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practical-joke-a-holic. I need to play practical jokes like other people need to breathe air and drink water.
    I don’t really see what’s wrong with a few harmless practical jokes anyway. They help to break the ice. It’s not like I’ve got a lot to say to Mr and Mrs Bainbridge.
    I mean, how do you talk to people who think Ice T is a drink? Or, that doing your homework is more important than figuring out how to defeat Sektor in Mortal Kombat 3?
    And, as if that’s not bad enough, what can you talk about with people whose eyes go all glassy when you try to explain these things to them?
    What a snore-fest.
    â€˜Too many kids these days,’ says Mr Bainbridge, ‘expect opportunity to come to them. But it doesn’t work that way. Oh no.
    You’ve got to go out and grab it by the neck. When I was a young man –’

    â€˜Dinner is served!’ says Mrs Bainbridge, coming into the room with an enormous bowl of salad.
    Thank God!’ I blurt out, before I can stop myself.
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’ says Mr Bainbridge.
    â€˜Urn, I just meant, urn, let us be thankful to God for such a beautiful spread,’ I say quickly.
    Mum and Dad are glaring at me.
    â€˜Oh,’ says Mr Bainbridge, ‘that’s all right then. For a moment there I thought you were taking the Lord’s name in vain. That’s the other trouble with young people today. They have no –’

    â€˜Perhaps you’d like to say grace, Andy?’ says Mrs Bainbridge. The lasagne is getting cold.’
    â€˜Oh, ah, yes,’ I say.
    It’s been so long since I said grace, I can barely remember the words.
    Everybody closes their eyes.
    For a moment I’m tempted to say, ‘Two, four, six, eight – bog in, don’t wait!’ but then I remember Dad’s warning.
    â€˜For what we are about to receive . . .’
    I know I should have my eyes shut too, but somebody’s got to keep theirs open to make sure that everyone else’s stay closed. And, as I’m the one saying grace, it might as well be me.

    But, as I’m trying to think of the next line, I see something in the salad bowl. Something oval. Something dark brown. Something that looks a lot like a dead cockroach.
    At least, I think it’s dead. It’s sort of hard to tell. All I know is, there’s a cockroach in the salad, and it probably wasn’t put there on purpose. Unless Mr and Mrs Bainbridge eat cockroaches – which seems unlikely. I mean, Mr Bainbridge must get paid more than Dad, and we don’t have to eat cockroaches.
    â€˜May the Lord make us truly thankful . . .’
    Truly thankful for a cockroach?
    This would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.
    I can’t just put up my hand and say, ‘Excuse me, but there’s a dead cockroach in the salad.’ It would make it look like the Bainbridges have a really dirty kitchen. They’d get really embarrassed because they’d think that we think that cockroaches fall into their food all the time.

    But even worse still, Dad might think that I put it there for a joke. And that would mean trouble.
    I have to get it out before anybody notices. For everybody’s sake.
    I grab my spoon to scoop the roach off the salad leaf . . .
    â€˜Amen,’ says Mr Bainbridge, finishing grace for me as he opens his eyes.
    He picks up the salad bowl.
    â€˜Salad, Andy?’
    â€˜Yes please,’ I say. Luck is running my way.
    Mr Bainbridge passes me the bowl. I scoop a large portion of salad onto my plate, including the top two pieces of lettuce with the dead roach in between.
    So far so good.
    Mrs Bainbridge places a large slab of lasagne on the other side of my plate. Normally my mouth would be watering, but the cockroach has kind of taken the edge off my appetite.
    â€˜Would you care for some potatoes, Andy?’
    Mrs Bainbridge passes me a bowl full of steaming spuds. I pick out one and pass the