I was summoned to 10 Downing Street, but I didn’t know why. The house was as packed as a pub on a Friday night and I had to force myself through a throng of MPs, including George Osbourne, to reach the woman at the back of the room. She asked me to put a jacket on in readiness for my audience with the prime minister, and I frantically re-buttoned my white shirt properly hoping that I would be smart enough for the encounter. Then I followed the instruction to stand close to the wall and concentrate hard to summon up the magic door.

A blaze of light greeted me at the other side in the massive stadium where everything was painted silver. I was at Wembley, all decorated as if for an ultra-white Christmas. Not even the grass and the Christmas tree were spared. The only colour in the whole scene was found on the costumes of the medieval minstrels playing their bagpipes on the pitch. From his podium the Archbishop of Canterbury, robed in silver satin, presented me with my honour. Inside the two Tesco carrier bags I found evidence that just about everyone I knew had contributed to the award. There were letters from teachers at my first primary school in Kendal, a medal from the University of Birmingham, and a huge congratulations card signed by all my friends. (The bag also contained a raft of conference bumpf which I discreetly dumped under the watchful eye of the Head of Secret Services.) On the way out I bumped into BBO who explained how she used the results of her PhD to blackmail the government into giving her job.

When I finally returned from London to Edinburgh I was delighted to hear that I would soon meet David Cameron. He’d bought the flat upstairs from mine as his Scottish pied-à-terre.