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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6:25 p.m.
Fat chance. I was just doing "down dog" when Libby burst in and started playing the drums on my bottom, singing her latest favorite, "Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet," that well-known nursery rhyme. About a bag sheet that baas. "Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet" has replaced "Mary Had a Little Lard, Its Teats Was White Azno," which she used to love best.

6:30 p.m.
No sign of Angus. The loons are still having a world summit cat meeting downstairs. I heard clinking from the kitchen, which means that the vino tinto is coming out.

Usual dithering attack about what to wear. It's officially dark so I need to go from day to evening wear. Also it's a bit nippy noodles.

6:40 p.m.
So I think black polo neck and leather boots . . . (and trousers of course). And for that essential hint of sophisticosity I might just have to borrow Mum's Paloma perfume. She won't mind. Unless she finds out, of course, in which case she will kill me.

6:45 p.m.
Mum has got a plastic rain hat in her bag! How sad it would be to see her in it.

Still, on the plus side it means that she is taking a more reasonable attitude towards her age. Hopefully it means that she will be throwing away her short skirts and getting sensible underwear.

Oh, hang on, it's not a rain hat; it's a pair of emergency plastic knickknacks for Libbs. Fair enough, you can never be too careful vis-à-vis emergency botty trouble and my darling sister.

7:00 p.m.
Sex God, here I come!!!

I didn't bother to interrupt the loon party; I just left a note on the telephone table:

Dear M and V,I hope the cat-lynching party is going well.
I have found a bit of old toast for my tea and a Jammy Dodger to avert scurvy and gone out. Remember me when you get a moment.
Your daughter,
P.S. Gone to meet Jas. Be back about 9 p.m.
Hahahaha, très amusant(ish).

7:30 p.m.
As I came into the main street I could see the Sex God was waiting for me by the clock tower. I ducked into a shop doorway for a bit of basooma adjusting and lip gloss application. Also, I thought I should practice saying something normal so that even if my brain fell out (as it normally does when I see him) my mouth could carry on regardless. I thought a simple approach was best. Something like, "Hi" (pause, and a bit of a sexy smile, lips parted, nostrils not flaring wildly), and then, "Long time no dig."

Cool—a bit on the eccentric side, but with no hint of brain gone on holiday to Cyprus.

I came out of my shop doorway and walked towards him. Then he saw me. Oh heavens to Betsy, Mr. Gorgeous has landed.

He said, "Hi, Georgia" in his Sex-Goddy voice and I said, "Hi, Dig."


He laughed. "Always a bit of a tricky thing knowing what you are talking about at first, Georgia. This usually makes it better. . . ." And he got hold of my hand and pulled me towards him. Quick visit to number four on the snogging scale (kiss lasting three minutes without a breath). Yummy scrumboes and marveloso. If I could just stay attached to his mouth forever I would be happy. Dead, obviously, from starvation, but happy. Dead happy. Shut up, brain, shut up! Brain to mouth, brain to mouth: Do not under any circumstances mention being attached to his mouth forever.

The Sex God looked at me when he stopped his excellent snogging. "Did you miss me?"

"Is the Pope a vicar?" I laughed like a loon at a loon party (i.e., A LOT).

He said, "Er no, he's not."

What are we talking about? I've lost my grip already.

Luckily SG wanted to tell me all about London and The Stiff Dylans. We went and had a cappuccino at Luigi's. As I have said many times, I don't really get cappuccinos. It's the Santa Claus mustache effect I particularly want to avoid. Actually,

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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