I tugged my navy-blue gabardine from my shoulders, abandoned it on the seat behind me, arms left inside out in my excitement, and I peered over the balcony, resting my hands on the plush velvet rail. I fixed my gaze on the stage wondering what delight lurked beyond the long curtains, and I waited.

Meanwhile more kids filed into the theatre filling it with chatter. Teachers and pupils were ushered in, row after row, until there were lines of, never been to a theatre before, children from every corner of Yorkshire. Not for one moment did I imagine the fantasy world that was about to assail our infant minds.

The lights went down. Little feet ceased to shuffle, seats no longer creaked, and for one brief moment I think I stopped breathing. The curtains drew back and light flooded the stage. I was mesmerized. My jaw ached in its dropped-ness. All reason was lost in some black hole behind my eyes. My face was alight with wonder, and for the next, I don’t know how long, I inhabited a space somewhere between fantasy and truth.

I’m sure, to this day, the memory of that night is etched on my brain: that giant St Bernard dog – Nana, the frayed Lost Boys, Captain Hook with his menacing prosthetic, pirates, the clapping to keep Tinkerbelle alive, the crocodile, the Tick, the Tock, and the unbelievable Peter Pan, flying, yes flying without wings, how did he do that? And Wendy, sewing Peter’s shadow to his feet, in her long, white nightgown – I always wanted one the same – with a collar and cuffs of lace. And her reluctant brothers, who bounced from bed to bed, learning to fly in a most unruly fashion.

Every scene, from the bedroom to giant mushroom homes in Never Never Land, to a pirate ship complete with gangplank, sank into my skull and stayed there under layer after layer of memory until it became part of me. So much so that I imagine some brain surgeon, in an attempt to find out what exactly is going on inside my head, to one day, fold back my hippocampus only to discover a miniature triptych of Peter Pan emblazoned in full colour on my grey matter.

Thank you Leeds Grand Theatre for striking the flint that sparked my imagination, and for giving me a memory that proves there are endless possibilities in life. Possibilities we should all ‘crow’ about.