The faculty at UWIC (University of Wales Institute of Cardiff) invited me to give a talk to their English and Creative Writing Students. I had studied for six months there in 1993, a post-grad NCTJ course in journalism, and they liked to invite their old pupils back occasionally.

I have fond memories of my time at UWIC. For a start I spent a lot of it drunk. My voice was a gravelly, hungover, Marlene Dietrich without the German accent. I did some of my best interviews while I was there: Gil Scott Heron, MC Solaar, Jamiroquai. And my top newspaper story of all time, for the South Wales Echo, working undercover as a Bluecoat in a holiday camp. Yes, I sung MJ’s “Blame it on the Boogie”, while dancing on a wall to greet the new arrivals, wearing a deeply unflattering white A-line skirt with light blue blazer, all in the name of investigative journalism. Beat that! (Or should I say, Beat it! HA!)

It had been on the cards for months, but with the actual date drawing near I devoted the weekend to preparing. Frantic emails to top publishers, agents, journalists and authors ensued, as I coaxed them to give snippets of useful information.

Aware that students today are facing the toughest time ever in terms of finding jobs, (I’ve read it in the papers so it must be true), I wanted to be able to give them an insight into the real world, outside the warm sanctuary of academia.

Contributions rolled in from people with careers far more successful than mine. You could feel everyone’s concern, everyone’s goodwill to give something useful to these students, some encouragement, something practical. I added them all, incorporated them into my little talk:

Richard Williams, acclaimed sports writer for the Guardian and author of several best-selling biographies, including Ayrton Senna and Miles Davis.

Robert Yates, Assistant editor of the Observer and author of Extreme Nation (John Murray).

Jane Green, author of Dune Road and The Beach House to name just two of her international best-selling novels.

Polly Vernon, Deputy Editor at Observer Woman Monthly, regular contributor to Grazia magazine.

Kate Morris, author of Single Girl’s Diary and The Seven Year Itch.

Deborah Schneider, of Gelfman-Schneider, New York, agent to Lauren Weisberger (Devil Wears Prada) and New York Times bestseller, Jane Green

Maggie Phillips, of Ed Victor literary agency, London, agent to Janet Street Porter and the late Melissa Nathan.

I wrote, I read, I read it again out loud. I made my husband read it. I booked a nanny to pick my kids up from school the following day as I wouldn’t be back in time to do it myself.

Monday. I took the train to Cardiff and watched a romance unfold between the two strangers sitting opposite; he was from Hay on Wye and did something in sport for teenagers, she was a Romanian via New York with wild blonde hair and interesting eyeshadow. She sung him songs about underwear in a quiet, breathy voice. It was all rather charming. I hope he calls her.

When I got to Cardiff, I had an hour to kill so I sat in a bar or a pub or a café or whatever they’re called these days - this one was called The Yard - and I ate a veggie burger. Then I went to Boots and the kind woman behind the counter gave me a safety pin so that my oyster-coloured blouse wouldn’t gape by my bra. That might be off-putting for the students, I thought. Or possibly entertaining. Either way we were worried it might snag the chiffon fabric, so we stuck the pin in the cardigan instead. She wished me luck with my talk. I took a taxi to the campus.

For the first talk, four slightly confused but very friendly-looking Italians rocked up. They were studying Humanities, with a bit of marketing, and one of them was studying something to do with putting on cultural events.

Their English was excellent, they understood words like “bob” as in “making a bob or two” and “scam”. I hasten to add this was in the context of explaining the narrative of my new novel, and had nothing to do with an article earlier this year in the Guardian by journalist Ian Jack who writes that Creative Writing courses feed students with false hopes that they too could be the next Zadie Smith, yet they’re popular with universities because of the fees they bring in. 

But back to the Italians. I apologised for not having geared my talk more to their specific subjects, and they smiled sweetly and said, “that’s okay.” One of them looked a bit like Russell Brand.

“I’m hoping you’ll get a better turn-out at the next talk, scheduled at five,” said Dr Russell Deacon, my old tutor. “I did send them an email reminding them, this morning.”

The Western Mail came and interviewed me. Comes out on Friday.

The Alumni officer did a podcast interview with me.

Five o’clock loomed.

We walked up some stairs, and along a corridor. The corridor was very quiet. But not as quiet as the room we had been assigned, which was bare, apart from some vacant chairs and desks and a classroom projector.

“It’s a busy time of the term; they have lots of essays to write,” said Russell. I suspect he was slightly embarrassed at the distinct lack of enthusiasm radiating around the empty room.

He gave me a present from UWIC, a manicure set with the letters UWIC embossed on it.

He drove me to the station.

I shall think of the Creative Writing students at UWIC every time I clip my toe-nails.