, so with a bit of luck most of them will remain about three-foot eight.

Mark Big Gob said, "I see you've got the Horn. Is it for me?"

Is he mad? Is he implying that I have got the Horn for him? I would rather plunge my head into a bucket of whelks than let him anywhere near me. I can't believe that his hand had once rested on my basooma. And that his enormous gob had squelched around my face. Erlack. If anything, he gave me the anti-Horn.

Sadly, it was then I realized that in fact he was right, I did have the Horn. Horns actually. I was still carrying my Viking bison horns that I had worn to rehearse Rosie's wedding dance.

Still, what is so very unusual about that?

five minutes later
Quite a lot, actually, when you think about it.

Which I won't.

Oh double merde and ordure and poo.

12:15 p.m.
Got to my street. My tootsies are killing me. The light is still on in the front room. Oh noooo. That means the terminally insane (Mutti and Vati) are still up. I must avoid them at all costs. I can't speak to them. Not now. Not anytime if I have my way.

I snuck really really quietly through the front door and stashed my horns in a secret place where they will never be found (the ironing basket).

Aaahh. Safely in. Now quietly, quietly up the stairs to my room. Quietly, quietly like a little mousie. Mousie girl opening little doorsies. Shhhhh. Shhhh. Nearly safe. Quietly into the room like a quiet thing on quiet tablets. No sign of the furry freak brothers, a.k.a. my cats Angus and his cross-eyed son Gordon, thank the Lord.

As I opened my bedroom door Gordy's face appeared upside down an inch away from my fringe. I looked into his mad cross-eyes. Why does he do that...lurk on top of the door like a bat? He did a little croaky noise and licked my face with his horrid rough tongue. I managed not to cry out or be sick.

12:25 a.m.
There is a half-eaten mouse on my pillow.