I am waiting for real life to start, he says, staring into the miniature teaspoon whirlwind I’ve created in my man-sized mug of instant coffee. He thinks there is a cut-off age at which he will stop waiting for the whistle and start running. He thinks there is a deadline. I throw open his curtains and dance, knowing the naked boy in the room across the court, or anyone walking past, that my director of studies even, might be watching. I hang my head upside-down from the open window. It smells of spring. This room has never seen so much light; no-one knew the walls were this colour.