This time next December, I’ll be at Manchester Uni. And, impossible as it seems now, the odds are that by then I will have been kissed – and hopefully a lot more. The prospect of finally losing my virginity isn’t even the most exciting thing about the year 2000. Because in a year’s time, I will be training as a doctor. With a bit of luck, and the right questions on his physics exam paper, Tim will be doing the same.

‘If the millennium bug doesn’t wipe us out . . .’ he looks at his Swatch, ‘five minutes from now. Makes me feel quite reckless, being on the brink of disaster.’

Reckless isn’t Tim’s style, but his eyes are bright: I can see the beach fires the hippies have lit reflected in them. Except it’s not just the flames. There’s something else in his face, an intensity . . .

Oh shit.

He’s going to try to kiss me.

He mustn’t.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the absolute worst thing, if we did it in private. We’ve rehearsed slings and burn dressings on each other, so why not kissing? Both of us want to be prepared for when it really matters. Practice makes perfect.

Except I don’t think he’s thinking of this as a rehearsal . . .

I move backwards, out of reach, and I break eye-contact, staring resolutely over Tim’s shoulder to where Joel and his mates are having a knockabout on the Lawns, lit by the Victorian lamps that line the Prom. The frost has set the earth like concrete, but the boys don’t seem to notice. They’re too busy trying to outrun Joel, even though they know they never will.

He moves twice as fast as the others, the football always at his feet. He was in the same class as Tim and me, but we stayed on to do A levels, while he got signed for a football apprenticeship by the Dolphins FC. He’s one in a million. Everyone either wants to be him or be with him, me included. I think Tim might be the only person I know who doesn’t care about Joel one way or another.

‘. . . Perhaps we can blame the Pagans. You know, for deciding New Year should happen in December,’ Tim says, embarking on a new lecture. I let the words float over me. ‘Or I suppose it might have been the Romans.’

‘Maybe.’ I shift again, increasing the distance between us. Everything has to be clear for Tim: he’s one of the smartest kids in the sixth form, but sometimes he’s also the densest, and I can’t let him convince himself it’s a good idea to kiss me.

Kiss me.

I imagine saying those words to Joel. Let myself believe, just for a moment, that instead of laughing in my face, he might do as I ask.