Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Nathalia Buttface and the Most Embarrassing Five Minutes of Fame Ever

Text copyright © Nigel Smith, 2015

Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne, 2015

Cover art © Sarah Horne, 2015

Nigel Smith and Sarah Horne assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007545254

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007545261

Version: 2015-06-05

To Carole, because without her I’d just be an embarrassing dad without a book.

And thank you to Nicola, because without her I wouldn’t have a title for this book. Which would be embarrassing.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

RE YOU SURE NO ONE ELSE IS GOING TO see this video?” asked Penny Posnitch doubtfully.

“I’m not an idiot,” said Nat. “I’m not my dad.”

“Will you hurry up? My arms are getting tired,” complained Darius.

“Just hold the camera straight and press the record button when I tell you,” snapped Nat.

The three of them were in Nat’s back garden. It was a lovely warm afternoon at the end of the school holidays. The sun was shining, the flowers were out, Dad was upstairs trying to write Christmas cracker jokes and shouting rude words at his laptop, and the three friends were making a dance video.

The dance video was going very badly.

And so was Dad’s joke writing; every so often they would hear him yell: “Oh heck, that’s not funny. I’m doomed …”

“I wonder if he needs a hand,” said Darius, putting the camera down. “I’ve got a great joke about a monkey who needs to go to the toilet.”

“The ‘monkey who needs to go to the toilet’ joke is not a joke anyone wants in their cracker while they’re eating their Christmas pudding,” said Nat. “Can we please do our dance video?”

“I want to hear the monkey joke,” said Penny.

Nat started hopping up and down. “I’ve been trying to make this video all morning,” she shouted. “Will you both CONCENTRATE.”

“I only came round to show Nathalia the new Dinky Blue, Girl Guru episode online,” grumbled Penny. “And now I’ve been roped into this.”

“She’s rubbish,” said Darius, making sick noises. “You should watch Doom Ninja Pete instead. He blew up a pig last week.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Penny, who was an animal lover.

Darius started doing his impression of a pig blowing up in slow motion, until Nat ran over and started throttling him.

“Pick-up-the-camera-and-film-us-doing-the-dance …”

“OK,” he squawked.

“Play the song on the phone, Penny.”

“I can’t remember the dance move after the song goes: ‘Baby baby oooh baby’,” said Penny.

“Which ‘Baby baby oooh baby’?” asked Nat. “She sings ‘Baby baby oooh baby’ about a ZILLION times. The song is CALLED ‘Baby baby oooh baby’.”

“Er – the first time,” said Penny.

“That’s the START of the song,” shouted Nat in frustration. “I’ve shown you the moves about a thousand million billion times at least and I’m not even exaggerating. What is the matter with you? It’s step left, arms cross, turn, arms up, bend, slide and wiggle. Got it?”

“You’re not a very good dance teacher,” said Penny sulkily. “You’re always shouting.”

“That’s how good dance teachers teach dance,” shouted Nat.

“Do you want me to film this bit?” asked Darius, filming that bit.

“Of course I don’t want you to film this bit; stop filming this bit,” said Nat.

“When I saw Flora Marling’s dance video there was no one shouting,” grumbled Penny.

“That’s because Flora Marling is flipping perfect, we all know that,” said Nat. “So this dance video has to be better than perfect.”

“You can’t be better than perfect,” corrected Darius, who was filming with one hand while picking his nose with the other.

“I’m not doing anything while he’s doing THAT,” said Penny, pulling a face.

Eventually Nat got Penny to concentrate and Darius to wash his hands and after a few more shouty rehearsals, she and Penny were doing the dance.

Nat was especially proud of a new move she had invented called the Prancing Pony. It was super-tricky and Penny had already got it wrong once and ended up in a hedge.

But finally it was going well.

“… Up and hop and jump and slide and hop,” whispered Nat, reminding Penny what to do, as they reached the tricky bit. To her delight Penny was doing it BETTER THAN PERFECTLY when …

“I’ve gotta go,” said Darius, putting the camera down on the ground. “See you.”

“WHAT? We haven’t finished, you total chimp,” said Nat.

“Then you shouldn’t have taken so long, Buttface,” said Darius. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what? Where are you going?” Nat asked, infuriated, but she didn’t get an answer because at that moment Dad appeared from the house.

“Just thought I’d see if you were OK,” he said. “I was watching you jiggle about and it looked like you’d swallowed space hoppers.”

“THAT’S IT!” yelled Nat, throwing herself on the grass. “I can’t work like this.”

“Ooh, you taking selfies?” said Dad, picking up the camera. “Urgh, why’s this camera all sticky?” Darius, standing by the back gate, grinned.

“We are NOT taking selfies,” said Nat. “And I don’t even know how you know about selfies, you’re so old.”

“What are you up to then?” said Dad, adding jokingly, “I hope you’re not thinking of putting anything on to the online inter cyber-space web.”

Nat hadn’t been intending to put her dance video online, but she didn’t want to be told she COULDN’T.

“Can if I want,” she said. She wasn’t usually this rude, but was hot and tired and frustrated and scratchy.

“Stop showing off in front of your friends,” said Dad gently, which was one of the MOST ANNOYING THINGS HE COULD SAY. It was up there with:

You’re only grumpy because you’re tired.

