Last month I had the surgery I had been waiting for – and for the past six weeks have been recuperating. In addition to being deeply grateful to the NHS – first, just for existing, and, second, for its excellent care – I have been thinking a lot about love and friendship.

If you live alone and as rurally as I do, it is difficult just to get through the day when you cannot drive and you cannot lift anything, never mind when you are feeling fatigued, uncomfortable and fragile. Abruptly, and in my case without much practice, you become dependent.

What I became dependent on was friendship: big friendship – my daughter came from the United States for 10 days; and little friendship (except that there is no such thing as “little” friendship) – a neighbour has driven more than 10 miles every other day for longer than six weeks to haul my logs down from the barn; my brother and his partner brought a whole pre-cooked roast lunch 50 miles the first Sunday I was home. And flowers and cards and phone calls and books (and I am not going to write here about my magical and joyful Christmas).

With everyone rather tenderly working round the narrow limits of my capacity for gratitude or patience, I have been wrapped, embraced, held in love and care, which is simply “love-in-action”.