I met Stella Young once, at a party. Our brief interaction – drinks in hand, dancing right beside the sound system – left me intimidated by the speed of her wit and disarmed by her charm.

Earlier this month, Horace Engdahl spoke out against what he called the impoverishment of literature across the Western world through creative writing grants and programmes. Engdahl, one of a panel of judges for the Nobel Prize for Literature, suggests that, while vibrant work is emerging from Asia and Africa, the West's literary work is corrupted by institutional financial support and an associated disconnection from reality.

The reason that the following is more confession than affirmation is, allegedly, common sense. Let me clarify: I was raped. I didn’t talk about it. I was drunk. I was wearing a short skirt. And I was horribly, horribly ashamed.