LOUISE RENNISON STARTLED BY HIS FURRY SHORTS PDF

And smiling. She has been brought up properly, not dragged up by fools like I have. How cool is that? Like a proper dad.

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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 cakeshop of agony. Shut up, brain, shut up. Looking out my window at the stars. It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.

The meditation book is wrong. God, stars are annoying. Winking and blinking like twinkly idiots. Why are they are so cheerful? They know nothing of the call of the Horn and snogging. Anyway, what are stars for actually? They just hang about. Like dim torches. Hanging about is not exactly a job, is it? I am not as such feeling any calmer. Being in the bakery of pain is vair vair boring.

Ten past nine on a Saturday night and I am in my bedroom. I am in the prime of my -- er -- hornosity and joie de vivre and nothing is going on. Oh good. My darling little sister has kicked open my door and flung Angus at me. We is back. Watch my panties dance. Sex bum sex bum am a sex bum!!! Libby put her frock over her head and waggled her botty around like a pole dancer.

Where does she see people doing these things? And probably prance around in their incontinence knickers. Then Mum came mumming in and scooped up Bibbs. Being in my bedroom. Why are you in here? You know, for me to be in. I was in bed, as it happens. Oh and a quick visit to the shops for essentials. And a new nunga-nunga holder.

And a copy of Cosmo. It is forty-eight hours since Masimo left me at my door saying he would let me know if he wanted me to be his girlfriend or not. Why did I admit I wanted him to be like my proper boyfriend? Why why? And also thrice why? I could for once have just shut up and been all full of casualosity and savoir whatsit.

All at the same time. Masimo the Italian Stallion for a weekendy boyfriend, with a touch of Dave the Laugh oo-er for a rainy weekday. I was so happy snogging Masimo under the stars on our date.

Nothing did. How come I am living in Fiasco land again? One minute he was snogging me under the twinkly twits, and then the next day he is off to Late and Live with Wet Lindsay, stick insect and drip. I am haunted by Old Droopy Drawers. First she enticed you know who, whose name I will never mention even beyond the grave, but as a clue his name starts with R and ends in obbie. Now she has slimed her way around Masimo.

I hate her, I hate her. Well, mine, anyway, all fabby and marvy and then all pooey and merde. What was it Charlie Dickens said in his famous book Oliver Twit?

Ah yes, "forsooth and lack a day all ye worlde is-eth a stage and verily we-eth are players in-ith it. Who knows? Who cares?

What does it mean, anyway? And why do none of those beardy Elizabethan types know how to speak proper English? What does anything mean? How many hours is it until Masimo tells me his answer? I could say that he can go out with Wet Lindsay as well as long as he likes me. No one could live with that. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc.

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...Startled by his Furry Shorts

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 cakeshop of agony. Shut up, brain, shut up. Looking out my window at the stars. It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.

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