You’re only grumpy because you’re hungry.

You’re only grumpy because you’ve found Nan’s false teeth in the biscuit tin again. AFTER you’ve eaten a digestive.

“I am NOT showing off, baldy,” said Nat, showing off, “but if I wanted to, I could put this dance routine online and get a million hits and make us rich and famous and THEN you’d be sorry.”

“You’re very grumpy,” said Dad. “You must be tired. Or possibly hungry. Or have you been in the biscuit tin?”

“You said you wouldn’t put this video online,” hissed Penny. “I don’t want anyone else to see it. You promised.”

“I’m not saying I’m GOING to put it online, I’m just saying I COULD,” said Nat stubbornly.

“Online is a very dangerous place,” said Dad, patiently. “Do you remember when you and Daddy had that talk and Daddy said it was like a big nasty dark cave with monsters in it and you said it sounded very scary and you promised to stay outside the cave forever and ever?”

“Yes, when I was SIX, Dad,” shouted Nat. Penny sniggered. Nat felt herself getting red in the face.

“Every flipping day,” she yelled, waving her arms about like mad, “you always EMBARRASS me. People are watching, Dad. Can’t you be NORMAL?”

She did one last furious high hop, but landed awkwardly on a damp patch of grass. Her feet shot out from under her, her legs went straight up in the air and she landed heavily on something. Something alive.

There was a pause. Then a look of horror. Then she yelled:

“AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGH!”

There was something buzzing in her pants! It was as cross as any bee could be. Especially a bee that had then been happily slurping pollen off a flower when it was rudely sat on.

Nat ran around the garden smacking herself on the bum like she was trying to ride herself to victory in the Grand National. Finally, inevitably, she felt the sting.

“OOOOOH!” she yelled in pain. “EEEEEE!”

With that she dashed out of the garden.

And into … fame.

AT DIDN’T BECOME FAMOUS IMMEDIATELY–no, it took her the whole weekend.

And of course it took the power of what Dad annoyingly called the ‘inter cyber-space web’ to do it.

Nat was blissfully unaware of the fuss she was causing online. This was because, for a start, she had no idea that a video of herself WAS online. But, as it turned out, it was, and it was getting more online by the minute. People like sharing. And they especially like sharing funny videos of furious girls running around gardens shouting: “Can’t you be normal – aaaarrrgh, ooooh, eeeee!”

All it needed was someone to put it online in the first place …

Then, over the next couple of days, while her video was being chuckled over by more and more people, Nathalia was actually totally OFFLINE. Mum had just come home after two weeks working abroad so Nat had loads of catching-up with her to do. She never even noticed when the battery on her mobile phone ran out.

And so she missed A LOT of texts from her classmates. Which was even worse than it sounds, because Nat was always desperate to get texts from her classmates. No one ever texted her. Nat had given her mobile number to literally EVERYONE she knew, but the only messages she ever received were from the phone company, trying to sell her a new phone.

But now, waiting for her in the cyber-darkness, were loads of them.

Texts like:

OMG!!! LOL. ROFL.

And

YOU ARE SOOOOO FUNNY.

And

HAVE YOU SEEN YOURSELF??????

And

U. R. A

Meanwhile, most of Nat’s catching-up with Mum was spent clothes shopping while telling Mum how utterly rubbish Dad had been recently.

The Atomic Dustbin – Dad’s horrible old camper van – had broken down twice picking her up from school and once when he’d volunteered to take the hockey team to an away match.

“We were so late the other team was allowed to start without us and we were ten-nil down before we even got on the pitch,” she complained, making Mum giggle.

Then she revealed Dad had made them pork pie and chips for tea THREE times last week. And it would have been four times but Bad News Nan had come round, insisted they had a proper meal with vitamins, and then ordered pizzas because cheese counted as veg, near enough.

Mum’s shoulders shook with laughter as they picked out tops.

“He does look after you pretty well though,” chuckled Mum in the changing rooms. “I mean, compared to being looked after by a trained gorilla.”

“Why are those girls staring at me?” said Nat, noticing a gaggle of gigglers, pointing and sniggering in the shop doorway. “Are my pants showing?”

Mum came out of the changing room and raised her eyebrows at the girls, who took the hint and ran off. Nat LOVED the way Mum could do that. She had seen Mum reduce grown men to quivering jelly by the simple raising of her fearsome eyebrows. Including the policemen who were always telling her off for driving much too fast in her little red car.

Dad couldn’t scare anybody, thought Nat. He only makes people laugh, the big dope. Even when he’s TRYING to be fearsome.

Nat sometimes practised raising her eyebrows at Darius when he was being especially annoying, but he just laughed and said it made her look cross-eyed.

“Can’t you be NORMAL?” shouted one of the girls outside, and the others shrieked with laughter as they took off through the shopping centre, smacking themselves on the bum.

What a weird bunch of girls, thought Nat, but within five seconds she had forgotten all about them because Mum said she’d buy her a new pair of flip-flops.

But a similarly strange thing happened as they were choosing a DVD to watch that night. Nat was having a good-natured argument with Mum as to whether they watch a big disaster movie (Mum’s choice) or a film about girls who win a singing competition and sing a lot (Nat’s choice). Dad wasn’t there; he was just going to have to watch what he was told.

