I decided to tell Dad over breakfast instead, but he made special croissants, putting a funny black beret on his head and hanging a string of plastic onions round his neck, pretending to be French. I couldn’t tell him when he was prancing around singing Frère Jacques and calling me his little cabbage. I decided I’d tell Dad before lunch, but we went to the park and fed the ducks all the stale bread left over from the café. There was so much, the ducks had a veritable banquet, quacking appreciatively whenever I shook the bags and it started snowing chunks of bread. I didn’t want to spoil their fun – or ours. I decided to tell Dad during lunch, but he sat me down in the café and pretended I was a very special customer. He served me a funny little salad in the shape of a clown’s face – lettuce hair, boiled egg eyes, and a cherry tomato nose. ‘There! Tell your mum I give you ultra-healthy nosh,’ said Dad. ‘OK, now for pudding.’ It wasn’t quite as healthy. Dad garnished big slices of birthday cake with cream and ice cream and raspberry sauce, making a totally heavenly birthday pudding.
