A dream

So I’ve managed to secure myself a ticket to the They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Book Awards, mainly because I want to see Benjamin Zephaniah. So I’m sitting there at this posh table with a posh table cloth drinking champagne out of a posh wine glass when they finally get round to reading out the nominations. There was Zola (although presumably he ‘sadly can not be with us tonight’) and the obvious choice of Karen Joy Fowler and Paula Byrne. Each time they read out a nomination they held up a nice neat copy of the book in question. Then they hold up this coffee stained, scruffy computer print out and say that it is a surprise nomination from a new author Purple Elephant.
I sit rooted to the spot with fear, how the hell did they get hold of my novel when it has not even been edited? Some chapters have not even been read through.
I open my mouth to scream ‘But there must be a mistake, it’s not finished!’ but naturally my voice doesn’t work.
In all the excitement Richard has dropped my novel and everyone is looking disgusted as all the dog-eared pages are landing in their dinner.
All the nominees are expected to stand on the stage for when they announce the winner and I’m eyeing up the door contemplating escape but everyone at my table is nudging me, telling me to get up on the stage.
Reluctantly I stand up and try to make my way to the stage without stumbling on my long cocktail dress. Only when I get to the steps I realise that what has been flapping around my legs is not in fact a cocktail dress but my dressing gown. My old purple dressing gown, with the hole in the back that I keep meaning to patch up.