felt that familiar burning sensation trickle down the back of her neck.
“I’m Ivor,” the big idiot continued, “but you can call me Mr Fun.”
“Dad, stoppit,” hissed Nat.
“Best to break the ice as soon as possible,” said Dad cheerfully, while Nat tried to find a deep dark shadow to hide in.
Mr Fun turned to the perfect St Scrofula’s children. “Anyone want to see a magic trick?”
“Yes, I think we’d all like to see you disappear,” said a large boy with very short blond hair and startling blue eyes.
“We have a comedian,” said Dad. “Ha ha, I love a bit of banter.”
“Banter off, there’s a good fellow,” said Blue Eyes.
“As long as no one ever finds out he’s my dad, I might be OK,” Nat whispered to Penny.
“What’s brown and sticky?” said Dad, trying out his favourite joke.
“A stick,” said a bored blonde girl, who Nat reckoned was almost certainly called Jemima but who was actually called Plum.
“A stick,” said Dad. “Oh, you guessed it!”
“He’s an annoying little chap. Do you think we could pay him to go away?” said Blue Eyes.
“Oi, that’s my dad you’re talking about,” Nat shouted angrily, stepping forward.
The shiny bright children from St Scrofula’s turned to her and STARTED LAUGHING.
Oops, she thought. I’ve gone and blown it already! This is gonna be a loooong week …
Nat was wrong. It was a long day.
After a brown lunch of brown rice and brown lentils and brown bread, all the children were treated to a welcome talk by the owner and the team who ran the campsite.
The woman who owned Lower Snotley Eco Camp was called Mrs Ferret and she looked like a weasel. She had brown hair, sticky-out sharp teeth and little round glasses. She spoke so quickly and quietly that Nat had no idea what she was saying.
“I thought she said something about pooing in a hole in the ground,” Nat whispered to Penny, who was looking deeply unhappy.
“I think she did,” said Penny, “and then she said something about recycling everything.”
“Everything?” said Nat, alarmed.
“I love it here.” Darius grinned.
Mrs Ferret the weasel then introduced the man who ran all the outward-bound activities, a huge, leathery kind of fellow called Mr Bungee. Nat couldn’t tell how old he was; she thought he’d just grown out of the ground like a tree. He was hard and bulgy, like a sock tightly stuffed with walnuts. Mr Bungee had a broad-brimmed leather hat decorated with sharks’ teeth and a voice like a man on a mobile phone going through a long train tunnel.
“G’day, you little creatures,” he shouted in a nasal twang. “I’m here to toughen you lot up. Get you used to the outdoor life. I’m gonna make men of the lot of you, eh?”
“Men? How about the girls?” said Nat, offended.
“ESPECIALLY the girls,” said Mr Bungee.
“I bet you’re brilliant at banter,” said Dad, stepping forward.
Next to Mr Bungee, Dad didn’t look like a sock filled with walnuts; he looked like a glove puppet filled with custard.
“Less banter, more action, that’s what your blooming country needs,” said Mr Bungee.
“Oooh, I think he’s lovely,” said Miss Austen, drooling a little.
“So do I, and I saw him first,” said Miss Eyre.
“I can see you’re a fair dinkum ocker, mate. G’day, Blue. How’d you do there, wallaby, to be sure,” said Dad in a bizarre, strangulated accent. He sounded like a cross between a cowboy, a Jamaican, and someone involved in a road traffic accident.
“You feelin’ all right?” said Mr Bungee.
“Yeah, kangaroo woologoroo koala,” said Dad. “I’m just saying, I can tell you’re an Australian. I’m dead good with accents. I’m a bit theatrical.”
“You’re a bit SOMETHIN’ all right,” said Mr B, “and I’ll have you know I’m from NEW FLIPPING ZEALAND.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” said Dad.
Mr Bungee went red. “Bit of a drongo, are you?” he said angrily. “Australians speak funny for a start, and they can’t play rugby. Not that you’d know – you lot speak REALLY funny, and you’re even WORSE at rugby.”
Everyone laughed at his joke, and Misses Eyre and Austen even gave him a round of applause.
Ew, thought Nat, total suck-up alert.
Mr Bungee picked up a list of names and read down it. “Ah, I know who you are,” he said. “You must be Mr Bu—”
“Bew-mow-lay,” shouted Nat, who knew how EVERYONE pronounced their hated surname.
“It says on my list that you’ve specially asked to be in charge of the entertainment, eh?” said Mr Bungee.
“I’m a born entertainer,” said Dad.
“Well, you make me laugh all right,” said Mr Bungee.
The St Scrofula’s kids sniggered.
“Glad to help,” said Dad, smiling.
Nat sighed.
“Now, I usually do the entertaining round here,” said Mr Bungee, putting a thick arm around Dad, “but you know what they say at the urinals: there’s always room for a little one!”
Dad smiled.
Nat DID NOT.
Her day didn’t improve. Soon, Class 8H were shown to their “super” yurts.
So not super, thought Nat miserably, as she looked at the little round huts made of brown and yellow canvas and animal skin, propped up on bricks. Little coloured flags and ribbons fluttered from their ropes.
The rain had stopped but the campsite fields were still damp and muddy.
“All the stars have these yurt things when they go to festivals,”
