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case all my boyfriends come home to roost at once.
    I wonder—what they are all doing?
    Maybe I’ve imagined it all. Maybe Masimo didn’t mean he wanted to be my one and only one. Maybe he just wanted a snog. Or maybe he thinks I still like Robbie and that’s put him off. Maybe he’s right—maybe I do still like Robbie. Maybe…I should just call him.
    6:40 p.m.
    Boom crash bang. Yowl yowl. Now what?
    Then I heard the lovely tones of my father.
    â€œBloody hell, that furry bastard has stuck its claws into my arse.”
    How delightful my home life is. It’s practically like living in Pride and Prejudice it’s so elegant. I will pretend to be asleep. Not that anyone cares. I have asked them to respect my privacy, but I bet they—
    Ah, yes. My door crashed open.
    I said, “Mum, I am asleep, actually.”
    Mum said, “Don’t you want your letter then?”
    I sat up in bed. “What letter?”
    She held out an envelope. “This one. It was on the doormat before you got home from school. I put it in my bag and forgot about it. It must have been hand delivered, because it’s only got your name on it.”
    I said, “Quick, give it to me, it is a criminal offense to tamper with Her Maj’s mail.”
    â€œWho do you think it’s from?”
    â€œEr, Father Christmas. Possibly someone from beyond the grave. Mum, I don’t know because you have got it and I therefore have not opened it.”
    ten minutes later
    At last she has gone. She hung about a bit hopingI would let her know who it was from. Looking at my things, saying meaningless stuff like, “What is my black leather jacket doing in your wardrobe? And my Chanel bag?”
    Utterly pointless things. Tutting and carrying on like a tutting thing in a tut shop. But I just looked at her until she left.
    five minutes later
    I am so nervy that I can’t open the letter. My name is written in capitals so I can’t even recognize the hadwriting. What if it is from Masimo to say that having seen me scamper off at high speed like a prat, he has decided he is not a free man for me? Or what if it is from Robbie, saying that he has always loved me and would I be his?
    Or what if it is from Oscar, trainee Blunderboy, asking me on “a date” to go skateboarding? Or what if it is…Oh shut up, shut up.
    two minutes later
    When you are having a tizz in nervy b. central, Call-Me-Arnold the Vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”
    one minute later
    I don’t know why, though, because clearly Jesus’ dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in the letter already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do? Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It’s a bit like mime, isn’t it? Why do we have to guess what is going on, why can’t Big G just tell us and get it over with?
    five minutes later
    What if the note is from Masimo and it just says, “Arrivederci.”
    Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It goes “You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, youmake me happy when skies are gray, you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take your furry face away.”
    ten minutes later
    I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie, when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave