I have found myself the perfect spot in the wings of the small stage at the end of the school theatre.

There’s a stack of chairs and a fake fireplace that was used in last year’s lower-school production of Oliver! If I squeeze between them, I’m out of the way, and would probably be invisible even if I wasn’t actually, you know, invisible.

If I lean out a bit I can see part of the audience who are filing in, noisy and excited. I’m almost nervous just from being onstage and although I know – like, really know – that no one can see me, it’s still a very peculiar feeling.

The way Whitley’s Got Talent works is like this.

Twenty acts, two from each class in the lower school, are each given a three-minute slot. With introductions and changeovers and the prizes at the end, the show lasts two hours.

They don’t do judges’ comments or anything like that – not this year anyway. The first year of the show, before I was at the school, they tried that, but the judges – who were other kids – were trying to be too funny and cruel. Two acts left the stage in tears. Last year they switched to teachers being the judges, but they were too kind and said that all of the acts were excellent, even the ones that weren’t, and the audience started booing the judges.

So this year it’s a committee of three students and three teachers, voting in secret and not making comments.

Mr Parker is in charge of introducing the acts. Today he has a bow tie on, and he skips up the steps to a cheer and applause, and at least one wolf whistle, which he acknowledges with a mock curtsy, which gets a laugh.

(Honestly, Mr Parker should just do the whole show. He’d win easily.)

‘Thank you, thank you. A little bit of decorum, please, as we ready ourselves for a veritable cornucopia of entertainment! Indeed, we have comedians, crrrrooners, contortionists and terpsichorean tunesmiths – kindly desist with the giggling, Mr Knight, and look it up if you’re finding that my choice of vocabulary obfuscates my lucidity!’

Half the time, I can only guess at his meaning but I love listening to him.

He goes on like this for a bit longer, then gets to the first act.

‘Please put your hands together rrrrapidly and rrrrepeatedly for Class 7E’s mistress of melody – Miss Delancey Nkolo!’

Delancey is in the year below me, and she’s good.

The lights go down and then up again as she comes onstage, and everybody cheers. Two boys from Year Eight are doing the lighting, and Delancey sings a Beyoncé song, complete with all the vocal swoops and trills and everything.

She finishes to a huge round of applause, and I’m thinking, Poor Boydy.

After two more acts – Finbar Tuley playing a really tricky piano piece, and two girls from Miss Gowling’s class doing weird, sort-of-yoga moves to music – it’s Boydy’s turn.

Mr Parker introduces him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard of Eric Clapton, you’ve heard of Jimi Hendrix – well, those of you with any taste in music have … Settle down, settle down. Now it’s time to hear of Boyd. Class 8A’s axeman of excellence, a guitarist of gargantuan greatness. Give it up for … Elliot Boyd!’

Wow. That’s some introduction. As Boydy makes his way to the stage, I can tell he’s nervous – and who wouldn’t be after a build-up like that?

He starts to tune his guitar. Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-ding … dong.

Oh no.

(Tip to guitar performers: tune your instrument before you go on.)

Boydy does a few try-out chords, and then more tuning. Someone gives a sarcastic cheer.

Come on, Boydy, get on with it, I’m thinking.

A murmuring is starting in the audience.

He’s losing them, and I know I have to act now. Coming out from behind the fireplace, I take a deep breath and prepare to do the scariest thing I have ever done in my life.