Excerpt from Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants by Louise Rennison, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

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Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants

even further confessions of Georgia Nicolson

by Louise Rennison

Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants
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  • First Published:
    Mar 2003, 214 pages
    Jun 2004, 240 pages

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Print Excerpt

she who laughs last
laughs the laughingest

sunday november 21st
my bedroom
4:05 p.m.

I've just seen a sparrow be quite literally washed off its perch on a tree. It should have had its umbrella up. But even if it had had its umbrella up it might have slipped on a bit of wet leaf and crashed into a passing squirrel. That is what life is like. Well, it's what my life is like.

Once more I am beyond the Valley of the Confused and treading lightly in the Universe of the Huge Red Bottom. What is the matter with me? I love the Sex God and he is my only one and only, but try telling that to my lips. Dave the Laugh only has to say, "You owe me a snog," and they start puckering up. Well, they can go out on their own in the future.

4:30 p.m.
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 traveling 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.

4:35 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.

4:45 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.

4:50 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, the Across the Road's pedigreed 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.

5:05 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 très 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.

5:15 p.m.
I mimed wanting to borrow a fiver but Mutti pretended she didn't know what I wanted.

5:30 p.m.
Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road came around again with the backup 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 (this being a cat-lynching party).

Mr. Across the Road 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?"

Excerpted from Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants by Louise Rennison. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any mater whatsoever without written permission from the publisher.

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