‘What the blankety hell is Milltown’s Got Talent?’ said Grandad.

‘Have you ever seen Australia’s Got Talent?’ I replied.

‘Nope,’ said Pop. ‘And I’ve been in Australia for a hundred and fifteen years so far and never seen any evidence of talent anywhere. Why? Has it finally made an appearance?’

‘It’s a television show, Pop,’ I said. The thing is with Grandad, you can never be sure if he’s pulling your leg or not. He has a strange sense of humour. I called it ‘dry’ once. I’m so dry, he replied, I need peeing on. There was, therefore, no point in checking his reaction to the news I’d signed up for the talent show. I suspect he is a good actor and if he was the face behind the text messages I wouldn’t find out by trying to trip him up so obviously.

‘Ah, television,’ said Pop. ‘The blankety glass-fronted teat we all suck on for comfort. Or does it suck on us, young Rob? Does it drain us of wonder and passion and vitality?’ The word ‘suck’ obviously inspired him because he did it with his teeth and this set off the whistling, which was a shame because he’d sounded really intelligent up to that point. ‘Rarely watch it,’ he added. ‘Very rarely. So tell me all.’

‘It’s an amateur talent show, Pop, but you get to do your thing in front of millions. People sign up – all kinds of people, singers, dancers, comedians, jugglers, magicians, you name it. And they perform in front of a panel of celebrity judges. The overall winner is normally voted in by the television audience.’

‘Sounds appalling,’ said Pop. ‘And this passes for entertainment, does it?’

‘It seems so.’

‘And Milltown’s Got Talent is presumably your school’s version of this where revolting young people thrash electric guitars and gyrate on stage while blankety wailing?’

I tried to find a flaw in Grandad’s description, but it was fairly close to the truth.

‘Pretty much,’ I said.

‘And you’ve decided to do an act in front of the entire school?’

‘Not decided, exactly,’ I said. ‘I’m keeping my options open.’

‘You don’t play guitar,’ Grandad pointed out. ‘I’m assuming you’re not expert at gyrating but I’m guessing you can wail. Is that what you’re thinking of doing?’

‘I can’t sing, Pop,’ I said, ‘and it’s true I don’t play a musical instrument. But the talent show can be about anything. Maybe you could show me a few of your magic tricks …’ Pop is a good magician. He can make pens and stuff disappear and then pull whatever it is out from behind your ear, that sort of thing. Some of his card tricks and illusions are really impressive.

‘I could, young Rob …’ Grandad scratched at his whiskery chin. ‘I could. But when is this show?’

‘Two weeks away.’

‘Ah. No way, then. The tricks I could teach you; there’s nothing special about them and you can probably track them down on your computer anyway. Isn’t that one of the functions of those blankety things, to remove all mystery from the world?’ (It was a rhetorical question, because he continued without a pause. Nonetheless, I’d think about these words later and wonder again whether Grandad was behind the texts.) ‘The problem is time. Even the simplest trick takes weeks and weeks of practice. Some of the best ones, the ones worth watching and therefore worth performing, can take years of practice. A bad magic show is a blankety dreadful experience. You’d be better singing a song badly.’

I gazed out of the window while I mulled over his words. A light rain was falling and the world seemed slightly dispirited.

‘What about your panic attacks?’ said Pop.

‘A good question,’ I said. ‘And, yes. If I decide to go ahead with this, then I’ll be terrified about having one in front of strangers. But someone once said, do not fear fear. Its only purpose is to let you know that something is worth doing.’ I kept a close eye on Grandad’s expression. ‘What do you think of that?’

There was a long pause.

‘Sounds like a steaming pile of blankety poop,’ said Pop eventually.

He didn’t use the word ‘poop’ by the way.