Nat suddenly became aware of a couple of boys over by the comic book films who were sniggering and looking over at her. She glared at them and they slunk off.

“People are watching,” one said, for no apparent reason, then fell about laughing.

But yet again, Nat soon forgot all about it when Mum suggested they could go to the shop that sold bath bombs next.

It was only late on Sunday night, in bed, snuggled in and smelling of crème-brûlée bath bomb, that Nat plugged her phone in and was instantly greeted by a million pings that told her SHE HAD MESSAGES.

I’m popular! she thought. I’m finally popular! Go me.

But then … she read them.

“What have you done you’ve ruined my life I can’t bear to look I’m going to kill you and I’m not even joking,” yelled Nat, thundering down the stairs in search of Dad.

Dad was sitting on the sofa with Mum, just about to pour himself a glass of wine. When he saw the furious expression on Nat’s face, he poured a very big one.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, love?” he said nervously, seeing his doom approaching in the shape of a twelve-year-old in a purple tiger-striped onesie.

Nat waved her phone under his nose.

“You’ve done something stupid and horrible and embarrassing, haven’t you, Dad?”

Dad coughed and fidgeted. Next to him, Mum was starting to raise her eyebrows.

“Is this about the funny video by any chance?” he asked, trying to sound as if he wasn’t actually IN MASSIVE TROUBLE.

“What video is this, Ivor?” asked Mum, quietly. There was only one thing scarier than Mum shouting, and that was Mum being quiet.

“Ah yes, it’s probably easier if I show you …” began Dad, with a nervous chuckle. He picked up his laptop from the floor and opened it. It shone into life.

“Do you like my new screensaver?” he asked, trying to change the subject. “It’s us at Legoland just before I knocked over Big Ben and got banned for life.”

“I DON’T CARE – WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I made myself a website,” announced Dad, clicking the keys. “I’m taking Christmas crackers into the twenty-first century.”

On the screen, a cartoon cracker snapped open and out fluttered a joke.

“That’s the joke about the monkey needing the toilet,” gasped Nat. “Which means Darius flipping Bagley made this website for you. I knew YOU couldn’t do it. You don’t know anything about computers.”

“I do,” said Dad defensively. “I designed the whole thing.”

“Where’s this video?” snapped Mum. Dad moved the mouse over to a drawing of a large pile of rubbish.

“It’s here in this area called The Jokeheap,” explained Dad excitedly. “I can put all sorts of funny things here. Darius showed me how. It’s like my comedy scrapbook.”

“Or a dump,” offered Mum, “where visitors can rummage about in the rubbish of your mind.”

Dad clicked a bit more and fresh images rose from the rubble.

“Look, I put a video of a dog who sings the national anthem in there, and the one where that boy tries to skateboard on ice. And, um—”

“AND THE VIDEO OF ME DANCING AND SHOUTING AT YOU!” shrieked Nat in horror as her face rose up from the jokey rubbish dump.

“Oh no, not all of it,” corrected Dad. “Only the funny bits. Which is mostly you jumping up and down and shouting – in a cute way, obviously.”

“People are watching …” said Video Nat, “… can’t you be normal?”

A memory struggled to the surface of Nat’s brain as Video Nat ran around smacking herself and making silly noises. Why were those words so familiar?

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” said Dad. “I’ll take it down. Anyway, not many people will have seen it yet. Look here, I’ve got a counter on my website. It shows I’ve only had ten hits. And five of those were me, checking on how many hits I had.”

Mum put her head in her hands. “It only takes one person to see it and share it,” she said. Dad looked blank. Mum pushed him off the laptop and tapped some keys.

“Look,” she said. “Here in the comments bit.”

“I never read the comments,” admitted Dad, “because people can be very rude about my jokes.”

“Shut up and listen,” said Mum. “There’s a comment from ‘CatLover 34543’ who says:

All the jokes here are rubbish, but I love the video of the funny little ‘Can’t you be normal’ girl. I’m sharing this with EVERYONE I know. And I know loads of people.

“No problemo, I’ll just email her and ask her to delete it,” said Dad. “She seems like a nice person. She loves cats.”

“Don’t you know ANYTHING, Dad?” said Nat. “I had this talk with you about online safety, didn’t I?”

“Umm …” said Dad.

“Tell him, Mum,” said Nat, throwing her arms up in despair.

“Once something is on the Internet, it’s ALWAYS THERE,” said Mum, as if she was explaining something to a small and particularly dense child. “Surely even you can remember that?”

“And now loads of people have copied the video and shared it all over town,” said Nat. Suddenly, with a sick horror, she realised where she had heard those words. In the shopping centre. From COMPLETE STRANGERS. That video must have spread far and wide.

“I’m doomed. I can never go out again!” she said tearfully. “And yes, Dad, you ARE a complete idiot.”

F COURSE, NAT KNEW SHE WOULD HAVE TO LEAVE the house again. But she was determined to put it off for as long as possible. There was one more week of holidays left and she spent most of it sulking at home. NOW she was getting plenty of texts; she just didn’t want to read them. She prayed this would all be over and forgotten about by the time school started again.

