Let's do it again - in 2010!

So while Christmas passed without incident, New Year was a different matter.

As Mrs F-C and I geared up for a few days at a Lincolnshire cottage with some friends, the news came through that her stepfather would be coming to London on the 29th December to have his brain tumour op.

We'd known for a week or so that this is what was wrong with him and, living in Jersey, any operation would have to be done over here. But we didn't realise this would be so soon. But sooner rather than later is the key.

So from then on, each day has involved one long round of hospitals and family tensions. Not exactly the relaxing break either of us had in mind. And so it goes on, with mother-in-law in residence. Happy 2010 everyone!

Have you ever been in a hospital over the festive season? Until now, neither had I. There's something doubly awful about it: limp paper chains and a skeletal Christmas tree plonked in a corner, designed to mark but not get carried away about the fun it's supposed to be, while you're stuck in a bed wondering what's coming next. There's nothing more forced than hospital cheer.

While I don't exactly have a phobia of hospitals, I'd rather avoid them. Father-in-law's ward at this specialist London neurological establishment is bright and clean, but you never know. I can barely bring myself to breathe in in a hospital, let alone touch anything. I still can't eat Heinz chicken soup thanks to a short stay when I was nine years old, and I don't think I'd be able to eat anything now, either. I refused all cups of tea and musn't think about it when I'm eating at home. Thank God they invented those anti-bacterial gels. My hands are like dust after a visit, but at least they're germ-free. I notice everyone's well into the swing of doing this and dispensers are everywhere, so that's one good thing.

And now I'm used to the other patients. I couldn't believe it when we first went in. Men with heads half-shaved and giant scars and big bandages. It brought home to me just how serious brain stuff is.

There's one poor young guy in the next bed who, from what I glean as I desperately try to earwig, was seriously injured in a rugby accident, and lies motionless all day, hands and feet screwed up, eyes open and alert, the body twisted and lifeless. A girlfriend brings in a pile of papers each morning and reads to him. She's there morning, noon and night. She soothes him, shaves him, cuts his hair and his nails. She rubs cream into his dry skin. She kisses him and strokes him, but there's not a flicker of recognition. Her devotion is heartbreaking.

When you see someone your own age lying there, head shaved, falling in and out of sleep, you realise just how fragile life is. We don't really know about my father-in-law yet. They've relieved the pressure and done a biopsy and we'll find out tomorrow what can be done. Fingers crossed.

Let's live life to the full this year.

Happy New Year to you all.