I recently heard a successful author describe writing as an “evil task”, and it made me think, and sigh with relief, that it wasn’t just me. For somebody who wants to write, there is something supremely satisfying – unrivalled, even – about penning a line you’re proud of, but volunteering to actually get down to it is about as likely as skipping all the way to get your cervix scraped.

Why? Is it because you’re scared of actually just being a bit shit? And if so, what a net full of nimwits. It’s like someone you love saying, “Come here, lie down, you don’t have to do any graft, just lie back and I’ll blow your mind” – sexually speaking, not I’ll-blow-your-brains-out-with-my-AK-47 – and you replying, “Fuck that, I’ve got a Rampant Rabbit in the back with new batteries and I have very sturdy wrists”, or looking disdainfully when Mary Berry says, “Here, eat this three tiered cake, it’s scrumptious and calorie-free”. Why would we retreat from such joy? Sadism is the only answer.

Someone else said that creativity is like a shooting star, a fleeting, passing thing, and you have to therefore recognise, grab and ride that wave when it comes to you, because it’s just passing through. Well, maybe that is so. And maybe that’s ok. But always this feeling of failing. “Oh ball sacs, I haven’t written again today. Well I’m obviously not dedicated enough and I’ll never make it a career. Where’s my self-flagellating stick I fashioned from a chair leg and old forks whilst procrastinating last Thursday…?”

Off to do a spot of hoovering.