“Stop hiding in your room,” said Bad News Nan one morning, popping her head round the bedroom door and scattering biscuit crumbs as she spoke. “You’ll get rickets without enough sunlight. Terrible, is rickets. You get horrible bendy legs. Doctors thought I had it once, but turns out my stockings were too tight.”

Nat wriggled further under the covers.

Bad News Nan sat heavily on the bed and looked around for something to munch. When she couldn’t see anything, she put her false teeth back in her pocket, as she only ever used them for eating.

The dog, who was hiding with Nat, emerged from under the bed and started nibbling at Nan’s trouser pocket.

He loved sucking her false teeth.

They were so tasty.

Nat peeked out from under the covers. The dog with Nan’s teeth WAS hilarious, after all.

“You had a great-auntie who suffered with her nerves,” Bad News Nan droned on, not noticing the snuffling dog. “Great-auntie Primula. She took to her bed one Christmas after her pudding set fire to the living-room curtains. Refused to move out of her room again, even when she got the boils.”

“Boils?” asked Nat, interested.

“Pustules, really. Oooh they were big enough to make the doctors weep,” said Bad News Nan with relish. “Record-breaking, they were. She made the local papers with them. People felt sorry for her, but not me. I think she just liked the attention.”

Nat wasn’t sure that anyone would want to be famous for having pustules, but she didn’t want Nan to think she was trying to get attention. She was in bed trying to AVOID attention.

“I’m getting up now, Nan,” she said, just as the dog made a grab for the gnashers. He ran off with them clattering around in his mouth. Nan said a rude word and leapt up as quickly as she could, which wasn’t very quickly, and the pair of them thudded down the stairs.

It’s not fair, thought Nat, getting dressed. I’m way less bonkers than anyone else in this family, and it’s ME people are laughing at …

When Nat at last emerged from her room, she was persuaded to go shopping with Mum and Bad News Nan. Mum wanted to buy vegetables, because Dad never bought any apart from potatoes, and Bad News Nan needed some ointment. When Nat asked why she needed the ointment, Nan told her. And then Nat felt a bit sick and wished she hadn’t.

In the shopping centre, Nat pulled the strings on her hoodie’s hood so tight around her face that she kept bumping into things. They went to their favourite caff and the only thing she would have was a milkshake, which she could drink by poking a straw through the tiny hole in her hood.

It was miserable, trying to avoid 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, thought Nat, watching the news. I bet the whole country will blame me for that comment.

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.

OU DO LOOK FUNNY WITH ALL YOUR EYEBROWS burned off,” chuckled Nat as they reached the hair salon. “Maybe you should get one of the ladies in here to draw some on for you? Loads of people do it.”

“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 to help,” said Dad with a fixed smile.

The salon was called THE FINAL CUT and was decorated with pictures of movie stars.

“Why’s it called ‘The Final Cut’?” asked Dad when he met the manager. “You’ve changed the name. It used to be ‘Curl up and Dye’.”

“Yes, we thought it would give us a more Hollywood Image,” said the manager, who was called Irene Hideous and had leathery orange skin and severe, short blonde hair. “You know, like they say ‘cut’ when they make films.”

“Yes, but ‘The Final Cut’ sounds more like someone having their head chopped off,” said Dad brightly. “Get it?”

There was a horrible pause.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Irene Hideous. “That sign cost us a fortune, and so did all those pictures. I’m not changing it again so please don’t tell my customers that.”

Nat sighed.

“You could do a Halloween theme though,” continued Dad, enthusiastic and embarrassing as ever. “You could have a big chopping block over there and customers could put their head on it and you could cut their hair while you ask them if they’ve got any last requests.”

“Last requests?” said a very old lady who had just come out from under a dryer. Her hair was bright blue. “My last request is to have my ashes put in a big egg timer. I do like to be useful. Even though nobody notices.”

“Shut up, Mum,” said another elderly woman sitting next to her.

“Besides,” continued the very old lady, “my daughter here hasn’t managed to boil me a decent egg for sixty years.”

“If that’s the way you feel about it, you can pay for your own hairdo,” said her daughter, storming out.

Irene Hideous looked at Dad venomously.

“Now she’s gone I can tell you my REAL last request,” cackled the old lady. She then said something SO RUDE that Nat thought her ears were going to fall off.

Quickly the manager ushered Nat and Dad into the back of the salon, next to the sinks.

“RIGHT, well, we’re trying to attract younger customers,” explained Mrs Hideous, “so we thought the ‘Can’t you be normal’ girl—”

“My name’s Nathalia,” said Nat.

“Yes, you, apparently you’re a new celebrity that is popular with youngsters. You’re not even that bad-looking,” said Mrs Hideous as she grabbed Nat’s face and started pulling the skin around. “There are cheekbones in there, somewhere.”

This isn’t like being a model in the way Mum said, thought Nat as her face was squished. She quite liked being called a ‘celebrity’ though.

Irene Hideous ran her long, bony orange fingers through Nat’s hair, sizing it up expertly.

“Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a bit thin.”

“I get it from baldy here,” said Nat, who was getting fed up with the way this was turning out. After all, wasn’t she supposed to be a celebrity now?

Dad tried to cover The Bald Spot Which Must Not Be Named with both hands.

