called speaking French.”
“It is not, Dad, it’s called ‘speaking English in a silly voice’. You don’t even bother to change the words. You are literally supposed to change the words to actual French ones. I know that and I’m eleven. BUT I didn’t know it at my primary school, did I? In my first French lesson.”
Dad put the kettle on. He knew what was coming; he’d heard this story about Nat’s first French lesson a lot. He looked around the kitchen for support from Mum but she was in the living room. She was pretending to do emails, but she was really playing a game on her phone and having a quiet giggle at Dad being in trouble again.
“Cos of you, when Madame Hérisson asked us who could speak any French, I put my hand up.”
“Biscuit?” said Dad, still trying to avoid the story. “There might be one left as your nan’s not been here for a couple of days.”
But Nat wasn’t going to let him escape. She was an angry blur of stick arms and legs and flying blonde hair. Dad was already regretting getting her out of bed to tell her about the Great French Holiday Idea.
Nat advanced on her father. “I put my hand up and said ‘Yes, I know French,’ and Madame Hérisson said ‘Wonderful, come up and tell the class what you had for breakfast, in French.’”
“No custard creams,” said Dad, popping the lid of the biscuit tin back on. “I could do you a cheese toastie though?”
But Nat was too busy remembering that horribly embarrassing lesson.
“’Ello my leetle class mateys,” Nat had said, confidently, “for brek-farst, I ’ad a sliss of tost.” She waited for applause.
“Very amusing,” said Madame Hérisson coldly. She didn’t look amused. Nat’s classmates giggled.
“Zere is nuffink zat iss fuh-nee about a sliss of tost,” Nat continued, still speaking what she now called ‘Dad French’.
“Do it properly or sit down,” snapped Madame Hérisson, marking Nat out for special attention that year.
Nat pressed on. Perhaps her accent wasn’t big enough. She tried Dad French again. “I ’ad ze sliss off tost, and I ’ad a leetle beet of butt-urgh wheech I spred weeeth a ker-nurf.” The giggling got louder.
“A ker-nurf?” said Madame Hérisson. “A KER-NURF? What are you talking about, girl?”
“Like a ker-nurf and furk,” said Nat. By now the class was in uproar.
“Class clown, are you?” said Madame Hérisson. “Detention.”
Dad was always embarrassing her. He could even do it when he WASN’T THERE. Of course, it was way worse when he was there. Which was why she had tried so very hard to stop him interfering at her new school.
Epic fail.
It had started on day one. Nat’s form teacher, Miss Hunny, was an old friend of Dad’s (aaarrggh!) and had encouraged Dad to ‘join in’ at school events (double aaarrggh!).
Dad had very much joined in.
He organised a school trip and lost a pupil AND a teacher.
He put on a quiz night that ended in a riot.
And he was DJ at the end-of-term school disco and accidentally projected Nat’s NAKED BABY PHOTOS six metres high in the school hall!
But at least the summer holidays were about to start. After tomorrow, her classmates would have eight weeks to forget about all the disasters Dad had caused. And with a bit of luck they might even forget her horrible surname too.
Even THAT was Dad’s fault. Not just because it was his stupid name, but because he had managed to reveal it live on air on the breakfast radio show that EVERYONE at Nat’s school listened to.
And it didn’t matter how many times she explained ‘Bumolé’ was pronounced Bew-mow–lay. She was still going to be Bum Hole for the rest of her school life, unless everyone developed a very short memory over the summer holidays.
Even her best friend, Darius Bagley, called her Buttface.
Dad was talking again now, doing his gentle voice that drove her nuts.
“Yes yes yes. But let me tell you about my Great French Holiday Idea. It’s just brilliant. And the best of it is – it’s free.”
Dad liked free. Dad liked free a bit too much, if you asked Nat. Mum said that in life you get what you pay for. Which is why when Mum went food shopping they got pies with super fluffy crusts full of chunks of tender chicken and veg enfolded in a lovely tasty sauce, perhaps with some rustic hand-cut golden chips.
When Dad went food shopping they got a brown pie in a tin.
With a big yellow sticker on it saying: ‘Final reduction – eat today if you know what’s good for you. May cause swelling and rash if rubbed on skin.’
Mum walked into the kitchen, not smiling any more. Nat started smiling. Mum had heard the word ‘free’ too, and she didn’t like the sound of it either.
“What do you mean, Ivor, when you say ‘free’?” she purred dangerously.
“I met Posh Barry down the Red Lion tonight,” Dad began. Both Nat and Mum groaned. They didn’t like Posh Barry very much. To be fair, Nat didn’t like any of Dad’s friends very much. Because they were all idiots. And when Dad was with them, he became more of an idiot too.
“Posh Barry isn’t even posh,” said Nat. “He’s just one of your stupid old friends from school. He sells scrap. He’s always got bits of wire in his hair and he smells like a tin can, so I don’t know why you all call him Posh Barry.”
“His wife’s worse,” said Mum, joining in. “‘Even Posher Linda’ used to be a hairdresser in the high street. She met Barry when he asked her to get the bits of scrap out of his hair. He said it would save him money at the hairdresser’s if she married him, so she did. Now she doesn’t work and spends most of her time back at her old salon getting her own hair done.”
But the absolute worst thing about Posh Barry and Even Posher Linda was their ghastly daughter, Mimsy. Mimsy was the year above Nat at school. She was spoilt rotten. She was also very popular, mainly because she gave people gifts all the time. It was only stuff she didn’t want any more (or already had a dozen of) but it guaranteed she had loads of friends.
Worse, she had a stupid blog that EVERYONE at school read where she posted about ponies and iPhones and sparkly new trainers and lots of other things that Nat had to pretend she didn’t want and wasn’t massively jealous of.
Whenever Nat was forced to hang out with Mimsy, Mimsy would always make fun of Nat’s clothes, and her rubbish old phone, and, obvs – her embarrassing dad. Which Nat really hated because SHE was the only person who was allowed to do that. Mimsy liked to put embarrassing photos of Nat’s dad on her blog – which, let’s be frank, were not hard to find – so everyone at school could have another good laugh at Nat.
“There’s no way I’m going to spend
