I went on a writing retreat to work on my dystopian YA novel. I was in heaven, and I did nothing.

I love this time of year, and not because I love tinsel and roast turkey. Universities close and employees are obliged to down their tools. There’s no option to mime minimal productivity over the three days at the absolute arse-end of the year for the sake of a couple of extra days’ leave later.

Before my hysterectomy, I was fit and active. I’d been exercising regularly—yoga, running, hillwalking—since my late teens. I even had visible stomach muscles.

Just shy of a month from my cancer diagnosis, I was assigned a slot for the operation: a state-of-the-art robotically assisted total hysterectomy. A friend who works in hospitals advised treating the process as a long-haul flight: pack snacks, earplugs and eye mask, and prepare to be bored. Very bored.