I ran into my Grade Four teacher a couple of days ago at a conference. Turns out he has moved from Melbourne to NSW. “Thanks for making yourself known to me,” he said at the end.

When I was ten, it seemed this guy was ancient. He was larger than life and we were a little afraid of him, to be honest. I introduce myself and slip in beside him. He seems small and fragile. I tell him I based a book character on my memories of him and he hides his face in shyness. His his movements are quick and sharp, like a bird fluttering at a cage. We catch up a little. I ask if I can take a photo. He agrees, reluctanty. I sneak a look at his hands, wondering if thye are still large and knuckly, and I’m pleased to see that the strength is still there.

 Old Paisley was on duty, and he gave Ant a nod from under his wide-brimmed sun hat when he patrolled that particular part of the field where Ant could be seen. Old Paisley always clasped his hands behind his back and had the chin-strap of his hat very tight. It made Ant feel like gagging just to look at it.

The fight was about to go to the next level when a warning trill split the air. Both Holden and Ant looked up. Old Paisley was rushing toward them with his old-man run. He was blowing so hard on his sports whistle that the ball inside it threatened to break the sound barrier.

Holden and Ant were caught in freeze-frame, and Old Paisley’s face was dark with anger.