Ok, so I don’t actually want a man after midnight. Or before midnight either, come to that. Pretty much anything else, however, I’ll willingly accept.

I’ve accepted rather a lot of things over the last year or so. Many of these have been in the standard format: fabulous gifts, thoughtfully chosen, beautifully wrapped, and greatly appreciated. Others have been slightly more unusual, but still extremely welcome offerings. One or two of the things I’ve had to accept have been a little harder to swallow than, say, the hamper of Hôtel Chocolat delights that one friend sent me. Changed appearance, loss of any semblance of control, uncertainty about the future, lifelong drug dependency, one or two other bits and pieces. You get the picture. But let’s not dwell on those. A little tricky, but by no means impossible to swallow, they certainly go down a lot better when accompanied by a bar of chocolate (thank you Becky!). Or a cocktail (thank you Bernie!). Or a slice of sponge cake that pops expectedly through the letterbox (thank you Rach!).

I had one of those little Facebook reminders pop up this morning. You know, the ‘look how boring you are. Look what rubbish you’ve posted on Facebook on this date every year since you joined Facebook. Look how different your life isn’t since this time last year. Or the year before. Or the year before that’, type reminders. Well. It turns out that a year ago today, I got my long hair chopped off, in advance of the rest of it falling out, and partly to minimise the risk of it completely clogging up the shower (which it did anyway, FYI). Other than performing the standard function of reminding me of just how little has changed in a year (hair got cut, hair fell out, hair grew back, hair looks remarkably similar), this Facebook notification also reminded me of the incredible number of kind and generous things that people have done for me recently. Giving me a fantastic haircut, in stages so I could see what I’d look like with all the styles in between, and refusing to charge me for it, being one such thing (thank you James!). Descending on my pathetic excuse for a garden with a professional design, copious plants and planters, and boys equipped with paint, varnish, rollers and – despite serious hangovers – enthusiasm, being another (thank you Garden Guerrillas!). A particular favourite memory is the arrival of a care pack from my niece-in-law, who had combined her nursing expertise and incredible creativity to put together a parcel containing every single thing that someone undergoing chemo could possibly need or want. And who had sent what I maintain to this day was the only parcel in the history of the world ever to have combined sea sickness bands, an adult colouring book, intimate feminine wipes, a selection of lollipops (standard and frozen), and pile cream. And a very pretty wash bag to store all the nasty medical paraphernalia in a far more appealing way (thank you Lizzie!). And yes, every one of these items was put to good use. She knows her stuff.

So, a man after midnight? Thanks ABBA, but I think the past year provides ample evidence of the multitude of far more effective approaches to take a girl through the darkness to the break of the day.