It only holds him back for a second or two. He’s nearly on me now, so I stop my jigging and hold my hands out to the side like a life-size statue.

‘Float!’ I say. ‘Float up!’

I wait for the feeling of the wire pulling me upwards. It’s slow in coming so I lift my heels off the table. ‘Float,’ I say again, then louder, ‘Float!’

Mr Springham is alongside me now. He wipes trifle from his face with his hand and folds his arms in mock patience. My failure to float is annoying. I’m not used to the dream-controlling wearing off so soon.

Mr Springham’s voice is normally deep and loud. Now it’s chillingly quiet.

‘Malcom Bell,’ he hisses, ‘get down from there this minute.’

I look round at the double doors of the lunch hall and say again, ‘The crocodile will be here soon – but have no fear! Cuthbert! Come now!’

But there’s no crocodile. I’m getting a bit desperate now. ‘Float! Float, man!’ I want to hover high above these people, above Mr Springham.

I’m flapping my arms now, and I hear someone say, ‘He’s trying to fly!’

Someone else starts to laugh, ‘Malky Bell’s lost it completely!’ while other people join in the laughter and begin to imitate my arms flapping.

So I stop. I lower my arms. The hall falls quiet and I take a few deep breaths. I look round at everyone looking up at me, some of them with loaded forks paused halfway to their mouths; and at Mr Springham, unusually calm with his arms crossed and a blob of custard hanging from his ear like cheap yellow jewellery.

I don’t know how long I’m there. Several seconds? A minute? It’s hard to tell when you’re dreaming, isn’t it?

I am dreaming … Aren’t I?

More seconds pass.

‘Wake up!’ I shout. I long to wake up in my bed. I hold my breath and puff out my cheeks and go paaaah! A murmur starts up in the hall. Mr Springham holds up his hand to shush everyone.

At the end of the queue of people waiting with their trays I see Susan. When our eyes meet, her face fills with sadness and she slowly shakes her head.

Now I feel sick, because I’m not dreaming, am I? I have just done this for real.

I have just thrown a bowl of trifle at the school’s scariest teacher after calling him a baldie spud-head. I have danced on the table and tried to summon a crocodile called Cuthbert.

I try one more go. ‘Earth – swallow me whole now,’ I pray quietly with my eyes shut. It doesn’t, of course. I’m still there, on the school dining table, and Mr Springham is still waiting for me. If this really was a dream, he’d probably have steam coming out of his ears.