In the 20th century, women writers and artists began to receive something approaching their due. Perhaps Sonia Delaunay should be better known; perhaps Tracey Emin is too well-known (just for being Tracey Emin, that is). Virginia Woolf, Marguerite Yourcenar and Angela Carter are not neglected figures. But have women composers achieved the recognition they deserve? In particular, if the British composer Elizabeth Maconchy, whose centenary falls this year, had been either a man or a writer or a visual artist, surely she would be more of a household name.

For me these reflections were prompted a few weeks ago at a chamber concert held in the magnificent surroundings of St John’s, Smith Square, in London (and reviewed in the FT by Andrew Clark). This was one of those cultural events recommended by a friend that seemed thoroughly worthy (oboe quintets by 20th-century British women composers) but that I might so easily have ducked in favour of a quiet night in with the feet up, reading a book with a glass of claret. How much I would have missed.