Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging

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Also to Brenda and Jude and the fab gang at Piccadilly.

And thanks to John Nicolson.

Hello, American-type chums! (Perhaps you say “Howdy” in America—I don’t know—but then I’m not really sure where Tibet is either, or my lipstick.)

I’m writing this special message to you from my bedroom in England. Here is my nub and thrust—apparently American people are not English. This means you might not always understand what I am going on about in this book. Well, join the club, I say. How do you think I feel? I am me and I don’t know what I’m going on about half the time. However, for your benefit I’ve put a glossary at the back of the book that will explain(ish) things. Things like “nuddypants” and “tosser.”

I hope you like my diary and don’t hold it against me that my great-great-great-grandparents colonized you. (Not just the two of them, obviously. . .)

sunday august 23rd

my bedroom

raining

10:00 a.m.

Dad had Uncle Eddie round, so naturally they had to come and see what I was up to. If Uncle Eddie (who is bald as a coot) says to me one more time, “Should bald heads be buttered?” I may kill myself. He doesn’t seem to realize that I no longer wear romper suits. I feel like yelling at him, “I am fourteen years old, Uncle Eddie! I am bursting with womanhood, I wear a bra! OK, it’s a bit on the loose side and does ride up round my neck if I run for the bus . . . but the womanly potential is there, you bald coot!”

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