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sure that I can make Dad crack without using it. But it is there if all else fails. The first course is soup and bread rolls. I make loud slurping noises with the soup. No one says anything about it. I make the slurping noises longer and louder. They go on and on and on. It sounds like someone has pulled the plug out of the bath. Dad clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. I try something different. I dip my bread in the soup and make it soggy. Then I hold it high above my head and drop it down into my mouth. I catch it with a loud slopping noise. I try again with an even bigger bit. This time I miss my mouth and the bit of soupy bread hits me in the eye. Nothing is said. Dad looks at me. Mum looks at me. Mr Spinks tries not to look at me. They are talking about how Dad might get a promotion at work. They are pretending that I am not revolting. The next course is chicken. Dad will crack over the chicken. He’ll say something. He hates me picking up the bones. The chicken is served. ‘I’ve got the chicken’s bottom,’ I say in a loud voice. Dad glares at me but he doesn’t answer. I pick up the chicken and start stuffing it into my mouth with my fingers. I grab a roast potato and break it in half. I dip my fingers into the margarine and put some on the potato. It runs all over the place. I have never seen anyone look as mad as the way Dad looks at me. He glares. He stares. He clears his throat. But still he doesn’t crack. What a man. Nothing can make him break his promise. I snap a chicken bone in half and suck out the middle. It is hollow and I can see right through it. I suck and slurp and swallow. Dad is going red in the face. Little veins are standing out on his nose. But still he does not crack. The last course is baked apple and custard. I will get him with that. Mr Spinks has stopped talking about Dad’s promotion. He is discussing something about discipline. About setting limits. About insisting on standards. Something like that. I put the hollow bone into the custard and use it like a straw. I suck the custard up the hollow chicken bone. Dad clears his throat. He is very red in the face. ‘Andrew,’ he says. He is going to crack. I have won. ‘Yes,’ I say through a mouth full of custard. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbles.


Would you have cracked if you were Dad? Why? What do you imagine Mr Spinks is thinking?


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