When I first read of the novel coronavirus in January/February it sent shivers of cold fear down my spine.
The stories coming of first China and then Italy, of cities under lockdown, hospitals being overwhelmed and lorries lined up to take the coffins away, was the stuff of science fiction.
Then it came to our shores. We stayed home, baked, sang, clapped, lit candles and painted rainbows.
In that first wave, I didn't know anyone who had COVID-19 although I reported on the deaths of 23 elderly people in a local nursing home and interviewed their heartbroken relatives.
Summer came and we more or less got back to normal. Restaurants and bars reopened and people went on holidays.
A friend's Mum contracted this awful disease and died.
A second lockdown in the autumn reduced the numbers once again,
but the virus hadn't gone away.
As the Government bowed to pressure from the hospitality and retail sector and a public fatigued by restrictions, the pubs and restaurants
were once again allowed to open.
People forgot about the virus and celebrated Christmas. There were house parties and meals out.
Even those who had been 'careful' throughout the year, got together with family and friends.
Now our cases are soaring and we have gone from being one of the 'best' countries in Europe to one of the worst.
It's going to be a long, cold, winter with much sadness.