Tired and not looking forward to the long drive back from London to Sheffield, I hurriedly packed away my steaming slide projector; keen to be off now the lecture was over.

With my back turned to the dwindling audience I wound up the extension cable and thought about the best route out of the city, hoping no one would stop me to ask any complicated questions.

I usually look forward to this time, to talk to people about what they thought, or their own strange experiences. For me it can be the highpoint of the evening, like the time I ended up talking to a 60 year old crack addict (not the jamming kind), and the man whose job was firing frozen birds into jet engines. It was all going well until I heard a small voice, almost lost within the din of the tiny room - “You’re going to die aren’t you mister?”

I’d been speaking at the Castle climbing wall, and my mood wasn’t great as the audience had been rather thin. Having a small turnout isn’t really that bad as it’s quality not quantity that counts – that and the lecturer’s willingness to give a hundred percent to only a fraction of the possible audience. It’s just that you can’t help but take it personally when less people turn up then expected. In fact it can break your heart. On this occasion I blamed the poster; a non descript A4 sheet, that looked more like a Health and Safety notification than a spine tingling advert for an evening of epics. 30 people had turned up, not bad, but only the weekend before I’d lectured to about 400, and I suppose it had gone to my head.

“You’re going to die aren’t you mister”, repeated the voice, as I turned around to find a small boy standing there. He was probably about ten, the typical climbing wall youth. From his waist hung a chalk bag – probably highly treasured - the thick cord that held it to his tiny waist no doubt tied and untied a million times to form every knot in Modern Rope Techniques. Onto this was clipped a clunky pair of re-soled slippers, the karabiner gleaming like a well played with toy. His clothes were ‘BHS skate board boy’ meets Umbro. And in his improbably taped up fingers, perhaps mimicking those of his heroes, he clutched a pen and piece of paper.

“You’re mad aren’t you mister,” he went on, “my Dad said so.” For a second my mind went blank. Then I remembered him from the audience. There had been a youth competition, and half the audience had been kids. The funny thing was, whereas the adults sat on chairs or tables, the kids had all sat in a line on the floor at my feet, as if it was a school assembly. They had actually made the night for me, giggling at jokes I hoped they wouldn’t get, gasping at anything higher than themselves. It really made you feel good about the future of British climbing.

“Did you like the talk?” I asked, unable to think off anything else to say. “Yeah, it was top,” he said with wide eyes, then just stood there gawping. “I’m sorry but I’m in a bit of a rush.” I said. “Are you after something?” He stood looking at me for a few moments, fidgeting with the pen and paper, and then said, “Can I have your autograph mister?”

This really shocked me as I’d never been asked for my autograph before, and never though I would be. “Sure,” I said, taking the pen and scrap of paper from him. “What’s your name?” I asked, trying to recall the usual superstar protocol, wishing I had one of those Alan Partridge rubber stamp signatures to save time. “Stephan” he said. ‘Blimey’ I thought, ‘not sure how to spell that’, so I just scribbled: If you’re not failing, you’re not trying hard enough, Andy Kirkpat-scribble. My signature’s too long really, not enough practice, and I always run out of steam towards the end.

“Thanks mister” he said, a huge grin crossing his face, as I passed the pen and paper back. He stared at it for a second, no doubt thinking I was a cheapskate for not having a proper signature, then he looked back up. “Cool” he nodded, looking back towards his friends. I conjured up an image of him in the playground the following day, the kids around him asking ‘who the f@@ks Andy Kirkscribble?’ And how strange that perhaps in the mind of this kid I may even attain greater significance than a Pokemon card.

“Why did you want my signature?” I asked, genuinely interested why anyone would want the signature of someone who talks about his holidays. If I could wrestle rabid donkeys while doing tricks on a skateboard, I’d have understood. “Well, like I said,” he began, “my Dad said you’re mad.”

“And?” I asked, as he folded up the paper and slid it into his back pocket. “Well, you’re probably going to die soon ain’t ya mister, so I sort of thought I’d better get it now rather then later, you know what I mean?”

Kids – don’t you just love ‘em.

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