“It’ll have to do,” decided Mrs Hideous.

She reached under the counter and brought out a big plastic tub of what looked like clear jelly.

“This is our own invention. We call it Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold.”

“BOGWASH,” said Dad.

“Dad!” said Nat, horrified.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Hideous.

“The first letters of ‘Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold’,” explained Dad. “It spells BOGWASH.”

“I’ve ordered five thousand labels from LABELS R US in the town centre now,” said Mrs Hideous, who looked like she was regretting letting Dad within a hundred yards of her salon. “DO NOT repeat that. No one’s going to want that on their head.”

Nathalia stared out of the big glass windows into the street and tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Why did I let Dad talk me into this? she thought.

As she stared blankly at a queue of people waiting for a bus she saw a very familiar sight. There, fidgeting and talking to himself, was Darius Bagley.

Her first thought was: Hey, great, Darius, I’ll see what he’s up to because that’s always a laugh.

Her second thought, about 0.00000001 seconds later was: DARIUS SHOWED DAD HOW TO MAKE THE WEBSITE AND UPLOAD THAT VIDEO AND RUIN MY LIFE AND SO HE MUST DIE.

“Just sign the contract, I’ll be back in five minutes,” yelled Nat, running out of the salon and knocking over a hairdryer.

She hadn’t been able to get hold of Darius for a week now. He didn’t have a mobile, or a landline, because the phone company were too scared of his horrible brother, Oswald Bagley, to come round and put one in.

“Stay right there, Bagley, you little worm,” shouted Nat, just as the bus pulled up at the stop.

Darius barged to the front of the queue and had almost made it through the door when Nat grabbed his frayed collar and dragged him away. His face was dirty, his hair cropped short and in tufts. He was wearing an old shirt three sizes too big for him and he had a baked bean in his ear.

“Where are you going, looking so smart?” she said. She wasn’t being sarcastic – he WAS looking smart. For Darius, that is.

“Let me get on the bus, I’ll be late for my job,” said Darius, wriggling.

“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” said Nat. “Why did you give Dad that video?”

The last few passengers were getting on as Darius wriggled and squirmed to get away.

“People are watching,” said Darius loudly. “Can’t you be normal?”

Everyone in the street stopped and looked at Nat.

“It’s her,” shouted one man. “It’s really her!”

“Can’t you be normal?” yelled a woman with a baby buggy. “Ha ha ha!”

“People are watching NOW,” shrieked a young shoplifter, who was running past with a toaster under one arm, closely followed by a security guard. The guard slowed down in front of Nat.

“Hey, it’s you! Do the dance!” he said.

“Eeek,” said Nat, dropping Darius and running back inside the salon. Darius grinned and hopped on the Number 3 bus just as the doors closed.

“Dad, I don’t think I want to do this,” said Nat, panting, once she was safely back inside the salon.

“Too late!” said Irene Hideous, waving the contract. “It’s all signed, sealed and paid for. Now don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”

HY HAVE ONE NORMAL HAIRSTYLE WHEN YOU CAN HAVE TEN WILD ONES USING BIO-ORGANIC GEL WITH A STEADY HOLD.

… screamed the poster in the hair salon.

“So, we want pictures of you every day for ten days,” explained Mrs Hideous. “Every morning you’ll be given a free new hairstyle by our top stylist Suki Glossop. Won’t that be exciting?” She was using the sort of pretend-nice voice that mums use when they’re trying to get kids to take medicine and the poorly child has already spat it out twice.

“I dunno,” said Nat, still shaken from her brush with fame outside.

“Come on – people are going to look at you anyway,” said Dad. “At least this way you’ll get something out of it.”

Yes, and I should be used to being stared at by now, being in your stupid company, Nat thought to herself glumly.

Top stylist Suki Glossop, a young woman with half her head shaved, a collection of piercings and a big tattoo of a dragon up her arm, started fluffing up Nat’s hair.

“Get off,” said Nat.

“Can you do something with it?” asked Mrs Hideous.

“You’re not giving me quality materials to work with,” Suki said, sounding very bored.

“Hey,” said Nat, “that’s me you’re talking about. I AM quality materials, thank you very much.”

“Just do what you can, OK?” said Mrs Hideous to Suki Glossop. “You’ve got Elsie Stain booked in for a shampoo and set at eleven and you know how she gets if we’re not ready. Especially if she’s started on the sherry early.”

“I thought modelling was supposed to be glamorous, Dad,” hissed Nat as Suki started preparing her scissors and brushes. “This place is horrible. It smells of burned hair and cats and it’s full of mad old people.”

“That’s why they need you, love,” explained Dad. “You’re their bit of glamour. You should be flattered.”

Nathalia didn’t feel very glamorous when her head was shoved in the sink and red-hot water sprayed all over it.

“Ow ow ow!” gasped Nat as her head boiled.

“It needs a hot wash to get the muck out,” said Suki, scrubbing shampoo into Nat’s tender scalp.

“There’s no muck IN,” said Nat, offended.

“Sorry, she doesn’t wash her hair very much,” said Dad. “I’d offer to do it for her, but she says she’s too old these days. But this is the result – manky hair.”

“I have NOT got manky hair!” bubbled Nat from the sink, mouth full of shampoo. Her whole head was a big afro of foam. “Shut up, Dad.”

