‘…startled by his furry shorts!’
Sound the Cosmic Horn! Bestselling author Louise Rennison’s seventh book of the confessions of crazy but loveable teenager Georgia Nicolson is out in EB!Why did I admit I wanted Masimo to be my proper boyfriend? Why?• One minute he was snogging me, and then the next he was snogging Wet Lindsay, stick insect and drip.• Perhaps I should tell him he can go out with her as well as me…• But then I might snog him after she has snogged him, which would mean I have practically snogged her!!! Erlack!• I would rather snog my cat, Angus!• He has certainly got nicer legs… Well, more of them anyway.Georgia is on the ‘rack of luuurve’ once more… Will Masimo the Italian Stallion agree to be her one and only boyfriend? How does she really feel about her old friend and lip-nibbling partner Dave the Laugh? And has Robbie the Sex God really gone for good?You’ll laugh with her and cry with her – follow Georgia’s hilarious antics as she desperately tries to muddle her way through teenage life.
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HarperCollins Childrenâs Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain in hardback by HarperCollins Childrenâs Books in 2006
First published in Great Britain in paperback by HarperCollins Childrenâs Books in 2007
Copyright © Louise Rennison 2006
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007222094
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2008 ISBN: 9780007279029 Version: 2017-08-18
Contents
Title PageCopyrightIn Memory And Love Of Dezza The Vicar.A Note From GeorgiaLiving In Fiasco LandOn The Brink Of MadnosityBack In The Cake Shop Of AgonyGirdey LoinsMate Of The CenturyMacPantsGeorgia's GlossaryKeep ReadingAbout the AuthorAlso by the AuthorAbout the Publisher
Big luuurve to my family and friends, old and new. (Look, I'm not saying some of you are old, I'm just saying that some of you are newer than others⦠er⦠but not in a less old way. Oh, look, I just love you, right?)
Enormous panty-splitting thanks to my editors and publicists and designers and sales people at HarperCollins in Billy Shakespeare land and Hamburger-a-gogo land.
Thanks as always to the Empress.
But mostly thank you to my lovely, lovely readers (which now even include some vatis, which is a bit alarming).
Dear worldwide Chums and Chumettes,
(Hang on a minute, when I say âworldwideâ I don't mean âenormously fatâ, I merely mean internationalwise.) Where was I before you got the wrong end of the stick? Oh yes, do you know how much I love you all? A LOT. That is how much. I do, it is le fact. Why else would I spend so much time rifling through my creative drawers (oo-er) writing another diary?
Actually, as I say to anyone who will listen (i. e., no one), I am practically a saint in human form. But thereâs very little thanks in it. For instance, the other day I helped a little old lady across the road. I didn't have to. In fact, I was in a tearing dash on my way to get new lip gloss. But I did, and do you know what she did? She hit me with her umbrella! She said she didn't want to cross the road, she was waiting for her friend to pick her up to go pole dancing!!!
That is the kind of world we live in.
The elderly insane, like Elvis Attwood, parents, etc., say that young people only care about lipstick and snogging. I say hahahaha. If they would take the trouble to read works of geniosity like mine, they would soon realise that we do many useful and creative things. Who invented the terms âpiddly-diddly departmentâ and âpooparlour divisionâ that are used in schools all over the world? Before I bothered to invent ânunga-nungasâ, what fools we felt calling our breasty substances, er⦠breasts.
Do you see?
I think you do.
Goodbye and God bless you all.
And also Sâlaters.
Georgia
p.s. And I invented nervy b. and f.t. and so on.
p.p.s. And the Viking disco inferno dance.
p.p.p.s. I could go on but I feel slightly tired with
creativitosity and I may⦠zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I canât believe I am once more on the rack of romance.
And also in the oven of luuurve.
And possibly on my way to the bakery of pain.
And maybe even going to stop along the way to get a little cake at the cake shop of agony.
Shut up, brain. Shut up.
Looking out of my bedroom window at the stars
9:01 p.m.
It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.
Ommmm.
9:03 p.m.
The meditation book is wrong. God, stars are annoying. Winking and blinking like twinkly idiots. Why are they so cheerful?
9:03 p.m. and a half
Iâll tell you why they are so cheerful: because they are not me. They know nothing of the call of the Horn and snogging. Has a Luuurve God ever said to one of them, âI will let you know in a weekâs time if I want to go out with you or notâ? No.
Anyway, what are stars for actually? You canât even read by them. They just hang about. Like dim torches.
9:04 p.m.
Hanging about is not exactly a job, is it?
