I pinned on my biggest smile and walked up to him before he could get waylaid by anybody else.

‘Welcome to Cork, Mr Gill. I’m Finn Fitzpatrick from the Festival Board. We’re delighted to have you back.’

‘Wonderful. I’ve just been talking to the most boring woman in the world and I had to escape. Told her I had an important call to make. And I’ve lost my assistant. But you look like you know what’s happening. When do I go on?’

‘The film’s listed to start at seven so you’ll be on stage at about 7.05 or so, I reckon. You probably haven’t seen the huge crowds below, but it’ll take the staff a while to seat them.’

‘Ah, the great Irish public,’ Gill said, and laughed. ‘But, c’mere to me, I don’t know what they’re coming to see me for, do you? Anyway, what are the plans after that?’

‘Alice Chambers introduces you on stage and you say a few words about the film and then they’re taking you to Paradiso.’

‘Oh yeah, what’s that like?’ Gill asked. ‘I’m vegan now, I hope they know that.’

‘They do,’ I said. ‘It’s a really good place. But before you go I wonder would you sign something for me? I love all your films, going right back to the beginning. I was here in 1998 as a volunteer when you came to Cork with your first film.’

‘Oh come now, you don’t look old enough.’

I found myself blushing. After all I’d heard about Gill, after all I’d imagined him to be, my conversation with him couldn’t have been more pleasant. He was funny, obliging and self-deprecating. Draining his glass, he left it on a ledge beside him.

‘Now, what do you want me to sign? Though why you’d want my oul’ scrawl …’

I scrabbled in my bag and took out my 1998 programme, dropping the bag in the process. Gill dipped and caught it before it hit the floor.

‘Oh my God, thanks so much, Mr Gill.’

‘It’s Jeremy,’ he said. ‘And it’s no bother. Did you never hear that I used to be a goalie?’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Oh yes. Parnell United. Under-12s.’

I laughed, and Gill winked at me.

‘I don’t like to talk about it. I’m not the boastful type. So, what about that autograph of yours?’

I had bought a new pen the day before, one with a rough grip, surmising that there was a better chance of DNA residue being left on such a surface. My hands shook as I tore at the packet and I was starting to feel foolish. He asked for my name again, took trouble with the spelling, and signed the front of the catalogue, as I’d asked.

‘Takes me back,’ he said, as he handed me the programme and pen. ‘Good days.’