HALT! Read no further if you haven’t read Love is a Many Trousered Thing because the ending is given away right at the start. Also general spoiler-ness for all the older books as well.

Fic Summary: So, Georgia has returned her earthy-wombat-lurving éclair back to the cake shop of Love but she still has two cakes to pick between! Will it be the Italian Pastry or the Dave Tart?

Chapter 1: Like An Exploding Tart

In a tent located centuries from of the civilized world, or the wilderness, as some loons (i.e. Jas) call it.

1:30 a.m.

I have just returned from a snogfest with a boy who I wasn’t to be having a snogfest with on a camping excursion that was supposed to be a boy-free zone. Aside from Herr Kamyer if you count him, which I do not.

Jools has fallen asleep. Mad disco dancing- before Sven knocked down the tent obviously- must have tuckered her out. Then again I was by the riverside for a good portion of time so who knows what she and Rollo were up to while I was gone.

Of course, if I asked any of the ace gang what happened while I was gone, they’d probably say, “What, you were gone, Gee?” They are all so self absorbed, really. Don’t they realize that I was off being tricked back into the cake shop of love, having not merely sent back the Sex God éclair but rather having exchanged it for a Dave the Laugh Tart?

Of course not, they were all too busy snogging like snogging fools. And Mabs and Ellen went along because Dec and Edward said to bring along “Two other ones.” I thought they had a little more pridenosity than that. And Rosie and Sven- well there are no words for those two. Except maybe bonkers. Or mad. Or completely and without a doubt in the land of the insane. So actually, there are lots of words to describe them I suppose.

Five minutes later

So here is the update.

After Dave had pulled me out of the riverbank and snogged me (nip libbling!!) I said, “Yes, well, thank you very much, that was lovely, but I’ve got to make sure there is no aquatic life hanging about in my knickers.”

But he was still holding on to my waist.

Dave shook his head, like I was a loon (understandable) but he was smiling. He leaned forward and snogged me again! And it must be said, my lips snogged right back even before I gave them permission to! It was four, with a hint of 5 and 6 that time. Finally I sort of shuffled backwards.

“Also, if there are any tadpoles or newts in there, Jas may be interested in discussing them.” I told him as I turned around.

I ran back towards the campsite as though I were vair vair eager to discuss wildlife with Jas. (I was not, though as she is the queen of both boring wilderness nonsense and knickers obsession, she probably would like to know if I’d netted any sea-critters when I fell in the river.)

I spent the rest of our time at the boy’s campsite listening to Tom and Jas go on and on about nocturnal forest creatures and watching for owls as they were the only ones not having snogfest.

Dave didn’t come back straight away, but when he did, it was all madness as he pretended to strum a “guitar” (a tree branch) and began singing campfire songs, with pants modifications. Kumbya my PANTS, Kumbya, and Oh Give me a home, where the PA-ANTS roam, and things like that. It was quite literally a Pants jam session then, until the Fussy-Knickers twins (Ellen and Jas) started fretting about getting back in time.

In time for what, I ask you. No one would be awake for hours.

Just when I thought Dave was going to pretend the whole riverside snog incidentio had not happened, he said as I was leaving, “Georgia- Best wishes to the Queen then, alright?”

What in the name of Mr. Next Door’s voluminous shorts did that mean?

“What did that mean?” Mabs asked.

“I have no idea.” I wasn’t entirely lying.

Two minutes later

What did it mean? Was he trying to make a joke or tell me something or what?

So, I wonder then, if Dave the Laugh and the Italian Stallion (Masimo) really were yummy pastries in the cake shop of lurve, do you think Dave might be a sort of comedy pie, you know, like an exploding tart filled with…erm…whatever it is that makes things explode?

You would think a comedy tart might be a bit more fun than a regular cake, wouldn’t you?

Shut up, brain! I have chosen(ish) the Italian pastry and that is that. Or is it?

I think I ought to wake Rosie up. She’s not even snoring anyway, so she can’t be really deeply asleep, can she?

One minute later

Rosie has got lippy on her false beard!

I nudged her and she looked up at me, all squinty because she hadn’t had her glasses on.

“Georgia, what is it?” She asked, “You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”

Beauty sleep. Fat chance, Ro Ro. With all the rocks and twigs under the tent, we’ll be lucky not to come home with bruises all over our bodies. But I did not say that.

I said, “I need your wisdomosity on matters of lurve.”

That was enough; she sprang out of her sleeping bag and reached for her false beard. As she hooked it over her ears, I saw it had lippy on it. She must have been snogging with her beard on!

I said, “Rosie, have you been snogging with your beard on?”

“Yes,” She fished for her glasses and put them on. After the beard, mind you. “Why?”

Thirty minutes later

So the nub and the thrust of it is, we don’t really know where I stand, lurve wise.

Ro Ro and I crawled out of the tent and sat on a picnic table to avoid waking up Jools. Until now, only Jas has known of my red-bottomosity vis-à-vis Dave the Laugh. But she is a. sleeping in another tent, b. likely to call me tarty for snogging him again, and c. obsessed with owls. Enough said.