Eventually her hair was de-mucked enough for Suki to begin drying, which she insisted on doing with a rough towel, by hand, very hard.

“You’re very lucky,” said Suki, with a pout. “I wanted to be the hair model, but apparently I’m not as famous as you.”

“You’re pulling,” complained Nat, buried under the scratchy towel. “Ouchy!”

“I can’t put you under the dryer – you’ve got such weak roots they’ll just frazzle to a crisp,” said Suki.

“Hear that, Dad?” said Nat. “Weak roots. I know where I get those from.” Dad put his hand up to his thinning thatch.

“Does she always complain this much?” asked Mrs Hideous, coming over with a tub of the gloopy gel.

“She’s not TOO bad,” said Dad, who liked talking about Nat to people when she was sitting right next to him. “Although she moaned and moaned when I wouldn’t let her have her ears pierced.”

“What’s wrong with getting your ears pierced?” said Suki, rubbing Nat’s head even harder. Shuddup, Dad, thought Nat. Can’t you see this woman’s got twelve earrings in each ear??? Not to mention the one in her nose. Or eyebrow. In fact, she’s got more piercings than FACE.

“Nothing WRONG with them,” said Dad. “It’s just that children look horrible with earrings. Also, it hurts them. Parents who give their kids earrings should be arrested.”

“My little Trayvon and D’Shaun have BOTH got earrings,” growled Suki. “And they’ve had them since they were two years old.” Nat’s head was getting squashed.

“That’s nice,” said Dad. “Um – is her hair dry now?”

Suki whipped off the towel, grabbed a massive handful of the gel and slapped it on Nat’s head with a splat. Nat could feel it trickling down her neck.

“That’s rather a lot,” said Mrs Hideous, but then she saw the dark expression on Suki’s face and slid off out of the way.

“I think something EXTREME to start,” said Suki. “Unless Daddy’s little girl can’t handle it?”

Nat had had enough of Suki flipping Glossop. Dad might be embarrassing, but this girl was unpleasant and rude. And she was NOT going to let her think she was some silly kid.

Suki began to style. She yanked and pulled and twisted her hair, but Nat wouldn’t let on that it hurt. She was a very determined girl and shut her eyes tight and didn’t utter a squeak until she heard:

“Finished. Waddya think?”

She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t complain NO MATTER HOW HORRIBLE it was.

But it wasn’t horrible.

It was wild, it was wacky.

But it was WONDERFUL.

Her new crazy hairstyle was huge and daring and exciting and Nat thought it made her look five years older at least.

It was swept back and up and over and out and high. It made Nat’s thin, straight hair look full and curly and spiky and super-glamorous. It was the sort of hairstyle that only miserable-looking models on the front of proper posh magazines have.

Nat posed in front of the mirror, not believing her eyes, ducking down and turning this way and that to see the whole, massive creation.

She LOVED it.

“It’s terrible,” said Dad.

“It’s – flipping – brilliant,” said Nat.

“Told you I was good,” said Suki, grinning smugly.

Oh my gosh, this is the kind of hairstyle that the cool kids at school will want but their parents won’t let them have, thought Nat. Which means that finally, after all this time, I’m actually one of the cool kids.

“I don’t like it,” said Dad.

“Too bad,” sniffed Mrs Hideous. “She has to wear it like that all day, along with a T-shirt advertising the salon.”

She handed Nat a cheap-looking bright red T-shirt with THE FINAL CUT printed on it.

“She can’t go out in public like that,” said Dad.

“She can and she will. It’s in the contract,” said Mrs Hideous. “Just above where you signed.”

“I can’t read that, I left my glasses in the van,” admitted Dad.

“Then why did you sign it?” asked Nat.

“Don’t interfere,” said Dad. “I’m talking business – you won’t understand.”

“You might have signed me up for anything,” wailed Nat. “You could have signed me up for the army, or for scientific experiments. You are rubbish.”

“That’s not fair,” said Dad, feeling a bit harassed. “You just said you liked the hair.”

“Not the point.” Nat looked at herself in the mirror. It was true though; she DID like it, so she couldn’t be annoyed at Dad for too long.

“Who’s doing the photographs?” asked Dad. “Is it one of those paparazzi who take pictures of all the stars?”

“We don’t believe in paying photographers,” said Mrs Hideous. “It says in the contract you’ll take the pictures. It makes it more natural.”

It makes it more cheap, you mean, thought Nat, who was feeling less and less like a celebrity by the second.

“I’ve always fancied myself as a celebrity snapper,” said Dad. “I once took a photo of Nat that made it into the local paper. She won a beautiful toddler contest.”

“For BOYS,” said Nat. “Remember? It was a beautiful boy contest.”

“Yeah, but you still won,” said Dad. “You got that scooter.”

“You said that was from Santa!” said Nat, remembering the scooter. “You massive cheapskate.”

“Now off you go,” said Mrs Hideous, who wanted Dad out of her salon as quickly as possible. “Try and take the picture somewhere pretty.”

“Round here?” said Dad, laughing. “Not likely – this is the most horrible street in town.”

“I live above the salon,” said Mrs Hideous, hands on hips.

