Finally, I was ready to set off, bundled up in my white puffa jacket, and Edgar was waiting for me, camera at the ready. Very soon, I realized that this race would be a physical ordeal festooned with zany, poetic touches. Edgar had organized a little welcome committee every two kilometres, made up of assorted families, old ladies, students, shopkeepers and tourists amused by the spectacle I offered. My supporters had laid a white sheet on the ground next to where they stood, so as not to stain the pretty medieval streets. I’d stop for a few seconds, close my eyes, and set off again splattered with a new colour, to their applause.

Edgar had delegated all that in order to keep his hands free. He filmed the entire time so that Louis wouldn’t miss a thing. I don’t know how much my son picked up exactly, but I can say with certainty that my mother watched every moment of my performance.

Jesus, if she’d been there with me, I’d seriously have contemplated strangling her. She didn’t stop cackling in my ears, and she’d rounded up half the hospital to watch. I do believe there was a peak audience of a dozen Parisian spectators, openly making fun of me. She explained to them – laughing her head off – that I’d always been absolutely hopeless at sport, that finding her middle-aged kitten had all these hidden talents was an amazing discovery, and that the yellow, green and pink streaks in my hair finally revealed my inner punk to one and all.

The torture lasted over three hours. I yelled at Edgar that it was freezing, I stopped, I set off again, I forced myself to smile when all those adorable Hungarians cheered me on, but I was on my knees.

‘You didn’t exactly run the Color wotsit half marathon, but you could say you walked it,’ teased my mother in front of a gathering used to her wisecracks by now.

After two hours, I wasn’t laughing any more. I sent the headphones flying. I was behaving like a woman in labour – insults and crushed hands included – but Edgar stayed calm throughout. Despite the pain and the superhuman effort this challenge demanded of me, I was touched that Edgar had gone to so much trouble.

The torment ended in front of the dome of Saint Stephen’s Basilica, in the heart of Belváros, Pest’s ‘inner city’. I collapsed. Edgar gave me a piggyback to our little apartment, which was only a stone’s throw from there. It had an incredible vintage bath that I’d been dreaming about all day. I lay soaking for a good hour, gently massaging my aching calves and thighs. When I got out, I flung myself on to my bed and didn’t open my eyes until early the next morning.

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