It turns out that writing a book is not the first thing I’ll do in 2024. The first thing arrives promptly, on 2nd January. It happens amongst the slew of bodies in an everyday, overcrowded, overworked A&E department. It imparts devastating news about a precious loved one. It brings a flurry of all manner of scans and tests, sucks the air from normality and distorts time. We wait for days to pass and wish they were longer. This is not particular to us: we are where all families have been and will be again, so I have no wish to remind others of their pain or dwell on ours, but this is where we are, drifting on an uncertain tide. My firstborn daughter celebrates a big birthday so, inevitably, I think back to her arrival when she brought sheer joy, utter terror and a fall of snow that seemed to symbolise how greatly my world had changed. Now, as Tom and I look after my daughter’s daughters, someone knocks on our bedroom door in the night and, shortly after, a small figure folds herse
Christine Stovell, author and freelance writer, on living and writing in West Wales