To London, to do interviews for NPD and to attend the Forward Prize do. I also have to go on Front Row to talk about ‘The Shankly Story’. I’ve been doing this train journey down the West Coast for twenty-odd years now, and can time our progress by things passing on the ground: Crewe Junction, the cooling towers at Rugeley in Staffordshire, the Ovaltine clock at Kings Langley… Even particular baths in fields are as significant as milestones. I’ve always found it easy to write on trains, or to be thinking about writing. They get me in the mood.

 

At the time of writing this, I’ve yet to discover who has been weighed in at tonight’s ceremony. Award ceremonies. I wish all the short-listed writers the best of luck, and hope it isn’t too stressful or exposing. My favourite piece of consolatory advice came from an old timer, who sidled up to me once after I hadn’t won some or other prize, and bellowed: ‘Best Book SAYS WHO EXACTLY!?’ The best thing about these kinds of events is sometimes they can have the air of a works night out; and you do get to see people you realise you haven’t spoken to in years. I’m hoping my friend the Word Girl will be able to meet me this evening so we can slope off for dinner and a quiet drink somewhere. I’ve got to be at Television Centre at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.