The time is ten minutes before ten and the news cameras are winking red as we mount the stage, where a microphone and a mayor are meant to await us. The mike is live, but the Mayor is past it. ‘You go ahead without me,’ slurs Froggatt, from his seat at our feet. Sandra, flustered, appeals mutely to Olly, whose back is turned, then to me, the chairman.

Terrified as I am of public speaking, I mount the stage, seize the mike and let rip. ‘My Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen,’ the formulae trip off my tongue, ‘on behalf of the judges, may I say what a privilege and a pleasure it has been to sample the new vintage of Tawside’s renowned crop of musical talent.’

‘And the Mayor’s best vintages,’ burps Froggatt, from somewhere near my toecaps.

‘Every age-group in this competition,’ I continue, ‘especially the youngest, has shown astonishingly high levels of attainment. I shall not detain you very long before declaring the winner – ’ a hollow cry of ‘Zindabad ’ rises from the textiles table, ‘ – but when I say we were overwhelmed, I mean precisely that. We were filled with wonderment and admiration at the talent this region produces. Unanimously, to a man and woman, we felt it would be unjust if any of tonight’s finalists were to go home unrewarded. So, the Tawside Department of Arts and Leisure Services and my own company, Simmonds Limited, have arranged to present five extra awards – the one-thousand-pound Arts and Leisure Services incentive to Ashutosh al-Haq,’ a ragged attempt at ‘Zindabad ’, ‘three council scholarships to the runners-up and the two-thousand-pound Simmonds Foundation prize to Peter Stemp.’

The applause is mildly intoxicating. I haven’t orated in public at such length since my barmitzvah, and I am enjoying it so much that Sandra Adams has to nudge me to get a move on before the cameras switch off. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I resume, ‘these are not consolation prizes. They amount to an exceptional recognition of exceptional talent and effort. Now, I have kept you in suspense long enough. It is my pleasure to announce Tawside’s first Young Musician of the Year, with a prize of five thousand pounds, a concerto performance with the Tawburn Symphony Orchestra and a solo recital in London. The winner, by a unanimous decision, is . . . Maria Olszewska.’

Popping bulbs, popping corks, sloppy kisses, and a lovely Chopin prelude from the laureate, whose father consults me forthwith about fixing her London début. Peter Stemp and his mother are hanging one step back. I give them each a business card and handshake and slip away, refusing to let ambitious musical parents ruin my benevolent mood. I go looking for Froggatt to thank him for the hospitality, but the Mayor has passed out in his chambers. ‘Hasn’t been the same since his wife walked out,’ advises Sandra Adams. ‘Went to Brighton to live with their daughter, couldn’t abide public life.’