For many readers, my absence from these pages may have gone unnoticed. Those few who’ve detected my disappearance might have idly concocted theories: maybe Shriver crossed a line in her opposition to uncontrolled illegal immigration such that she finally got the sack. The explanation is more quotidian.

Six years ago, I was diagnosed with the unwieldy sounding spondylolisthesis: a vertebra in my lower spine had moved out of alignment, squeezing the nerves to my right hip and leg. I’d been managing, but the situation was degenerative. By this summer, I could barely complete a 15-minute walk, and – the limit – I could not play tennis. Already in NYC, International Healthcare Central, on 7 August I submitted to major back surgery (L4/L5 fusion with instrumentation and decompression, if we’re going to be fancy).

My husband thought I was dying. He may not have been wrong

I’d been dreading this operation. Everyone I’d consulted had counselled ‘Whatever you do, don’t get back surgery!’, and they’d all promoted pet, often goofball alternative therapies, none of which would put my errant bone back where it belonged. Vain on the fitness front, I was loath to squander weeks of recuperation on stupid little walks while my neglected press-ups and sit-ups degenerated. Maintaining muscle in your sixties is totally doable; building muscle in your sixties is nearly impossible. Yet in retrospect, I didn’t dread the operation nearly enough.

When I emerged from anaesthesia, the surgical team reported all........

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