I told Rosie about Dave’s naughtinosity and flirtiness (leaving out the fact that I’d kissed him while he was dating Ellen for a week or so) and our miniaturized snogfest-ette by the river.

I left out the part where he said “And that is why I love you” mostly because I felt embarrassed for some reason, but also because he said it right after he told me I was nearly an honorary bloke. I didn’t want to even open that whole can of worms yet.

Although, that is a ludicrous expression. Who would ever have a can of worms? Besides a fisher-type person, and then wouldn’t he want to open it? If I had a can of worms, I’d never open it. Except to dump them in Wet Lindsey’s rucksack maybe.

But anyways, I let the whole love comment sit out and just told Rosie about the Queen and liking many pairs of trousers and the kissing.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“Well, Dave is on a whole, more fun in areas of laughnosity” She said, stroking her beard- now grey with smudges of passion fruit-pink.

“Yes, this is true”

“But Masimo is foreign, and a pop-star-in-the-making.”

Both good points, well made.

“Which is the better snogger?” She asked.

Good question. Masimo did that tongue roll thingy. But Dave did nip libbling.

“What about the queen thing? When he said ‘Best wishes to the queen,’ when we left?” My bum was getting very sore on the picnic table. Keep in mind it had already been through a lot what with being pushed into a bush and then falling into the river.

“Maybe he was sending some cryptic message, and you have to decipher it.” Rosie said after doing a bit more beard stroking and gazing off into the distance like a Freudist (she imagines).

“In the realm of reality, Rosie.” I told her sternly.

“Well maybe he was trying to tell you not to forget- or pretend to forget- what had happened.”

“Yes, I thought that too, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Who ever is sure when it comes to boys?” Rosie asked.

That’s the truth.

“So now, you may or may not be in the same boat as before. Having- but not quite having- a cake in each hand.” Rosie said thoughtfully, not telling me anything new really.

“So it seems.”

“Doesn’t D the L have a girlfriend type person these days?” She asked suddenly.

That’s right. Emma. The nauseatingly nice girl who smiles a lot and hugs everyone. Oh bugger. So now I’m not only on the verge of being a two-timey minx to Masimo, but I could become the “Other Woman” in a horriblement domestic tiff.

In Bed, or rather an itchy sleeping bag

Ten minutes later

Rosie dropped off as soon as we got back in bed. She’s snoring like a lumberjack, now.

Dave did say he liked me possibly better than Emma didn’t he? Well, actually he said he liked the Queen better than Emma, if you want to mince words. But then, he hasn’t been snogging the queen. Or has he? He is quite the hornmiester.

How am I supposed to sleep with all this confusiosity in my heaZzzzzz

Sunday July 31

8:00 a.m.

I was awoken at the crack of dawn by a most disturbing thing. Herr Kamyer was playing a trumpet. Playing some irritating military song. I couldn’t even block it out with my pillow over my head.

But then Rosie took my pillow and whapped me with it.

“Back to civilization today,” She said, “and also, you will want to see Miss Wilson. She’s wearing lippy and blusher and mascara.”

“She said artificial beauty doesn’t matter when you are in the midst of the beauty of nature, and blah blah blah.” Jools said. She was perking up at this.

Miss Wilson rarely wears lippy to Stalag 14 (if she does, it always seems to be half on her front teeth) but she certainly hasn’t worn any make-up since we’ve been on this camping fiasco.

“She’s trying to impress Herr Kamyer!” I exclaimed. I’d never been out of bed and dressed so quickly. I guess everyone has their own idea of sex god-iness.

I shared this with Rosie and Jools. “To each their own, I suppose, in matters of sexy fish in the sea.” I said.

“It’s nice for the elderly to find happiness,” Rosie said, “But I do hope we never have to see them knutchening.”

On the Bus

Noon

Miss Wilson is officially my favorite teacher.

Elvis Atwood had apparently gotten a bit of lurgy, according to Herr Kamyer, though we all know he was posing for nudey-pants pictures with Wifey Elvis again. But the important part is, the primary school’s caretaker was sent to pick us up from the middle of nowhere (our campsite) instead of Elvis. And since Substitute Elvis didn’t mind, miss. Wilson got to have her way (oo-er) and forced us to sing campy type songs.

It was groans all around at first, until she taught us a new song. It’s apparently a hamburger-a-gogo type song. But this is how it goes.

I wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it’s hot.

I wear my flannel nightie in the winter when it’s not.

But sometimes in the springtime and sometimes in the fall,

I hop right in between the sheets with nothing on at all.

And that’s pretty much it. So there was an entire busload of girls singing about jumping in between the sheets in the nudey pants. It was hilarious. And of course the ace gang and I replaced ‘pajamas’ and ‘nightie’ with ‘pants’ for even further amuseinosity.

I must teach it to Dave the Laugh.

As soon as I know what’s going on, vis-à-vis me and him, anyway.

One minute later

It’s not really the sort of thing Masimo would find funny, is it?