A red light appears on the top of a camera facing us. Someone should have told us whether to look joyful or deadly serious.

‘Yes, while the rest of us were celebrating the millennium, talented teenage footballer Joel Greenaway was literally fighting for his life – and, astonishingly, it was two of his old school pals who came to his rescue. Kerry Smith was the first to notice something was wrong, right, Kerry?’

I can’t breathe. She’s stuck to my story since I begged her to, and so have all the witnesses: they saw us both working on Joel, and memory is malleable. But it’s one thing Kerry telling a white lie for my sake. It’s another repeating it to millions of people . . .

‘Tim and I spotted it at the same time. We all used to go to the same school so we were out celebrating in a big gang. The lads were playing football and I just . . .’ She’s blushing now, from the studio lights. ‘I happened to be watching when Joel collapsed.’

‘No warning, nothing?’ the man asks.

‘One minute he was running and the next . . .’

‘Do you remember that moment, Joel?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

They wait for more, but he’s finished answering their question. You’d think they would ask better ones, all the years they’ve been interviewing people.

‘Now what probably saved Joel’s life was that Kerry, and also Tim here, are both first-aiders, right?’

I nod. ‘St John Ambulance cadets, yes. We plan to be doctors. We both have offers from medical schools so we’re revising hard to make sure we get the grades needed.’

The woman beams at me. ‘Amazing. So, which of you two made the diagnosis?’

Kerry shoots me a terrified look. I answer for her. ‘First aid isn’t about diagnosis, it’s about assessing vital signs and stabilizing the patient so he or she can get to hospital. Joel was in the worst state possible, not breathing or responding. He was effectively dead.’

‘Gosh, you know your stuff, Tim,’ the woman says, leaning forward. ‘Which means the only way to bring him back to life was with mouth to mouth, am I right?’

No. I am about to correct her, because this kind of misinformation could endanger patients, not help them. But Kerry is finally talking.

‘Well, that and CPR. That’s chest compressions, to keep the blood going to his brain.’

‘But you did give him the kiss of life, too?’ the man insists.

Kerry blushes. ‘We call them rescue breaths. It’s not . . . not like a normal kiss—’

‘Unless a normal kiss involves pinching your partner’s nostrils and blowing hard enough to make their lungs inflate,’ I say to help her out. A joke, on national TV. Mum will be proud.

The presenters laugh, then the guy continues, ‘And all this is going on literally while the new millennium is starting?’