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called. That is just what pop-type people say.
    I rang Jas to tell her. “The Stiff Dylans are cutting a new album, man.”
    â€œWhy is it called Man ?”
    Sometimes when I talk to Jas I can feel the will to live ebbing away.
    sunday december 5th
    Remind me never to go to a band rehearsal again. It is soooooo boring watching other people do stuff. And talking about themselves. And me notbeing in it. I just sat at the back and nodded my head for about a million years.
    Also, I believe the rest of the lads think I’m a bit weird. I don’t know why. I have always been the height of sophisticosity around them. Well, apart from when Dom, the drummer, asked me what I was going to do at college and I said, “Backup dancing.”
    Oh and also when I danced around at a gig in front of Dom’s dad because I thought he was an American talent spotter, but he wasn’t. He was just Dom’s dad waiting to help them pack up. And he thought that I was trying to get off with him.
    But apart from those two minor hiccups I have been sophisticosity all round, I like to think.
    Anyway, here is a brief resume of my glorious night:
a) nodded my head for a million years
b) sat on a drum kit in the van on the way home
c) lost my balance and put my foot through the bass drum
d) had to be dropped off first because I had to be in by ten o’clock on a school night
    Double merde .
    At least when I have to do the boring old panto stuff I can have a bit of artistic license with Rosie.
    I wonder how the nature snog went. I suppose Dave the Laugh went with Ellen.
    I don’t think that The Stiff Dylans think I am full of maturiosity. I think they think I am the Yoko Ono of the band and that I will split them up.
    monday december 6th
    I can’t believe the poo-osity of my life. Hawkeye said that as “a special treat” Rosie and I could help backstage at the panto every night until the final performance.
    Hawkeye is without a doubt a sadist and ex–prison warden. And probably a man.
    panto rehearsals
    I taught Nauseating P. Green to catch a mini Mars in her mouth from four feet. She is taking this dog business alarmingly seriously. She even brought me a stick, but as I said to Rosie, “I draw the line at tickling her tummy.”
    Wet Lindsay was trying to take her tights off by herself when she lost her balance and nearly crashed into the sanitary towel dispenser. It reallycheered me up. She got the mega-hump when I was laughing and doing my impression of her crashing about stuck in a pair of tights. Which was vair vair amusing but old Tiny Forehead didn’t think so. After calling me “a pathetic little twit” she stomped off into a stall to get changed.
    However, as any fool knows, I am the mistress of invention and with the aid of my compact mirror I was able to look under the door of the stall. I made Rosie come and have a look in the mirror because she didn’t believe that Wet Lindsay wears a thong in real life. But she had to believe the evidence of her own peepers when she saw the thong nestling in Wet Lindsay’s bum-oley. RoRo had to have a reviving chewy fruit before she could speak again. Then she said, “I am very sensitive, you know. That sort of thing may ruin my chances of becoming a vet.”
    So all is well that ends well.
    10:00 p.m.
    Our house had been a relatively loon-free zone, but it was too good to last. Uncle Eddie was round tonight. As usual, he came balding into my room with one of his hilarious “jokes.” He said, “Can across-eyed teacher control her pupils?” And looned off laughing like a bald loon.
    10:15 p.m.
    Robbie phoned and he didn’t mention the bass drum incident, which is a plus. He said, “What have you been up to, sex kitty?”
    Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!
    midnight
    I do feel like a bit of a French Resistance person, though, because I only see Robbie sort of in secret. There is no normal stuff with him. I said that to