I can’t be alone in finding that life has quiet patches – plain sailing - and then – suddenly – without obvious instigation - fast and frantic ones when everything seems up for grabs.  Maybe it was that long ‘wintry’ winter, but for months I have felt like an animal in hibernation -  cosy at my desk or taking bleary-eyed jogs round my local park, happily keeping myself sane and the world at bay.  2010 was looking pretty straightforward, if somewhat alarmingly pitted with milestones:  one of those unmentionable ‘decade’ birthdays in October, my 25th wedding anniversary in May, the publication of my fourteenth novel in August…  Fourteen!  Since only an old hack could have written so many titles, I was even toying with the notion of starting to lie about the extent of my literary output as well as the ripeness of my age.

Still in the quiet patch, we took a spring holiday, in The Maldives, to celebrate not being divorced.  Twenty five years is quite a feat, after all.  (I used to hate married couples who said things like that, as if staying together was an achievement in itself.  But actually – barometers of emotional contentment aside - it really is!).  The hibernating continued – a hot version this time: sleep, sun, swimming, snorkelling (one dunk under the Indian Ocean and you are in a Jacques Cousteau film).  I read a stack of novels too, so I can tell you that ‘The Help’ really does live up to its hype, as does ‘The Other Hand’, but that the latest Maggie O’Farrell didn’t quite fire, at least not for me.

The instant we returned from that holiday however, I knew it was over.  We had a new government for starters – our airport taxi radio was full of it – a weirdly straight-talking one that appeared to be putting national interest above party politics.  Back home our phone was full of messages.  My fourteenth novel wouldn’t be coming out this year after all.  Labelled a ‘break-out’ book (in-house jargon for it being deemed better than its predecessor), my publishers chose my week of absence to decide that we have the wrong title, the wrong jacket.  So no launch party in August, then – we’re back at the drawing board.  Know any good titles anyone?

Far more seriously, two dear friends had fallen gravely – terminally – ill; still young, wonderful friends with already heart-broken families who didn’t see it coming and don’t deserve the ordeal on which they have now embarked.  Hospital visits, parcels in the post, frozen meals, jolly messages – I’ve done the lot and still feel useless.

Then our travelling son (gap-year – South America, now Asia – usual story) phoned in the small hours to say he had got so sick he was checking into a Vietnamese hospital.  Two days later he was out again, set right by a drip, some antibiotics – and we breathed easier.  But then a week later there was another dawn call from him.  Cambodia this time.  A friend in his group had fainted and fallen off a first floor balcony, mashing his arm and they weren’t sure what else.  The ambulance was still on the five hour drive to the nearest hospital.  I had to contact the parents, get the side-show of panic and health insurance claims on the road.  The mother has just jumped on a plane to Phnom Penh.  The boy has had his arm pinned and set and can’t be moved for a week; a fractured cheek bone and a perforated ear drum must heal on their own.

Next week I am off on a walking holiday with my sister in the Lake District, to a spot we chose – months ago - for its tranquillity, but which is currently famous for lying somewhere between the place where two teenagers died in a coach crash and an angry taxi driver went on a murderous spree with a gun, killing twelve.

Suddenly the world is turning fast.  It always does, of course, but we just forget it sometimes.  I’ve decided to bring the ‘unmentionable’ birthday out of the closet and have a party.  A big party.  Getting old sure as hell beats the alternative, so why should I care who knows?