The Super-Secret Diary of Holly Hopkinson: This Is Going To Be a Fiasco

Two minutes later the sat nav announced,

We were at the end of a skew-whiff track in the middle of a field.

‘ARE YOU KIDDING?’ asked Harmony.

‘That’s very strange,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure I put the right postcode in.’

‘Please tell me we’re not lost,’ Mum muttered.

‘Please tell me we are lost,’ chirped Harmony. ‘Otherwise this is, like, where we’re soooo going to live – ugh – basic.’

‘You have been to your father’s before, haven’t you?’ Mum asked Dad.

‘It was a while ago,’ he said nervously, ‘and Grandpa picked me up from the station. And it was dark. And, by the way … if it wasn’t for you thinking that shoes only work on

, perhaps you and the kids might have been here before … that would have been helpful.’

‘Calm down, everyone,’ I said. ‘Let’s just ring Grandpa and ask him for directions.’

said Dad.

‘Slight problem,’ said Mum, looking at her phone.

Dad started rubbing his forehead.

‘We should protest,’ cried Harmony. ‘It’s basic human rights … the downtrodden country folk are being silenced by the government.’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ Dad shouted. ‘Can I have some shush to think – and stop drumming on my sodding car seat, Harold, please.’

WE ARE REFUGEES – and this is officially the opposite of the best day of my life.

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