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.