Many moons ago, I wrote a book about werewolves, a non-fiction work tracing the evolution of the bizarre idea that a man can be transformed into a wolf. I’d received a decent advance from a reputable publisher, enough to allow me to halve my hours in the bookshop in favour of researching and writing in dream locations like the old Reading Room at the British Museum. 

The book took me a year to write. My agent muttered that it wasn’t the sort of work he’d been expecting. My editor thanked me, principally for the cleanness of my typescript, which saved him some effort. As I then hoped to earn my living as an author, this seemed enough to establish my professional bona fides. 

The week before publication, my agent rang me in high excitement. ‘You’ve cracked it,’ he said. ‘They want you on Midweek with Libby Purves.’ 

I must have sounded unimpressed.

‘You don’t understand. Midweek is the only radio programme that can launch a book. All those other interviews you’ve got scheduled – they don’t matter. Stand by your phone. They’re going to call you.’

It wasn’t Libby herself who called me, of course, but a young BBC