And don’t use the word “got”; “received” is better.’

‘Well, Mum – what about this? I received 100 out of 100 in history.’

‘Don’t brag, darling. It’s not nice.’

It’s true that optimism and modesty are fine qualities. But could it be that the parents of the first chunk of the twentieth century rather overdid things?

I imagine Einstein emerging from his bedroom: ‘Mother, good news, I have just unified space and time in one theory. I’m calling it my Special Theory of Relativity.’

‘Albert, Albert, don’t be a show-off. No one likes a bragger. If the theory is so special, you should let other people say so.’

Or Sir Edmund Hillary, back from Everest:

‘I made it, Dad.’

‘Well, that’s good, son, but it’s no reason to tramp snow into the living room.’

At the beginning of 1971, when I was twelve, we moved to Canberra. Or, to be more accurate, it was decided that I should move to Canberra. My parents had purchased a newsagency in the centre of town and had to wait a few months before taking possession. It was arranged that I should be sent ahead, like a tiny emissary, so I could start at my new school. For the first part of the year, I was to live with an old newspaper friend of my father’s. This fill-in father was Stanley Hutchinson, the chief Canberra correspondent for the Fairfax newspaper group. With his wife, Bette, he lived in a huge company-owned house opposite my new school.

I have sunny memories of their place: wandering in an overgrown garden that seemed more like a farm than a suburban plot. I slept in a room vacated by one of their grown-up boys and was astonished by my sudden exposure to ordinary, loving, family life. No regular nights with babysitters. No being sent upstairs to bed with the babble of a party below. No glamour-struck mother wearing designer clothes. The Hutchinsons had a dog, a labrador called Honey, who would lie at my feet, her tail languidly wagging. There was a warm kitchen and a lived-in, tatty feel to the rooms. You can see why I found it enormously strange.

I think most children have this experience at some point. It’s only when they spend time in someone else’s house that they realise the spectacular oddity of their own: ‘Oh, I get it. This is what normal people do.’ And Bette (I don’t want to get maudlin here) showed real affection for me. She was very pleased to have a new, young son to replace her grown-up boys; she even, in defiance of the times, supplied the odd word of kindness and praise. And because the school was just over the road, she suggested I come home each day for lunch, at least while I was settling into my new surroundings. She’d make daily treats of tuna bake and shepherd’s pie, all cooked in ancient Pyrex dishes, Bette looking at me fondly as I ate, an apron tied around her waist, a wisp of hair escaping her scarf, like an image from a pancake packet . . .

Hang on, I promised not to get maudlin. What can be done? At this point, I may need a humorous tale to lighten the mood, perhaps something involving my testicles. Ah yes, that’s right, it was around this time that my testicles decided to tie themselves into a knot, much in the way of the old song:

Do your balls hang low? Do they dangle to and fro?

Can you tie ’em in a knot? Can you tie ’em in a bow?

Can you throw ’em o’er your shoulder like a regimental soldier?

Do your balls hang low?

The testicle thing happened a couple of months into my stay with the Hutchinsons. We were driving out of Canberra, headed for Cooma. My fill-in parents were in the front of the car and I was in the back.