IT IS a misconception that the life of a novelist is wall to wall glam. For most people writing books, they need a second job to pay the bills because the average wage of a novelist is dire.

People see JK Rowling and presume it’s a ticket to billionairedom. The worst thing you can ever do in this game is join the profession thinking it’s a fast-track to untold wealth.

Plenty of my peers aren’t sold in supermarkets because you need proven sales to get the slots, but you need the supermarkets to get the big sales – vicious unbreakable circle.

My career is, for the most part, a hard slog with the VERY occasional glamorous interlude.

Take this weekend for instance – one of those events for which a new frock and a bath is warranted. I went to the BAFTAS and I have to say it was one of the glitziest events I have ever been to in my life.

Wall-to-wall celebs, the Gavin and Stacey lot on the next table to us at the BAFTA dinner following the show, Hollywood actors, influencers, reality TV stars as far as the eye could see, Jesse J standing outside the Ladies, Ant and Dec queueing up behind me for more Tattinger to be dispensed.

It was the ultimate in people-watching experiences and I was fascinated. As a mere novelist, accompanied by my journo pal, we walked the red carpet as if we were on our way into Tesco.

There was no stopping to pose for photos because we aren’t a ‘face’. But for some people it is their life to attend such evenings in designer gear and keep their relevance to a fickle general public because fame does not guarantee longevity.

How often have we watched hopefuls on Love Island trying to grab their big chance and only a couple of weeks after they’ve been chucked off, you can’t remember them – their fame dream dead as a damp squib.

It must be exhausting for this new wave of stars who have entered the world of celebrity via reality TV or YouTube-ing.

Life in front of a camera becomes everything. Once you get into glam places and people recognise you, you want it to continue, you can’t let it go at any cost.

Then what do you do when you are no longer of interest to the newspapers?

The Fame Game is a hard one to play but if you play it well, you’re laughing. Harry from Traitors for instance. I was chatting to him and he didn’t go on the programme for the fame, he wanted just to have a crack at getting the £100,000 and that’s exactly what he did.

But the fame has become a byproduct and he’s been invited to do other TV programmes and he’ll take it for as long as his fame train rides.

But with some of the young, glamorous others I recognised last night pouting and posing away, I thought, I wonder what happens when the wrinkle fairy hits you?

Because a new wave of youngsters will want a young fresh person to aspire to.

How cruel for Cinderella to have to go back to cleaning the kitchen. Fame is like a bucking Bronco, not everyone can hold onto it for too long and getting thrown off will hurt.

The whole phenomenon of fame is fascinating. And, I totally admit after swirling around in that glittery world on Sunday where prestige is currency, I get why people want the drug of more.

Getting a BAFTA was never on my list of wants… but my goodness it is now.