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 by Louise Rennison
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  • First Published:
    Mar 2003, 214 pages
    Paperback:
    Jun 2004, 240 pages

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Dad (the well-known cat molester) said, "Well, 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 have remained 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.

5:35 p.m.
This is my froggy homework: "Unfortunately whilst 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."My advert reads, "Merci beaucoup."

5:45 p.m.
Still no call from SG. I am once more on the rack of love.

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."
"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."
"Why?"
"Well, I haven't heard from the Sex God and I thought maybe . . ."
"Oh, didn't I tell you last night? He told me to tell you to meet him by the clock tower. He has to help his olds unpack some stuff for the shop this afternoon. Apparently they are going to sell an exciting new range of Mediterranean vine tomatoes that—"
"Jas, Jas. You are obsessed by tomatoes, that is the sadnosity of your life, but what I want to know is this: WHAT TIME did Robbie say to meet him at the clock tower?"
She was a bit huffy with me but said, "Seven thirty."
Oh, thank you, thank you. "Jas, you know I have always loved you."
She got a bit nervous then. "What do you want now? I've got my homework to do and—"
"My petite amie, do not avez-vous une spaz attack, I'm just saying that you are my number-one and tip-top pal of all time."
"Am I?"
"Mais oui."
"Thanks."
"And what do you want to say to me?"
"Er . . . good-bye?"
"No, you want to say how much you love me aussi."
"Er . . . yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Er . . . I do."
"Say it, then."
There was a really long silence.
"Jas, are you there?"
"Hmm."
"Come on, ours is the love that dares speak its name."
"Do I have to say it?"
"Oui."
"I . . . love you."
"Thanks. See you later, lezzie." And I put down the phone. I am without a shadow of doubtosity VAIR amusant!

6:05 p.m.
Just enough time for a beauty mask to discourage any lurking lurkers from rearing their ugly heads, then in with the heated rollers for maximum bounceability hairwise. And finally, a body inspection for any sign of orangutanness.

6:20 p.m.
Now, a few soothing yoga postures to put me in the right frame of mind for snogging. (Although I bet Mr. Yoga says, "Avoid headstands whilst using hair rollers, as this causes pain and crashing into the wardrobe." Only he would say it in Yogese, obviously.)

Uh-oh, I feel a bit of stupid brain coming on. Think calmosity.

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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