I’m quite obsessed with news about awards for writers. I guess partly that’s because I hope that one day (in the far distant future …) I might actually win one, and partly because I’m always intrigued to see how much our society values writers – or should I say, how little many parts of our society value writers, especially compared to actors or musicians. But that’s a rant for another day.

I just heard about a terrible awards night when the wrong writer was announced as the winner. It was at the Wales Book of the Year ceremony last week and the local Culture Minister got mixed up somehow and announced one of the runners-up as the winner; as he was just about to reach the stage to get his prize, they had to announce that it was a mistake, and someone else was in fact the winner.

As I read this story, I imagined it happening to me, and how heartbreaking it would be! Nobody expects to be the winner, but you would quickly adjust to the excitement of being the winner if you heard your name called. (Suddenly being 9,000 pounds poorer wouldn’t be pleasant either – the difference between the winner’s prize money and the runners-up’ prize). As the author himself said – this would never happen at the Oscars – how true, and that’s what I mean about where writers fit in the whole scheme of things. But don’t worry, I’m not going to switch to acting all of a sudden.