Toby Young Toby Young

Oh for the Prince Maurice

Around the middle of last year, I was approached by the writer Tim Lott to see if I’d like to be a judge in the annual literary competition he organises. On the face of it, the prospect wasn’t very appealing. It’s a romantic fiction prize and who wants to read dozens of chick lit novels, particularly as there’s no fee? But Le Prince Maurice Prize does have one thing going for it. The prizegiving takes place at the Prince Maurice Hotel in Mauritius and the judges get to spend a week there — all expenses paid.

‘Can I bring my wife and four children?’ I asked.

‘Er, no. ’Fraid not,’ said Tim.

‘Count me in.’

As you can imagine, it took some doing to square this with Caroline. At a stroke, thousands of units were deducted from my brownie-point bank account and I’ve been doing most of the housework ever since. But as I swept cornflakes off the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time, I told myself it would all be worth it when I was soaking up the sun in the Indian Ocean. Tim even let slip that one of the rooms in the Prince Maurice had its own private swimming pool. If I played my cards right….

Then, in March, I got an email from Tim informing me that there would be no prize this year. It had been cancelled due to lack of funds and if it were to be resurrected he would no longer have the power to appoint judges. ‘All I can do is apologise very deeply,’ he wrote.

Caroline was tickled pink. As far as she was concerned, this did not mean any brownie-point refund. It was the fact that she’d agreed to it rather than the holiday itself that accounted for her credit in the favour bank.

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