Tawside’s head of Music is a good deal friendlier. Fred Burrows, organist of Tawburn Cathedral and conductor of the Tawside Youth Orchestra, beams hugely and comes barging over. He is a big, bumbling bachelor, good with kids, no threat to women. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ bellows Fred, only to find himself outflanked by a portly, full-bearded personage of obvious self-importance. Our fourth judge, in a poly-yellow tie with green stave lines bearing the purpled motto ‘Play To Win’, introduces himself as Oliver Adams, ‘call me Olly’, Director of Arts and Leisure Services.

Above the forested slopes, Olly’s fortyish face has the tender sheen of a newborn’s cranium, complete with cradle rash. He foists on me a glass of hypermarket chardonnay, a warmed-over canapé and a gift-wrapped exemplar of his corporate cravat, all of which I deposit discreetly on the mantelpiece. ‘Great to have you with us, Mr Simmonds,’ he booms. ‘Good to have a chairman who knows the score, unlike some I could mention who only count wrong notes. What we’re looking for here is a real winner, someone who can get out and sell himself, sell the region, Play To Win. I came up with the competition slogan. D’you like it?’

Olly is new to cultural affairs – ‘moved over from Marketing last year,’ he confides. He’ll learn. Behind him, half a pace behind, stands a handsome, fair-haired woman in a printed silk dress, quite stylish. She appears to be some kind of personal assistant or aide-de-camp. ‘My wife, Sandra,’ declares Olly, causing my senses to swim and swoon as I half-recognise her – surely not? – as my long-ago one-night stand from the Royal Tawburn saloon bar.

Now, it is not uncommon for men of my age and proclivities to run into someone with whom we may, or may not, have once-upon-a-time kicked off restraint and garments in panting coition, sharing orgasms but no phone numbers. If there is an etiquette for such occasions, I have yet to discover it. Someone should write a how-to book for aging roués. What does one say to an ex-quickie, or not, as the case may be? No point in venturing, ‘I say, haven’t we, er, met before?’ Because if you have, she won’t believe you could have forgotten her. And if you haven’t, she’ll catch the wink in your eye and write you off as a drooling old pervert – that is, if she doesn’t squawk sexual harassment and summon Security.

What to do? I could be mistaken. Time can turn ancient gropes into grand passion and rejection into gentle acquiescence – every near-miss a full-blooded winner. For want of certainty, I resolve to stay neutral and hope that something she says or does will trigger a confirmatory memory cell. Some hope.