I have a couple of friends who have occasionally remarked on my (very vague) resemblance to Hermione Norris, she of Spooks and Cold Feet fame. Last night, at the Costa Book Awards, I actually became Ms Norris, or at least her substitute, when she had to cancel an appearance there at the last minute, and Jenny Colgan and I were shunted onto her table.

This, dear reader, meant that the two lovely guests to my left got not some kick-ass blonde actress with a great line in counter-espionage, but a slightly tipsy novelist who they had probably never heard of. Sadly for them, and luckily for me, as those men were Patrick Dempsey, md of Whitbread (the Costa sponsors) and David Morrissey, star of Blackpool and the Dr Who Christmas Special.

They did their best to hide their disappointment. My friend nda fellow novelist Jenny Colgan, meanwhile, did her best to keep quiet the fact that in her handbag was her key fob, complete with miniature Tardis…

There is a certain breed of male actor who induces something I can only call a female wobble, where members of the opposite sex go a little slack jawed and stupid in their presence. George Clooney, according to Jenny, allows “an extra 20 IQ points for women on first meeting”, just because he understands the effect he has on them. I can report at close hand, having watched a few autograph hunters around him, that the very charming Mr Morrissey is one of these men.

One male novelist (I’ll spare his blushes) told me that a couple of years ago he had been introduced to Clare Grogan, the object of his teenage lust. This was a meeting he had dreamt of for years – but as she said hello, he found himself firmly in the “nggghhhh” conversational category.

I don’t believe I had any slack-jawed moments last night, but if I did, it wasn’t me sitting there on table 25 last night, Mr Morrissey, it was Hermione Norris. Honest.

I’m fifty thousand words in to my new novel, which is titled: The Last Letter From Your Lover. As part of this book, I am including in the chapter headings examples of real-life Dear John letters – whether sent by text, email or snail mail, some of which are already burning a hole in my research folder.

Over the next few weeks I will be placing small ads in the national press, and on some social networking sites, asking for more examples. These can be anonymised, and as short as two lines (I won’t be able to include more than 100 words of any one).

If you have a Dear John that you want preserved for posterity – whether you be the sender or the recipient, whether it be funny, scabrous, offensive, or tear-jerkingly beautiful, please do email me, or post it here. I can’t pay, but I will credit every sender in the acknowledgments – that’s if they want their name to appear…details can be deleted/altered to protect the innocent.

I will post some on the website prior to publication. A few – like the man who suggested his girlfriend “take a good hard look at all the ways she had proven a disappointment to him”, had me open-mouthed, while others, such as the text which says: “Please stop standing outside my house at night crying. WE ARE OVER and you are bothering my neighbours” had me curling my toes in horror.

Who knows…it may be a little historic, but I may post one of my own…anonymously, of course.

It’s been impossible to ignore the coverage of the death of John Travolta’s son, Jett, who apparently died as a result of some kind of seizure.

Today the Telegraph website posted pictures from the Travolta family album, presumably issued by the family, showing tender snapshots of a boy, who may or may not have been autistic, and his loving family.

Two things struck me about these pictures: one was the reaction of a friend, who remarked, on the news of Jett’s death, “well, maybe it will be a relief for them too…”. When Lockie, our deaf child, was born, one unthinking neighbour remarked that for me to have another deaf child “would be irresponsible.” Because a disabled child can only be a burden, right? There’s not a day since that I haven’t wished I had greeted that ignorant comment with the response it deserved. I suspect the Travolta family are going to have to endure a lot worse.

Which brings me to point two: the fact that any online news story about the Travoltas is already thick with readers’ comments, some of which attack them for their Scientology beliefs, some suggesting those beliefs were responsible in some way for his death.

You know, I don’t think there’s anything much appropriate to say about or to the parent of a child who has died, apart from how sorry you are, how awful it is. I am no apologist for Scientology; the little I know about it provokes a response in me that is part hysterical laughter (Xenu? Really?), part deep distrust. But whether the Travoltas denied Jett’s diagnosis of autism seems less relevant to me than the news that he had not one but two full time nannies, at least one of whom was looking out for him when he died. These are not the actions of neglectful parents. As we recover from the spectre of Baby P, I wouldn’t be too quick to attack the grieving Travoltas.

In the age of instant comment, everyone feels they have a right to a public opinion on almost any story of the age. Perhaps they do. Reading some of the comments about the Travoltas over the past 48 hours, put out without thought, or self-censorship, however, I can’t help wishing for an age where as my mother used to say, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all…