YOU had big dreams back at primary school. Vet, Chelsea striker, palaeontologist: which would you be? Let’s see how that worked out:
A pretty decent player for your local youth team, you were once invited for a trial by a scout from a top-flight club. But the night before, you joined your friends for some illicit snakebite-and-blacks in the park, causing you to vomit in the youth coach’s parking space the next morning. Now you do Sky installation.
You imagined yourself shooting scenes for a blockbuster in the backlot of a Hollywood studio. Your California dreaming came to an end when you were caught nicking a crate of scotch from round the back of Budgens, a conviction which precludes you from entering the USA. You were kicked out of your local am-dram society for fighting.
Inspired by Blake’s 7, you thought going into space would be a realistic career option and that you personally would be a crack shot with a laser rifle. Maths, physics and remaining in peak physical condition didn’t seem relevant, so you didn’t bother. Now you’re a security guard working night shifts who trolls Tim Peake on Twitter.
You loved singing and worshipped Westlife, so when the chance came to audition for the X-Factor you went for it. And the next year. And the next. Eventually you got on as a brief comedy segment because you tripped up on the stairs. Sometimes people remember it when you take your van of karaoke stuff to pubs.
An ambition severely hampered when you discovered a pathological fear of flying on your first foreign holiday to the Algarve. Plus your inability to read a map led to four of you being airlifted off Dartmoor with hypothermia while doing your Duke of Edinburgh.
You wanted to make a difference. You believed that people could be better. You ran for school council and head girl and won the vote. But your primary school wasn’t a feeder for Eton so you never stood a chance. Now you don’t even watch Newsnight.