Fidelma Cook passed away in late June. We are running a selection of her columns as a tribute. This one is from January 2, 2010. We hope you enjoy it.

The end of the year and the coming of the new have been tinged with sadness. The General and his wife have finally sold their fine maison de maitre and return to the folds of Wiltshire in March. Rosaleen and her husband left two months ago and Jackie has started saying, “If we move,” and occasionally “When we move,” rather than “over my dead body”.

It’s strange to think I arrived here knowing only the estate agent and now have a circle of friends and acquaintances spread over the valleys.

Friends and acquaintances I don’t want to lose. A couple of weeks before Christmas I flew to London for two nights of serious partying with former work colleagues and contacts. I hadn’t been back for any of these events since

being made redundant. I didn’t go back mainly for financial and dog sitting reasons, but mostly because I couldn’t bare to see the faux-concern and mouth-drooping pity as they asked: “How ARE you?” The headcocked sympathy which, with a few notable exceptions, made the bile rise in my throat.

Cast out of our magical, expense account world, they presumed I must be deeply unhappy, resentful and, dear God, poor. And yes, initially there were melancholic moments, certainly were, and are, poor times, but resentment, never. Merde happens and boy, had I had a glorious run. And I’m still running.

But the real deeper reason I never went back was, in a way, more complex. I couldn’t face the: “How ARE you?” question because there was no easy answer. Surprisingly, given my years as a journalist, I actually find it hard to dissemble or give a direct lie. So brightly replying, “Great, marvellous,” was never an option. I would have said, “Fine, yeah, okay.” And when pressed if I were happy in France, I would have said: “Er, don’t know. Sometimes.

Sometimes not,” and launched into a verbal dissertation of exactly why, even to people who never could stand me, but were pretending to be polite.

A ridiculous need to tell these uncaring tossers that it wasn’t a hankering for the past that made me unsure, more a perplexity about my very different present. My real friends and colleagues were/are constantly with me in spirit and know every stage of my wildly fluctuating emotions.

And I couldn’t bear more of the “How brave you are” from the smiling-mouthed, empty-eyed men looking over my shoulder for someone more important to talk to. Bravery should only be applied to the men and women who show outstanding courage in life-threatening situations, not to foolhardy women who bolt when confronted with changing

circumstances.

So when the invitations arrived it was expected I would reject them with some excuse or other. Instead I surprised myself and them by accepting. As buying new clothes is no longer an option – or even a need – I pulled out the ludicrously expensive thrice worn Dolce & Gabbana granny biker jacket with zips everywhere, two white t-shirts and an old pair of Prada trousers to take me to all parties. More importantly I pulled on the face I’m wearing more and more these days. A lively, amused, even contented face.

An ageing face to be sure but, I hope, an interesting and interested one.

And I tottered up and down the challenging stairs of a club in Soho, a Spanish bar in Chinatown, a brasserie in Chelsea, ludicrously content with being an out-of-towner, a spectator – a visitor. Someone, my dear, who frankly couldn’t give a damn.

Before the eyes dimmed a little with an excess of fizz, as I watched the swivel-eyed men and women laugh too heartily at the bosses’ jokes, move too quickly to the side of the up-andcoming young exec, I realised that although I was thoroughly enjoying myself, I would be glad to get home. I don’t do false any more.

And I found myself evilly asking: “How ARE you?” to certain people, with the implication that obviously life was tough and might be about to get tougher. I did it knowing that in the last year I’ve written a book, swum daily in temperatures reaching 40 degrees, have sung often (very badly), caroused in general, spent days simply reading

or writing and still freelanced a bit to pay a few extras like food and fags. I’ve entertained and been entertained on more occasions in one year than in four back home and I take for granted sitting in medieval squares amid throat catching architectural beauty.

I’ve also met and consolidated friendships with people I would never have met in my old life. And so there is sadness when they leave for their various reasons. But others will inhabit their houses, not replacing them, but possibly becoming new friends or, at least, acquaintances.

So how am I? On day two of 2010, pretty damn fine, thank you. Bonne Annee.