My stomach squirmed nervously as I stood at the starting line, shooting a small reminder of that morning’s warm milk drink up into my throat.

I hadn’t enjoyed the milk the first time. I hated the daily routine of reluctantly sucking up, then forcing down something that always seemed either tepid and sour or frozen and grainy. It was worse the second time round.

Mrs Jordan was usually a lovely teacher. She wore Jesus sandals year-round, and her always brown, rough hands told of the hours spent on her allotment; her husband also taught me piano from their front room. However, that morning, she had announced the plan, she had done it just after registration, giving me a good few hours to fret about it.

“We’re going to practice for Sports Day. We’ll find out who is the fastest boy, and who is the fastest girl. And then, just for fun, we’ll see who is the fastest out of them too.” Small faces had turned to me.

Ordinarily, this prospect would have filled me with joy, albeit a nervous one. In Class Two at Wembdon Infants School I was Fastest Girl. Always had been. I was also, to my enormous pride, Fastest Girl or Boy.

But now there was Ben Kent.

Freckled, shiny-haired and a little shy, Ben had joined our school at the start of that term. And once he’d found the confidence to join in our playtime races – from the wall of the prefab Dinner Hall to the wall of Class One, and then back again if you were one of the best – I started finding excuses to avoid them. That morning, my excuses had run out.

We were to race the full perimeter of the main building, passing through an area that was usually out of bounds. And our classmates would only know who was winning when one of us emerged round the final corner.

In the heat of the late June sun, Ben and I stood shoulder to shoulder at the corner of the red sandstone schoolhouse, our classmates craning to watch. My heart flip-flopped. I knew I was about to lose the most important part of my six-year-old identity.

“Ready … Steady … Go!”

By the time we’d reached the first corner my cheeks were burning. Ben’s shiny hair bobbed ahead of me, his freckled face no doubt grinning – but that was conjecture. I could only see the back of his head.

I pulled up with a fictional ‘twisted ankle’ and limped the rest of the route, tears filling my eyes. My ankle wasn’t hurt but my pride was crushed, and I didn’t know whether I was more ashamed of losing or lying. I heard the rest of the class roar as Ben Kent rounded the final corner. When I finally got there myself Mrs Jordan was waiting. She kindly put an arm around my shoulder.

My daughter is six now. She’s fierce and brave and determined to be the best at everything, girl or boy. She’s not the fastest runner – she’s littler than I was at that age. But she is the best at handstands. I hope she keeps her title for as long as she cares to.