The snow was falling in London. It covered the streets in a soft white blanket.
Alex sat at his kitchen table. He was eating cornflakes.
On the table, next to the milk jug, was a gold medal.
It was heavy. It had the words FIFA World Cup Champion engraved on it.
His mum walked in. She was holding a laundry basket.
"Alex," she said. "Move your medal. I need to wipe the table."
"Mum," Alex said. "This is the World Cup medal. Only twenty six people in the country have one."
"That is very nice," his mum said, spraying cleaner on the table. "But if you get milk on it, it will be sticky. Put it in your room."
Alex sighed.
He picked up the medal. He picked up the trophy (which was a replica, because FIFA kept the real one, but it still looked shiny).
"And hurry up," his mum added. "You are late for school."
"I am a World Champion," Alex said. "Do I really need to go to double geography?"
"Yes," his mum said. "Plate tectonics do not care about football. Go."