“And I live next door, above the launderette,” said Suki.

“We’re leaving now, bye!” said Nat quickly, dragging Dad outside by the hand.

“Be careful with the hair,” shouted Suki, just as a massive lorry thundered past. “Don’t let it get wet.”

“What did she say?” asked Nat as they walked back to the Atomic Dustbin. People were staring at her again, but this time she didn’t mind; she knew they were only staring at her AMAZING HAIR. She felt like a film star.

“Dunno, there was too much traffic and I couldn’t hear properly. Something about keeping it wet? Probably helps the shine.”

“Righty ho,” said Nat, skipping along and not paying attention, but checking out her awesome reflection in every shop window. A number 3 bus trundled by.

“Oooh, Dad,” she said, reminded of her little monster of a mate. “Can we go and show Darius?”

“No problem. I’ll just pop in the mini market for a bottle of water for your hair. I don’t want those ladies to think I get EVERYTHING wrong.”

OR ONCE NAT WAS GLAD SHE WAS IN THE HORRIBLE, huge Atomic Dustbin because at least it had room for her enormous hair.

“I’ve got to show Darius,” she said, forgetting momentarily that she was angry with him. “If we follow the bus route, we might spot him.”

“Hmm,” said Dad, pulling into traffic. “Unlikely, and I hadn’t planned on spending my Saturday hunting down Darius Bagley.”

“He said something about a job,” said Nat, “but that can’t be right.”

“Oh, in that case I might know what he’s doing,” said Dad, in a strained tone of voice Nat recognised as DAD THINKING.

“No one would give Darius a job,” said Nat. “They might pay him NOT to work for them.”

Dad pulled over in a space that said TAXIS ONLY. He was concentrating. “Lemme think. I was talking to Dolores – that’s Miss Hunny to you – the other day,” he began.

“I wish you’d stop talking to my form teacher. It’s really embarrassing.”

“You know we were at college together,” said Dad. “When we were young and silly. Oh I could tell you stories …”

“Please, please don’t, I’m begging you and I’m not even joking,” said Nat, putting her fingers in her ears.

Behind them, an angry taxi driver hooted for Dad to move his van. Dad ignored it. “Anyway, Miss Hunny was saying that Darius got in big trouble last term. Any idea what for?”

Nat had loads.

“Was it putting a baked potato into Mr MacAnuff’s exhaust pipe and watching the engine fall out in bits?” said Nat. “Because I don’t think anyone knows that was him.”

“No, not that,” said Dad, who didn’t much like Mr MacAnuff the school caretaker so wasn’t going to grass Darius up.

“Was it supergluing all the maths books together?”

“No.”

“Was it talking so much in double science that Miss Van Der Graaf ran out crying?”

“No.”

Nat wracked her brains. There was so much choice. Not ever doing his homework? Singing in French? Writing verses 250 to 253 of his epic poem about poo on the white board? Hiding in the cupboard during history?

“Oh, I know,” said Dad, above the sound of angry hooting. “It was not having the school badge on his blazer.”

“Not having the badge?” said Nat, shocked. “Dad, that’s just stupid. He hasn’t got a proper blazer because Oswald keeps selling them. He got an old one from a charity shop, but it was for a different school. It’s not his fault, Dad.”

“No, but I guess a lot of other stuff IS,” said Dad, although Nat could tell he was on Darius’s side. “Miss Hunny stood up for him, and she told me she was going to suggest he did something useful for a change. It’s supposed to be a sort of punishment, but I thought it sounded like fun.”

“What is it?” asked Nat.

“Are you going to shift your ruddy great van from my parking space or are we going to have to take it outside?” said the taxi driver at Dad’s window.

“We ARE outside,” said Dad.

“Trying to be funny?” said the taxi driver aggressively.

“All the time,” said Dad. “It’s not easy either.”

The angry taxi driver grabbed the door handle and was about to yank it open when he saw Nathalia under her hair.

“Here, it’s you!” he shouted, suddenly smiling and showing big gold teeth. “Tell you what – if you say it, I’ll let your old dad off without a good beating.”

“Can’t you be NORMAL, Dad?” shouted Nat. She meant it too.

Eventually, after saying it a few more times, Dad was able to drive off safely.

“Quite useful, you being so famous,” said Dad cheerfully. “I bet you’re glad Darius gave me that video now.”

“Oh, I’m going to show him just how glad I am,” said Nat, thinking happy evil thoughts.

It wasn’t long before they reached a quieter part of town and soon Dad was slowing down outside a large old house in a street full of large old houses. This one was in the worst state of the lot.

The house was mostly red brick, with large windows and a pointy slate roof. It must have once been a bit grand, but not any longer. The bricks were stained, the roof crooked and the paintwork on the windows was old and peeling. There was a short drive flanked by two overgrown hedges. Dad turned the wheel and drove in and they bumped over potholes in the drive. Nat could hear a horrible wailing and barking and howling coming from inside the house. She noticed there were FOR SALE signs on the houses either side.

Then she saw a large blue and white sign which read:

PORTER OGDEN’S HOME FOR UNFORTUNATE CREATURES. DONATIONS WELCOME

Underneath someone had handwritten:

I mean donations of money, not more animals. Stop leaving them on the doorstep in cardboard boxes, will you?

