I agreed to speak at the Southwold literary festival and promptly forgot about it. Many weeks later, a friend rang up from the depths of Suffolk, feigning excitement at my arrival in his territory. A slight feeling of unease crept over me as I remembered my commitment but since it was still seven weeks distant I was able to consign it again to oblivion. The real cold panic only set in five weeks later when I got an e-mail asking me what wine I would wish to serve with my talk.

I now realised that in a mere fortnight I would have to stand on my hind legs and speak for half an hour. I relaxed momentarily, thinking that no one would turn up. Panic resumed when the organisers cheerily told me they had a capacity crowd and, by the way, had I chosen my wine yet? I really do not know which wine is the best accompaniment to listening to a gibbering, inarticulate wreck trying to sell a book.