He wanders over to the grand piano and draws out the stool. ‘Now let me tell you a story. About a year ago, I was having the most dreadful day. I decided to take a walk round the grounds to clear my head. As I walked past the arts block, the window to the music room was open. The most beautiful sound was coming from inside. I don’t know what the piece was, but the fluidity and feeling from the person playing that piano was stunning. It was genius. I stopped by that window, and I listened, and I felt my silly stresses melt away. The piece ended and I leaned through the window and I made my presence known. But it wasn’t a teacher playing, as I’d expected. No. The desks were all unoccupied. The room was empty except for one person at the piano. A student. I told the gifted young man just how wonderful he sounded and, to my utter surprise, he said, “Any requests, sir?”’

He lifts the piano lid and taps lightly on the highest key. ‘“Are you familiar with Pink Floyd?” I asked him. And do you know what the young man said? He said, “Which song would you like?”’

A few students have already guessed where this story leads. Ten, maybe twenty heads turn and find me. My heart hammers into my ribs. I can’t breathe.

‘So I requested “Wish You Were Here”. And he began to play. No sheet music or anything – it was all just up there in his brain. Do you know what I did, chaps? I sat on the ground outside that building and I wept.’

He slips off his glasses and lays them on the lectern. His eyes have a faraway focus as he considers his audience in silence. ‘That person was Oliver Morcombe.’

I drop my head. I know everyone’s looking at me now.

‘What better way to end today, what better way to demonstrate the genius that lies within us all than to hear the finest song ever written, played by one of the finest musicians I’ve been fortunate enough to know. Stand up, Oliver.’

I hear the rustle of movement around me, the squeaking of chairs against the floor. I don’t look up. I can’t do this. I can’t. But everything must be normal today.

Don’t make me do this. Stop fucking looking at me. Just forget about it. Forget I’m here.

‘Where is Ollie?’ Mr Foxton asks.

I hear some muted laughter, some shouts pointing him in the right direction. ‘Stop being a cock, Morcombe,’ a voice says nearby.

My fingernails are digging into the inside of my thighs. My teeth are clamped against the flesh of my cheeks.

Think of an excuse. Think of a fucking excuse, you idiot.

‘Not like you to be shy, Ollie,’ Mr Foxton says, standing in front of me now.