I rang my mother to remind her she was taking my son swimming and, breathlessly excited, she howled . . . Anne Enright won the Booker and she's on the radio now very modest . . . brilliant . . . then hung up.

I had missed it, of course. I miss all the big news events. I was walking down Grafton Street stuffing a ham and cheese crepe into my eight months' pregnant face when my friend called to tell me the Twin Towers had fallen and I remember vaguely wondering if I should go back for a Nutella one. Of course, when I got home and switched on my TV I was suitably horrified . . . but until I had actually seen it, it was like it hadn't happened. I rushed to the radio and found Ryan Tubridy talking to Lesley Ash, then sat flicking through the news stations on Sky. "It'll come on shortly . . . just wait a bit, " my husband said but we knew that wasn't an option. Mid-morning television viewing, no matter how important, is a no-go for those of us who work at home. Otherwise it's Jeremy Kyle until lunchtime and the day is gone, so we might as well watch Jerry and Oprah.

My mother is fond of listening to writers talking about 'writing' on BBC Radio Four and considers herself something of an expert on the subject of a writer's routine. So when I berate myself for dossing about she is able to reassure me: "It's all work for a writer Morag . . . just sitting here having a cup of tea with me is research."

Of course, this is all stuff Anne Enright knows about because she is a writer, like me, and a mother, like me, and she works from home, like me . . . the one notable difference between us is, of course, that she has written a Booker Prizewinning novel and I haven't. But you know, what is so wonderfully delightful about her winning is that I was genuinely thrilled to bits.

Everyone knows writers . . . no matter how magnanimous we might appear . . . are constantly looking at our peers thinking, "Why do they sell more books than me?" "Why did they get a bigger advance than me?" Of course, we keep all this under our hats, but privately we grumble.

Women can be at least vaguely open with each other about our jealousies, but you see male literary authors at publishing events circling one another like vipers, poking at each other's egos and parading their agents around like expensive handbags. Which is why I was so pleased to be pleased about Anne's success. I know how much hard work and heartache goes into writing a book. As I have become more experienced, I've learned how much more work goes into writing a good book. The Gathering didn't just 'happen' (if it had I would be very jealous indeed! ).

This week Anne Enright struck a blow for literary Irish women writers. She put herself on the map and . . . having only met her in passing a couple of times . . . it could not have happened to a nicer woman. In the same week, the octogenarian writer Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize and said:

"Maybe I'll make some money now." A telling comment and a humbling one for those of us who have earned a half-decent living writing books. The truth is that literary accolades and money rarely go hand in hand so Anne, I hope you make tonnes of the stuff. You deserve it.