Twenty years ago, I used to feel a tad jealous of economists. Back then, I was doing doctorate research in the department of social anthropology at Cambridge University, which was a fascinating place to work but also underfunded, ignored by the outside world, and riven with intellectual self-doubt.
The economics department, by contrast, always seemed irritatingly cash-rich, prominent and confident. That was partly because self-doubt was rarely harboured by economists. But they also had another reason to strut: each year, streams of economics students would pour into jobs in western governments and corporations, to positions of power, status and wealth. The economics department seemed akin to the modern equivalent of a seminary: not only did it write the creed-shaping western thinking, but it produced the priesthood too. Anthropologists are more likely to end up in the jungle or doing worthy social work.
But is the discipline of economics succumbing to a twinge of self-doubt now? Or at least some heresy? Perhaps. In the last couple of years, the reputation of the profession has suffered badly, as a host of commentators – including the Queen of England herself – have asked why this well-paid priesthood failed to predict the financial crunch.