As they went up the path to Dother Hall I could still hear Jo’s voice echoing amongst the trees.

“Phil likes me, he really, really likes me. He—”

Then Flossie’s voice, “Miss Jo, will you stoooop that goddam racket before you force me to do something that ah will regret.”

Jo shouted, “No!”

There was the sound of a struggle and muffled shouting.

And Vaisey saying, “Flossie, she’ll stretch your cardigan with her head if you don’t let go.”

And finally Flossie singing, “I’m just a girl who cain’t say nooooo, I’m in a terrible fix!”

As their voices faded off, I walked slowly across the green.

It was a full moon and the lights were still on in The Blind Pig. I wonder where Alex is. In his room somewhere in Liverpool.

In his frilly shirt. His frilly nighttime shirt. I’m sure he doesn’t wear pajamas. He’s not a pajama sort of guy, I think.

It would have been nice to have seen him.

Although not when Cain was doing his licking thing.

I wouldn’t have liked to have to tell him about me being ice-cream girl.

Alex would never lick a girl’s nose. Unless it’s something I don’t know about yet. Maybe “nose-licking” is on the snogging scale somewhere. I wish I’d written the bloody thing down now. Maybe “knee-hugging” is on there as well, in which case I’ve been snogged by the lunatic twins as well as everything else.

In my room, I hurried into my jammies because it was cold and snuggled into my bed. I put my hand under my pillow and got out my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary.

There was Alex’s letter at the back. I opened it again. Mmmmmmmm.

Three kisses, you wouldn’t put three kisses to a mate, would you?

I wonder if Alex ever thinks about me?

He sent me a note so he must remember me. You wouldn’t write a note to someone you didn’t even remember, that would be stupid. If I was like Honey and good at kissing and fluttering my eyelashes and making my eyes hypnotic perhaps he would like me more. Hmmmmm.

I lay in bed listening to all the scurrying and shrieking outside. It was either wild pigs or the Bottomly sisters.

Just before I switched my light off I wrote a note for myself in my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary.

Practice Hypnotic Eyes.

And even though I didn’t mean to, I also wrote:

Ask Honey if I can practice more snogging on the back of her leg before she goes to Hollywood.

She is off to Hollywood on Tuesday. I wonder who she will snog there? Will the American snogging scale be the same as ours?

I bet even they don’t have a number for nose-licking—Eskimos might though.

The ladder of showbiz

ON MONDAY MORNING, AS I went through the big front doors in my welligogs and hung my coat up in the cloakroom, there were loads of girls surging around as usual. I don’t want to leave here. If Dother Hall closes, I will never climb the ladder of showbiz and wear the golden slippers of success. It will be welligogs all the way for me or maybe even lace-ups.