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suddenly went pop and bang , a whole bunch of blue sparks flew out of the back of the machine, and there was a smoky smell in the room that was quite different from the smoky smell of Uncle Tony’s barbecue. Everyone thought this was pretty funny, and one person even fell off his chair from laughing too hard, but Dad didn’t look even slightly embarrassed, not even when someone pointed out that he was singing ‘Smoke on the Water’. Dad just shrugged and said, ‘So what? That’s not what I was singing anyway.’ And then he started singing all over again, without the microphone or any backing music at all this time: ‘Slow-motion Walter, fire engine guy . . .’
    He does get song words wrong quite often. He reckons he honestly doesn’t know that they’re wrong, but I’m pretty sure he’s not always telling the truth. I mean, how could you get a song as wrong as he did tonight as he came down to the kitchen for dinner?
    This is what he was singing: ‘The ants are my friends, they’re blowin’ in the wind, the ants are all blowin’ in the wind . . .’
    ‘Um . . . no,’ Mum said. ‘I’m sure that’s not right.’
    ‘Yeah, you know – the Bob Dylan song,’ he answered. ‘“The Ants are Blowin’ in the Wind”.’
    ‘I heard what you sang, but it’s wrong,’ Mum said.
    Dad shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to agree to disagree. So, how was your day, Lizzie? Make any new friends?’
    I scowled at him. ‘No. Did you?’
    ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I . . . Well, no, I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘Did make an enemy, though.’
    ‘Another poorly received review?’ Mum asked, putting the salt and pepper on the table, then moving them out of reach of Richie’s grabby little fingers.
    Dad chuckled, but his eyes looked kind of dark at the same time. ‘Well, put it this way: I don’t think we’ll be getting an invitation to the Feine Wurst staff Christmas party.’
    ‘ Feine Wurst? ’ asked Mum as we sat down and started eating. ‘That’s the name of the restaurant? As in, “Fine Sausage”?’
    ‘ Das ist korrekt ,’ Dad replied.
    ‘And was it?’
    ‘No. It should actually have been called “Yuck-wurst”. Which is pretty much what I said in my review.’
    ‘Yuck-wurst!’ chirped Richie.
    ‘I don’t think this country is quite ready for Austrian modern cuisine,’ Dad said.
    ‘Yuck-wurst!’ Richie said again.
    ‘Back to me,’ I said, which made Dad smirk. ‘I didn’t make any friends, but I did learn to do long division.’
    Dad raised his eyebrows at Mum. This seemed to impress him. (I guess he’s fairly easy to impress.) ‘Long division?’
    ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘Not something you’ve ever needed to use in your job.’
    ‘Speaking of which, this is good ragout, Denise,’ he said, chewing slowly.
    ‘Ragout? It’s a casserole , Marty,’ Mum said. ‘Not everything has to have a foreign name. Oh, no,’ she sighed, as she saw me catch Dad’s eye.
    ‘Do it,’ I said.
    He didn’t need a second invitation. He laid down his knife and fork, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with an imaginary napkin, and cleared his throat. ‘The servings of the cazuela de pollo were generous, if slightly uneven in size when compared with those of some of my fellow diners.’ (He nodded towards Richie’s little bowl, which my brother had pretty much emptied all over the tray of his highchair.) ‘Nevertheless, the presentation was homey and honest, and the flavour of the free-range chicken was beautifully complemented by robust rosemary tones and velvety shiraz notes.’
    ‘It wasn’t shiraz,’ Mum said, spooning up some of the casserole from Richie’s tray and trying to feed it to him.
    Dad raised his hand, which made Mum roll her eyes. (This happens quite a bit in our house.) ‘All in all, an interesting dish from a new and promising arrival on the Henry Court dining scene. This is definitely one to watch. How about you, Betty?’
    I sat back in my chair and put