“Is Darius living here now?” laughed Nat. “He’s an unfortunate animal.”

“Very good,” said Dad. “But no. This is where he’s working at weekends.”

“Why?” asked Nat.

“Because Miss Hunny says it’ll show Darius what it’s like trying to teach him.”

“I wish she wasn’t your friend,” said Nat. “I’d really like to like her.” She checked her hairstyle in the rear-view mirror for the tenth time. It was still ace.

“It’s gone a bit dry,” said Dad, peering at the crazy hairdo. “Shall I sprinkle some water on like we were told?”

“Yeah, whatevs, just hurry up. I want to show Darius before I batter him. He thinks I’m a goody two-shoes. Well a goody two-shoes does not have hair like THIS!”

Dad splashed on a bit of water and Nat hopped down from the van. It was quite a blustery day, but even though litter was being whirled around on the drive, Nat’s huge wild hair stayed in place.

“You’d think someone would sweep these streets more often, wouldn’t you, Dad?” said Nat, trying to dodge the litter.

“The local paper blames the council,” said Dad. “Your mum blames the government and Bad News Nan blames Europe, television, video games, bad parents, rap videos, footballers, mobile phones, wind turbines, vegetarians, gum chewers and the fact that we can’t hang people any more.”

“Who do you blame?” asked Nat, batting away an empty crisp packet.

“I just blame people who drop litter,” said Dad. “It saves a lot of time.”

By now they had reached the stained front door. There were bite and claw marks all over it. The howling and yelping and barking was louder here, and they could also hear frantic scrabbling and crashing as if something horrible was running wild inside.

“I’m sure it’s supposed to sound like that in there,” said Dad, not sounding sure one little bit.

Just as they were about to ring the bell they heard an elderly man’s voice: “That’s it, Bagley, tempt it back in the cage with that mouse. If that fails, use your hand as live bait.”

Nat turned to Dad, hand paused above the doorbell. “Although,” she said carefully, “we’re back to school next week. I could see him then. PLUS, it might not be Darius in there. He might be talking to a different Bagley.”

Something that sounded like a small lion snarled and growled inside.

“Live bait? You can get lost, poo breath,” came Darius’s voice. “If I put my hand in that cage I won’t have a finger left to pick my nose with.”

“Simba, in!” shouted the elderly man.

“That doesn’t work,” said Darius. “You know it doesn’t work because you’ve been shouting that for an hour and Simba is still not in. Do something different to shouting ‘Simba, in’.”

“Simba?” said Nat.

“Yes, I know, it sounds like a lion’s name, but you need to be a zoo to keep a lion,” said Dad. He checked the sign. “No, it’s not a zoo.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” he said, ringing the doorbell.

“Oh,” said Dad, looking at Nat. “That’s odd.”

“What?” snapped Nat, who was already jittery waiting for the door to open.

“That crisp packet has stuck to the back of your hair.”

“Get it out then.”

“I mean, it’s really stuck. Your hair has gone very sticky. It’s just a guess, but I think something might have gone a bit wrong.”

AT WAS ABOUT TO PANIC OVER HER HAIR WHEN the door opened and an ancient man with a face covered in plasters appeared.

He wore a shredded cardigan, slashed brown trousers, chewed slippers and one lens of his glasses had been smashed.

“Are you from the council?” he said, peering through his broken specs. “Sorry about the noise. And the smell. And all the escaped things. Have you come to put me in prison? It’s fine, you know, I don’t mind. I could do with a rest from all of this.”

Nat wasn’t listening; she was trying to pull the crisp packet off her head. This wasn’t how she wanted to show off to Darius. As she tugged at the packet, she realised just how glue-like the BOGWASH hair stuff was. Her hand was in danger of getting stuck as well and she yanked it away with difficulty.

“I don’t even mind sharing a cell with Sid the Sidcup Strangler,” said the old man desperately. “That’s nothing to the horrors I’ve seen in this house. Nothing, I tell you.”

“Oi, Buttface, awesome hair,” said Darius from the hallway. He was wrestling something fierce in a sack. Nat grew an inch with pride. She stopped trying to unstick the crisp packet.

As long as I don’t turn my back on him … she thought. Which is just as well when it comes to Darius Bagley anyway, to be honest.

The man at the door – who presumably was Porter Ogden – eventually let Nat and Dad inside.

The place was chaos, a total mess. Nat had never seen anything like it. Every room in the big, dingy, smelly old house was taken up with cages and tanks and boxes of animals. And not just ANY animals.

There were creatures of all types and all sizes, with only one thing in common: they were all incredibly ugly.

There were three-legged cats and birds with squashed beaks. There were terrible toads, nasty-looking newts and hideous humpbacked snakes. There were dogs with drooling faces so unpleasant, Nat thought they’d have put even Bad News Nan off her Hobnobs.

Even the goldfish were vile enough to give a shark nightmares.

And the animals were EVERYWHERE – some running wild, others pacing or flapping or slithering about in their cages and tanks.

The place ponged.

“I can’t open a window since the last great escape,” explained Mr Ogden. “I’m used to the smell, but visitors might find it’s a bit rich.”

Nat’s eyes were watering. “Can we go into the garden?” she gasped.

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