I Pissed On My Skirt

I lurched back to Dad’s barge on Saturday morning, head spinning and stomach growling querulously – dry heaving as I desperately tried to huff the smell of vomit out of my stinging nostrils. The smell seemed to have stuck after I’d accidentally inhaled it off some guy who puked all over himself next to me as I waited for my ride. Annoying.

The trip back to the boat was fraught with danger, but luckily (and I never thought I’d say this) the five years of Catholic school I spent hiding from my German teacher in supply cupboards proved to be totally useful. During my dazed lumber towards the dark safety of my bunk, I very nearly bumped into professional nosey-parker and fellow barge-dweller John the Goth, who would love nothing better than to rat me out for the WKD-quaffing, boy-snogging monster that I really am. As his greasy ponytail loomed into view, I flattened myself against the pier and slunk onto the boat by wriggling along on my gurgling, gin-steeped gut, like a big, boozy slug. John should be grateful I didn’t intoxicate him with my vile post-party armpits, but I had more pressing engagements, namely scarfing Marmite sandwiches with a damp tea towel over my eyes.

Once I was safely back on “the floating corridor” (Dad, you’re adorable), with three sandwiches and 15 percent of an apple in my belly, I started to hunt in the bathroom cupboards for some Berocca. Unfortunately during my search I, uh, kind of, accidentally, completely and utterly accidentally, cracked a water pipe with my ring. Yep. Accessories broke my dad’s boat. A geyser of water flew into my red, bleary eyes; the cabinet-sized bathroom immediately flooded, and my dad is cross. In fact, I haven’t seen him this cross since I melted his Pink Floyd vinyl into an ashtray on the radiator. (That, incidentally, wasn’t an accident; I love craft.)

To make matters infinitely worse, not only am I having to go without Curly-Wurlys and rolling papers because my pocket money has been scrapped, Dad’s stopped making me lunch altogether. I’ve literally never felt so sad, hungry and unloved, sort of like Demi Moore :-(. In lieu of lovingly prepped baguettes I’ve had to make my own packed lunch, and because I’m basically as dumb as an X-Factor reject that usually results in nibbling on whatever vegetation hadn’t started sprouting limbs in the cooler, and then downing my own body weight in water to feel full. Unfortunately I spent all my home economics lessons writing “*Berlinder is heavenly*” on tall Jacob’s pencil-case, so I don’t really know how to prep any food which isn’t Angel Delight. Total drag.

The knock-on effect of this parentally imposed hunger strike is that my bladder has gone utterly ape-shit. Drinking four litres of water during break does crazy things to your innards; who knew?!

This all came to a rather mortifying climax during English yesterday. We were talking about latent incestuous sexual urges in Hamlet when my bladder just – uh, God I don’t even know, like, shrank. I was briefly mortified, thinking I might be just really turned on, but then I realised that doesn’t normally result in you pissing yourself (normally) so I ran to the toilet, elbowing stray Year 8’s out of the way in my haste. Finally, in my rush to release the result of excessive water fountain use, I neglected to flip my skirt out of the way properly, and weed all over myself. Yes, I fucking well did – I got wee on my pleated Burberry skirt. It was the absolute worst. I was stranded, with piss dripping from my skirt, like a horrible Grange Hill Christmas special. Praise the lord I had my phone in my bra, so I could summon my loyal harem to grab my rucksack and drive me home, sitting on a plastic bag, of course.

This isn’t even the end of my lunch-based woes – Brett has taken to extorting carrots from me. He says that if I don’t give him an “exquisite root vegetable” at every lunch and break time, he’ll hack my Facebook, sign a bunch of UKIP petitions, and put myself “in a relationship” with a middle-aged pervert called Graham. What shall I do? Penel says she’ll get her brother Tobias and his moped-revving mates to menace him, but I doubt Brett would be too fussed by a mob of Tom Odell look-a-likes with rural accents. Anyway everyone knows by now that I weed myself in the school loos, and nobody wants to stick up for me for fear they’ll catch an unknown airborne urinary tract infection or something. Am I ever going to snog again?!

Previously: Schoolgirl Diaries - Satan Is Hiding In the School Slut's Weave