And that was the year, that was.

 Crappy old year, 2021. Coronavirus carried on restricting life for the general population - except for those in government, of course. We all said, last Christmas, "Oh, wait till next year! We'll make up for it!" And lo and behold - we couldn't.

Personally, I have had health issues and give way to no one in my admiration for the staff of the NHS. All my children have succumbed to Covid within the last month or so, but have kept me safe and continued to look after me. Christmas was even stranger than it was last year for everyone we know - all our local friends and family tested positive at some point, and ended up in isolation - my son Leo spent the whole period in his room upstairs, poor soul.

So, as someone on the radio said this morning - I shan't be welcoming the new year in, exactly, but making sure the old one is gone. With a bitof luck, I shall get back to work and the long delayed Libby 23 will see the light of day,

See you on the other side.

An explanation and acknowledgements

 Morning, friends and relations. I wrote a post in June entitled Complaining about Covid and Agitating about Age and decided it was too moany for words. I'd had a few health problems since last September and my indefatigable GP was continuing to poke about to find out if there was an underlying cause. However, in that time, Libby 21, Murder on the Edge, had been published, and Libby 22 had been written - pandemics have little effect - physically - on the working life of the novelist. And, a week or so ago, Libby 22, Murder After Midnight, was published.

 

The upshot of all of the GP's testing finally emerged. You've guessed it. So tomorrow, September 5th I go into King's College Hospital for an operation to remove my pancreas and spleen. Not the most convenient hospital for East Kent, especially as neither of my sons drive. (I know; odd, isn't it?) Both girls do, so I shall have my one visitor a day, I expect. I've told them not to bother, after all, I was in hospital for a week last September - almost to the day - and allowed no visitors at all. I survived.

We don't know what after care will be needed, chemo or radio therapy, but that, luckily, will be administered locally. I'm allowed to take my laptop as well as my Kindle and recently acquired iPhone (which I have trouble with), so I can keep up with the world, hopefully. I would like to pay tribute here to the incredible care and joined up thinking of the NHS, when it is beset by all the myriad problems of the pandemic - and the government.

And while I'm at it, my wonderful family. Leo has been forced into the role of primary carer, ably assisted by the other three, the girls in particular having acted as taxi drivers for all hospital and doctor visits, and there have been many. And friends, of course. The support of my writer friends with whom I Zoom almost every day has kept me relatively sane. Thank you Sophie Weston, Joanna Maitland, Louise Allen, Sarah Mallory, Liz Fielding and Janet Gover.

Oh - and thank heavens for technology! See you on the other side.

New Year post news

 Well, here's the second blog.

Family and I managed to do Christmas - Lou, the grandchildren and her partner stayed in their house with her partner's father, I stayed in my house with the other three, Miles, Phillips and Leo. We had all the traditional food, and did New Year's Eve, too, with Haggis and bashed Neeps.

Now, the decorations are down, and I am endeavouring to write Libby 22. Our friend Lee has re-done my website - which my publisher says is elegant - and I have received the Dreaded Email telling me I am Extremely Clinically Vulnerable. Doesn't make a lot of difference, as I've been staying indoors since last March. I have alo bought rather a lot of joggers, and Lou bought me the lovliest warm jacket for Christmas. Phillipa bought me a DustBuster, and Leo bought me the Rupert Annual. Miles bought me the Victoria Wood biography. A mixed bag.

That's it, then. Happy days - and I hope everyone has the best New Year they can possibly have.