I must confess that I’ve always hated football. I’ve never understood through what obscure genetic process my aversion could have mutated into a passion in my offspring. I don’t recall whether Louis’s father was particularly fascinated by the game either. No, this was something he had developed all by himself, no doubt encouraged by the global brands that spend millions on transforming morons with a limited vocabulary into intergalactic stars, and a completely ordinary sport into a top attraction. Of course, not everyone should be tarred with the same brush, not all the players are total idiots, but, even so, how has it become acceptable in our society for a footballer to earn ten thousand times more than a nurse, a teacher or a scientific researcher – real-life people, doing useful jobs? That is beyond me.

In my case, it’s not just a question of football. I dislike sport in general. I did a bit of dance between the ages of ten and thirteen with relative enthusiasm, although I always contrived to miss the end-of-year show. At secondary school, I was one of the girls who had a stomach ache, who had her period, a persistent headache, a twisted ankle . . . any excuse to get out of gym classes.

But, if Louis were conscious, how would he react to my shameless perversion of his dream, which was actually so simple to put into practice?

Are you kidding, Mum? Is that how you expect to motivate me, by making up lies and not even attempting to take an interest in the thing I’m passionate about? You’ve never been interested, anyway . . .

But I hate football, as you well know . . .

So, I’m not worth a little physical effort, is that it? If only you knew what I’d give to be in your shoes!

If only you knew how much I wish you could be in my shoes. I’d give my right arm to be able to change places with you, my darling.

After this dithering and my imaginary conversation with Louis, I had to face the facts. I couldn’t back out. I resolved to seek out this man, Edgar. It was Thursday, 2 February, the half-term holiday would begin in two days’ time – maybe there were courses being organized. Football courses for beginner oldies? Some hope! I was going to have to persuade the coach to allow me to take part in one of his sessions for pimply youths. They’d think I was crazy, but I was beginning to get used to that.