I’m struck by how little coverage there has been of the crisis at the British Library, still paralysed following an attack last October by a ransomware gang called Rhysidia. Though its buildings are open, the library is likely to remain in what we might call its current pre-digital state for some months yet, its online catalogues out of use, and access to its collections highly limited (books cannot, for instance, be delivered to London from Boston Spa in West Yorkshire, where about a quarter of them are held). Even those who’ve never so much as stepped inside it must surely be wondering what all this tells us about the vulnerability of British institutions generally – the National Cyber Security Centre, a branch of GCHQ, is reported to have been called in – and yet, hardly anyone seems to be talking about it. But then, for a writer – as I am, and many of my friends are, too – this isn’t an abstract situation, and not only because the BL administers the Public Lending Right, a scheme by which authors are paid for library loans of books (payments may be late this year). Anyone who was in the middle of researching a book when the disaster hit is by now mildly panicked – or worse, if their deadline for delivery happens rapidly to be approaching, as mine is. What on earth to do? I’m lucky. I can (just about) afford to become a member of the London Library, whose rather lovely home has been in St James’s Square since 1845. And oh, the relief of having bitten the financial bullet. By the time you read this, From the Porch, a somewhat obscure anthology of literary recollections by Anne Thackeray, the daughter of William Makepeace Thackeray, will be safely in my hands – and yes, in case you’re wondering, some days I do wear worsted knickers. Oh my giddy aunt Over the holidays, my small niece and nephew allowed me to take them to the National Theatre’s brilliant new musical, The Witches, a kindness for which I was almost pathetically grateful. For one without children of her own, playing the role of aunt is not only enjoyable in itself; it’s necessary camouflage. Betsy and Freddie, like all my beloved nieces and nephews, lend me a certain legitimacy when it comes to some forms of entertainment. But disguise only truly works if you stay fully in character, as Roald Dahl’s witches, their horrible claws covered by gloves and their square, toeless feet obscured by ill-fitting shoes, know all too well. Anyone who had caught sight of us in the theatre that night would have a seen, not one adult and two children, but one outsized child flanked by two miniature adults, a diminutive couple whose tolerant expressions throughout gave no hint of any weariness or embarrassment at the wild excitement of their over-exuberant charge. Kitchen king Though I never met him, I was utterly devoted to Bill Granger, the Australian restaurateur and food writer who died, far too young, on Christmas Day. There’s so much to love about his recipes, which are straightforward and delicious; I relish his devil-may-care attitude towards so-called cultural appropriation: his Asian short cuts, his Italian jobs that are barely Italiano at all. Above all, I always feel safe in his hands, which is all you can ask from a cook. His meatballs have reigned supreme in our house for at least a decade now: a dish so risk-free, I once made them – massive name drop alert – for the great Jonathan Meades (“These are … very … good,” the great restaurant critic said, after a nerve-wracking pause). Thank you, Bill, for everything. You made life easier and better, and will go on doing so in kitchens everywhere for many years to come. Rachel Cooke is an Observer columnist