The fog clears and here we are. Year 4 are sitting, well lolling, around on the floor of the 1960s multi-purpose hall that today operates as gymnasium, music room, dining hall, place of religious worship and discotheque. I am, frankly, doing my best while the clatters of lunchtime paraphernalia offer a strangely suitable chaotic percussive soundtrack to my introductory question-and-answer session on what we have learned about pyramids and the ancient Egyptians.

I’m harvesting knowledge and skill in the hope that I’ll be able to weave a narrative of ancient experience.

We are in Cleethorpes, and these kids know their Egyptian facts. The hands go up and gaps in my own knowledge are filled. They are that good. And so is their regular teacher. I didn’t know the ins and outs of selecting the most appropriate site for the building of a pyramid, for example, but I do now. I also didn’t know that the Pharaoh’s right-hand man was called a vizier. A little boy tells me. His name is Brandon.

Yes, they know their stuff, these Year 4s. And so, to move things on from these mini Howard Carters reciting bygone facts, I choose to speak as the new Pharaoh’s vizier. That’ll dazzle them I think. That’ll show the observing teachers a strategy they’ve forgotten about. It’s a teacher-in-role-thing, but I don’t dress up. I speak as the vizier, who is so important, he now gets a capital letter: Vizier.

Brandon, a veritable encyclopaedia of Egyptian knowledge, will be buzzing.

The Vizier’s grand plan

I tell the children that the Pharaoh is very happy with the work that they have done on his palace. Their stone-masonry skills are beyond compare. And now, to prove their loyalty and commitment to the Pharaoh, they are to build a pyramid. Not just any old pyramid. A mighty pyramid that will act as a symbol of the power and majesty of the Pharaoh himself. A pyramid that will be spoken of around the world beyond the realms of our King. A pyramid that will survive 10,000 years.

(I’m proper into it, I’ve got to be honest. I keep going as the kids are hanging on my every word. Why would I stop? Also, in my mind’s eye, I can see myself with the assembled stone masons, rope riggers, granite cutters, helmsmen…and I’m dressed in fine royal garb. Nice.)

Any questions?

I survey the assembled powerhouse of craftspeople. They stare back. It is heartening to see that they aren’t staring back blankly. They are, dare I say it, pondering. Any questions for the Pharaoh’s Vizier? Any at all?

Then a hand goes up.

I know that hand.

It’s Brandon’s hand, attached to the rest of him.

Ancient Egyptians, enquiring minds

The other kids shuffle around to face him as he’s now up on his knees at the back.

“Yes?” I ask, maintaining a raised eyebrow that signals I am still the Vizier.

And out pours Brandon’s lovely East Yorkshire coast drawl:

“Is he ill?”

My eyebrow drops.

“What?” I venture, as Mr Roberts.

“Is he ill?”

For some reason, my mouth stops working and I can only muster a faint, “Who?” It’s faint because Brandon has thrown me somewhat with his enquiry.

He continues, speaking plainly, as if to a stupid person:

“The Pharaoh. Is he ill? Toot and Come In was only young when he died.”

“Toot and Come In?”

“Toot and Come In. It’s how I remember Tutankhamen.”

(Toot and Come In, on repeat in my head)

“We don’t wanna build it and have him peg it half way through. It takes a long time to build a pyramid. Are you OK?”

And the fog descends.

Toot and Come In. It’s how I remember Tutankhamen.

And me, Brandon. And me.

Hywel Roberts is a travelling teacher and curriculum imaginer. He tweets as @hywel_roberts. Read his back catalogue, here

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