Marcus Brigstocke settled his mother and (possibly) his brother into seats in the front row, then took to the podium.

‘Gosh, he’s getting on a bit’, I thought, catching sight of his balding pate and observing his wider-than-last-time waistline.

After a brief introduction Brigstocke patrolled the audience in search of a volunteer. He stopped at the end of the row where I was sitting with my mother. The woman to the right of me coiled back in fear. I, however, was happy to be chosen. Brigstocke could tell. My mother dutifully followed me.

A fourth person joined us on stage. He and my mother were to be the stars of the show. Their first act required them to wear post-its on their foreheads. Meanwhile I sat at the back of the stage and ate chocolate.