When you retire, you get the chance to take up new hobbies. In my case, I tried creative writing.  To no great effect.  Until now -  I’ve just won a prize!

The competition was organised by the National Galleries of Scotland in conjunction with the English-Speaking Union and the Scottish Poetry Library.  The idea is to take one exhibit from the galleries’ collections and write a 1000-word piece inspired by it.

The work I chose was My Father, a 1966 portrait by the Scottish painter John Bellany.  I wasn’t a winner or runner-up but I achieved a special merit which put me in the top 10 of the adult prose section. (Yes, yes, I know, my family has already stressed there were probably only 11 entrants.)

The trouble with creative writing is that everyone wants to do it these days.  You can study it as part of a degree course in most universities. If you are willing to fork out £4-5000, you can do a Master's in it. One of the exam boards in England is even bringing out a creative writing A- level. 

You can study it in adult evening classes and online too. A three month introductory course with the Faber Academy will cost you £600.  Expensive, yes. But just imagine the profit if you write a bestseller!

However, I suspect that most retired types like me take up creative writing for personal satisfaction - in much the same way as they do holiday Spanish or watercolours.  

I doubt many of those in their sixties who take up painting expect to be exhibited in the National Gallery any time soon.  I certainly didn’t take up writing to win a Nobel prize. Or even write a bestseller. Or to sell my soul by writing soft porn that earns millions by the month. (Oh, who’s kidding who? I’d love to write something that earns millions by the month. Fifty Shades Of Gray - darnit, why didn’t I think of that?)

Anyway, creative writing hasn’t cost me any money so far. I did go along to the introductory session of a part-time leisure course.  When the students were invited to introduce themselves, a large lady made sure she went first.

 “I just hope,” she boomed, “there will be stretching activities for those of us here,”  - she paused to gaze imperiously around the room  - “who are more advanced in the art form”.  I didn’t go back for lesson two.

However, I’ve now had the chance to meet a very different sort of writer.  The organisers of the National Galleries’ competition invited the prize winners to a ceremony at the National Gallery itself in Edinburgh. The writers there were charming, clever, talented and modest. (You can’t write that, say my family. But I want to milk this for all it’s worth, so I will.)

Most important of all, like all the award winners, I was able to read out my work.  It wasn’t 15 minutes of fame. More like five.  And there were less than a hundred in the audience. But it’ll do. It’ll do.