A Midsummer Tight's Dream

A Midsummer Tights Dream

Louise Rennison

Dedication

Big love to all my fabby mates and family. A special thanks this time to my groovy little sister and mum, who read everything and also wouldn’t allow the hilarious Cain “dead rabbit crying” scene at the end, which I will never tell a soul about. But it would’ve been very, very funny for the rabbit to have pretended to be crying, I think.

P. S. Gillie, Lizzie, Clare, and Cassie, and all the lovely peeps at Aitken Alexander and HarperCollins (including the god-like Gillon Aitken), I’m really sorry for not going away—and staring out from the boardroom, day after day, like a big cuckoo in your office.

Big kiss to Jo and Matilda, hoofys all round.

Contents

COVER

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

BACK ON THE SHOWBIZ EXPRESS

WINTER OF LOVE

I’M NOT AN ICE CREAM, I’M A HUMAN BEING!

THERE’S NO PEOPLE LIKE SHOW PEOPLE

EAT THE BOAT!

HUMAN GLUE

CALF LOVE

DON’T FORGET YOUR BOTTOM

MY CORKERS ARE ON THE MOVE

HE’S A RUSTY HEATHEN CROW

THE LADDER OF SHOWBIZ

GOOD-BYE TO A TREE SISTER

THE HAMSTER SLIPPERS OF LIFE

A NATURALLY CRACKING KISSER

TUNNELING FOR HIS LIFE

RETURN OF CAIN THE BAD

WARMING UP MY BOTTOM

THE FALL OF DOTHER HALL

A MIDSUMMER TIGHTS DREAM

TALLULAH’S GLOSSARY

OTHER WORKS

COPYRIGHT

BACK ADS

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Back on the showbiz express

PERFORMING ARTS COLLEGE, HERE I come again! Hold on to your tights! Because I am holding on to mine, I can tell you. Which makes it difficult to go to the loo, but that is the price of fame. And fame is my game!

Once more I am chugging back to Dother Hall. Or “the theater of dreams,” as Sidone Beaver, the principal, calls it. I am truly on the showbiz express of life.

Well, the stopping train to Skipley, the Entertainment Capital of the North. Or home of the West Riding Otter, as some not-showbiz people call it. (I don’t think they mean that only a big fat otter lives in the town, although you never know!)

Hooray and chug-a-lug-a-doo-dah!!!

I feel like shouting out to the heavens. I think I will. I can now because the grumpy woman with the stick got off at the last stop. Oh, the Northern folk with their jolly Northern ways. She was so grumpy about her gammy leg. She said the stick had worn down on one side so that she fell over in strong winds. I didn’t ask her any of this—she just told me. But hey-nonny-no, as Shakespeare said. I am going to pull down the window and shout out loud:

“The name is Tallulah. Tallulah Casey!!! And I’m back. I’m moving up! Moving on up! Nothing can stop me! Yes, I used to be shy and gangly with nobbly knees and no sticky-out bits. No corkers. I was corkerless. I didn’t even wear a corker holder. But now even my corkers are on the move!”