I can fit a whole Roman amphitheatre in my imagination, and still have loads of room. It’s big in there. Much bigger than you think. I can build a dream, a brilliant dream of anything, and be any hero I want …

       For most awesome heroic imagined gladiator battles ever, once again the school is proud to present the daydreaming trophy to … Leo Biggs!

      That’s also imaginary. You have to pass your trumpet exam to get a certificate (like my big sister Kirsty), or be able to read really fast and remember tons of facts to get an A at school (like my best mate George), before anyone tells you that they’re proud of you. Your family don’t even get you a new bike for your birthday for being a daydreamer, even if you really wanted one.

      Daydreaming is the only thing I’m good at and, right here in Clarendon Road, I am a gladiator. The best kind of hero there is.

      “Don’t you need your helmet?” George called.

      “Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said, cycling back on my old bike to collect it. “Now stand back so you’re in the audience. Stamp your feet a bit and do the thumbs up thing at the end when I win.”

      George sat on Mrs Pardoe’s wall, kicking against the bricks, reading his book on space.

      “It says in here that meteors don’t normally hit the earth,” George said, “they break up in the atmosphere. So there aren’t going to be any explosions or anything when it comes. Shame.”

      “Concentrate, George. You have to pretend you’re in the amphitheatre. They didn’t have books in