“From its façade, the 18th-century townhouse was indistinguishable from its terraced neighbours. As she passed by the railings of the square, the first visitor that morning betrayed no sense of the ordeal that lay ahead. Before mounting the steps, she paused a moment to hear the laughter of the children playing in the communal gardens. How long would it be before she heard such unforced joy again? Once inside, there was no possibility of retreat. One by one, the others joined her around the circular table, the tension in their faces reflected in its polished surface. The slaughter was about to begin.”

Given my above efforts at fictionalising our first meeting, it is probably just as well I am a judge of the BBC National Short Story Award rather than an entrant, but I don’t think my use of the word “slaughter” is too far off the mark. Judging a literary contest, even in the genteel surroundings of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is more akin to a cull than a polite discussion. In fact, an earlier, more brutal elimination, in which 600 entries were cut down to 50 or so, took place before we five judges – Naomi Alderson, Alex Linklater, Penelope Lively, Di Speirs and myself – began our task. Then began the anguish as delicately wrought stories, some by very famous authors, were tossed into a reject pile. Intense discussion followed as judges surrendered some of their choices until a final shortlist was established through a baroque voting system handed down from previous years and said to be used by the Prix Goncourt.