When you go to an awards ceremony, you really don’t expect to win anything. Not that I don’t think I have a chance – I do and have done OK over the years.
But I went out on Wednesday afternoon to the State Street Institutional Press Awards 2013 because a) in recent years I haven’t been able to attend, b) it was somewhere I’d never been and c) I knew I’d catch up with some mates.
Of course, there was a chance I could get a nod, but I haven’t had a sniff in these before, so I fully expected to have a nice time and go to my next meeting full of someone else’s food and booze.
Well, just after the main course, they began the ceremony and I settled down for half an hour, focusing on trying not to look bored, looking happy for all the winners and not knocking anything over on the table.
I was suddenly forced to focus as my name was mentioned by the host. I’d assumed I was being referred to in a slightly derogatory way, but I’ve a thick skin. But no. I was shortlisted in the first category.
So I settled back, content it had been worth my while coming and reflecting that perhaps I would have brought a tie if I thought I’d get that close.
Then my name was called again. Bugger. I’d only gone and won it. And I still didn’t have a tie. At least there are no pictures of me, but here is a rather poor one of the actual trophy.
My thanks to State Street, the judges, my friends, family and everyone who knows me.
But not god. No, not god. Unlike all these sport and pop star chappies, he never lifted a finger. And me, an arts graduate, too. Outrageous.