being laughed at. Mum kept reassuring her that people would forget about the video and move on to the next funny thing.
But as days went by, Nat’s angry outburst got more and more popular, and more and more shared. Like a snowball rolling down a massive mountain, gathering millions of snowflakes and turning into a horrible avalanche of frosty doom, EVERYONE was finding the clip hilarious and passing it on to their friends.
Perhaps it was Nat’s face, her wild flying hair, her little wiggly dance of outrage, her hoppy, bum-slapping dance, but something made people love it. And worst of all, she had come up with a phrase that people just liked using.
On Monday she heard the window cleaner over the road shout to his lad with the bucket: “Stop whistling. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Tuesday, Nat heard annoying local morning radio DJ Cabbage burble: “We’ve got a caller who says she’s just seen Prince Charles doing a hot wash down the launderette. All I can say to her is: ‘Doris, can’t you be normal?’”
On Wednesday Nat saw a comedian on the telly make fun of someone in the audience who was wearing an unfortunate pink tank top. “Why did you put that on?” he mocked. “People are watching …” The audience had started laughing even before he finished with …
“… Can’t you be normal?”
Nat immediately turned over to watch a documentary about a lost tribe in the Amazon. But even then she was half expecting one of the tribe to interrupt a war dance with: “Stop that, Dave, there’s a film crew. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Thursday, chat show host Dilbert Starburst said it about ten times all through his show and it got bigger laughs every flipping time.
And finally on Friday even the Prime Minister joined in the fun. He was teasing a politician from a foreign country at a big meeting. “Calm down, dear,” he said, in his usual smug voice, “people are watching. Can’t you be NORMAL?”
“Of course she can’t be normal,” muttered one of the Prime Minister’s crawly bum-lick friends, “she’s from Belgium.”
Oh great, so I can never go to Belgium now,
Naturally Nat made Dad suffer for his online crimes. She couldn’t decide between shouting at him continually or refusing to talk to him, so she opted for a mixture of both, depending on whether she wanted him to make her a bacon sandwich, for example.
“Come on, love, you know I hate it when you’re cross with me,” he said on Saturday lunchtime as she tucked into one of his big, greasy, delicious bacon sandwiches.
“Which is odd, because you make her cross a lot,” said Mum, who had been NO HELP TO DAD all week.
“Well, you can stop being cross because I’ve found out how to make it all better,” said Dad, looking quite pleased with himself.
“You CAN’T make it better,” said Nat, who was actually starting to feel less cross with him and more sorry for herself. Besides, she had to admit Dad did make excellent bacon sandwiches. “It’s not a grazed knee that you can kiss better and put a plaster on.”
She was only using that as an example, but Dad suddenly looked guilty. “I’ve apologised for getting you stuck in that babies’ swing a thousand times,” he said, remembering a time when she had grazed her knee. “I thought you were too little for the big swings.”
“I haven’t heard this story,” said Mum quietly.
“Now be fair, Nat,” said Dad, very very quickly, “you only grazed your knee when the fireman who cut you out of the swing dropped you on the gravel. Technically that wasn’t my fault.”
He jumped up out of arm’s reach and plopped more bacon in the pan. Then he said, “Now who wants to hear about the brilliant thing Dad’s just done?”
“There is NOTHING you can say to make this situation better,” said Nat firmly, “except that we’re emigrating. At the very least I’ll have to change schools. Everyone used to make fun of me – mostly thanks to you, Dad – and it’s taken me ages to go from being laughed at to just being ignored. I was hoping this might be the term where I got popular. But no, I’m going to be back down in the ‘getting laughed at’ spot again.”
“Would a hundred pounds make you feel any better?” asked Dad, over the sound of sizzling bacon.
“Ivor, you can’t just give her a hundred pounds to make her stop shouting at you,” said Mum. “That’s a terrible idea, even for you.”
“It’s not FROM me,” said Dad, smiling, “it’s from the hair salon in town. They saw you doing that thing I’m not going to say because I don’t want to be shouted at again, and they want you to be a model for them, and it’s all thanks to Dad!”
“What if she doesn’t WANT to be a model?” asked Mum. “My little girl doesn’t need a load of people telling her how pretty and wonderful and beautiful she is, and giving her money just for being gorgeous, do you, Nat?”
There was a long pause, when all that could be heard was the sizzle of the smoky pan.
“Yeah, that sounds horrible,” said Nat slowly, thinking that it sounded rather nice, on the whole. “Although … maybe I should let poor old Dad try and make it up to me. It’ll make him feel better.”
Dad smiled. “They recognised you from the – the – you know, the thing, and left a message on the website saying that you were the perfect girl to advertise their new styling gel.”
“I’m not saying yes,” said Nat, “but is it cash and what do I have to do?”
Mum looked at the two of them. “You’re both as bad as each other,” she said with a sigh.
“Dad doesn’t get EVERYTHING wrong,” said Nat.
Then the smoke alarm went off as Dad set the pan on fire.
“No, loads of women do it,” corrected Dad.
“Or maybe they can stick some real hair on from all the clippings,” giggled Nat. “There’s tons on the floor – black ones, blonde ones, curly—”
“If you don’t mention it, no one will notice,” said Dad.
“Rubbish,” laughed Nat as they went inside the shop. “The only reason no one’s pointed and laughed at me today is because they’re all pointing and laughing at you.”
“Glad
