Over the following few weeks, I thought carefully about that conversation in my back garden.

I still went along to the Old Farts’ Palace three times a week, mainly to take Trixie for a walk. Of course, I also spoke to Agnes, though she never mentioned the challenge again. We’d sometimes sit on the bench Grandad and I used to sit on in front of the dribbling fountain (it never got fixed, at least to my knowledge) and reminisce about Pop. Sometimes I’d cry, but mostly I’d laugh.

December arrived and with it the end of the school year. On the final day of school, there’s a ritual as well-established as our annual hammering at soccer by St Martin’s. This is the Christmas prize-giving assembly in front of the entire school, parents and assembled dignitaries. The local member of Parliament comes along, gives a speech and sponsors a couple of prizes. It’s a huge deal. And I know this sounds about as enjoyable as having your front teeth removed with rusty pliers and no anaesthetic, but, believe it or not, it’s a lot of fun.

There are three prizes for each year level and they pretend it’s an Oscars ceremony. I know how lame that sounds, but it isn’t. The event is hosted by the two school captains (newly elected Year Elevens, one boy, one girl, since the Twelves finish school before the end of the year) and they come along all gorgeous in a tuxedo and an evening gown (normally it’s the boy wearing the tuxedo – normally). After a couple of musical performances by the school orchestra and a home-grown rock band (the winner of Milltown’s Got Talent) accompanied by dance troupes, the ceremony gets underway. The hosts announce the name of the prize and then there’s a video clip of the entire year level, being idiots or playing sports. Often both at the same time. The hosts joke around and then a gold envelope is produced, opened to great fanfare and the winner’s name announced.

The winners know who they are. The school tells them a good few weeks before the end of the year. This is partly to stop kids getting themselves worked up, hoping they’re going to win and then being desperately disappointed. It’s also partly to ensure the winners and their families turn up (the local newspaper always does a story on it, provided the reporter remembers to get out of bed).

Often the winner hams it up when his or her name is announced. They stand, open-mouthed in mock shock and stumble towards the stage, shaking hands with random people from the audience. Then they’re allowed to give a short speech, most of the time something like, ‘I’d like to thank my parents, my theatrical agent and Miss Cunningham for shouting at me all year’. The drama students really get into it, sobbing realistically and impersonating actors who’ve made idiots of themselves at the real Oscars. In fact, it’s because of the drama students that a time limit was introduced by the school a few years back. Now the winners have two minutes, though most are happy just to mumble ‘Thanks’ and get off the stage.

I’d already been told I was a prize winner. Sports Personality of the Year, of all things.

I couldn’t help but think this was a sign.