Last week saw the final of the Great British Menu competition. I watched amazed – the disasters as well as the triumphs, the self-doubt as well as the ambition, eight grown men with a plethora of top restaurants among them, and not a few Michelin stars, all slaving over a hot stove (and in one case a counter-top barbeque!) competing for the honour of cooking a banquet for homecoming troops. And I saw many similarities with writing.

A few to give you a flavour:
• there is a multiplicity of ways to create a gourmet dish/a riveting book
• success requires endless practice and persistence as well as aptitude and talent
• there may be a set of basic components for a given recipe/genre of writing but it’s the magical touches and expert handling that transform a rustic favourite into a gastronomic delight/ a homely story into an engrossing read

But the one that strikes a painful cord with me is:
• Just because you cook for friends and family doesn’t make you a top chef, any more than dashing off emails on a regular basis equates to being a best-selling novelist

Now, as published authors go, I lurk somewhere in the hinterland just north of total obscurity, but I do struggle with the assumption that what I do anyone could do, probably better. I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve as good as told me they would/could be writers if they weren’t too busy saving the world, or doing something much more worthwhile (oh, things like keeping in touch with friends; doing very occasional bursts of part-time activity for a charity; keeping the lawn edged; staying abreast of developments in The Archers). Cue suppressed grinding of teeth. Hello? Do they know how friendly and welcoming a native Emperor Publisher really is? Have they ever actually poked their noses into the lair of a Lesser Crested Agent? Happily for them (sadly for me) I’ve never actually voiced my irritation or disbelief – well, not so far anyway. No, my liver is evidently two shades paler than a Casablanca lily.

But hang it all, when someone says to me, ‘I’m an accountant/lawyer/mechanic/plumber/teacher/landscape architect/unicycle rider (delete as appropriate) I don’t reply, ‘Ah yes, I’m going to be one when I’ve finished the family shopping, read War and Peace and had my nails done.’ And in my earlier lives when I said I was a nurse/midwife/university researcher no-one ever said, ‘Oh, I’m thinking of doing that as soon as I’ve finished my tax return, hosted our neighbourhood Scrabble competition and built a pottery yurt in my back garden.’ So can anyone tell me why writing is so undervalued?

Even the birds are suddenly silent. And at 4.01am it’s broad daylight.