I don't believe it. Another one bites the dust. One less Tasmanian to tell our stories.

Another local face gone from Tasmania's media.

I remember when you were crowned Miss Tasmania in 1993. I interviewed you in a lawyer's office. I was 32 and you were 20.

I returned to the newsroom and predicted you would become Miss Australia.

Your eyes told your story. A smart, decent human being of sweet character and great kindness. Plus, you looked very lovely in a frock (never one of my strong points).

Here's the deal, for 10 years, since I left the newsroom, every time I've asked you've come to help us at St Giles.

Of course you have. Thank you.

It's never easy to move on from the newsroom. But you will.

A newsroom, dear reader, is exactly like you've seen in movies.

It's one of the most rewarding, demanding, fun and downright hysterical ways to spend any day.

A newsroom is home to photographers, camera crews, producers, sub-editors and all the backend people who work to insane deadlines ... all equally crazy and passionate about delivering the news. Whether it's in Madrid, New York, Longford or Launceston.

Jo, news people are our weird mob. Our mob when things get rough. Our mob; the story tellers. News people breathe life into words and small town news people love local news.

Times have changed. What a cliché.

But so many of the news roles filled by creatives and hard-working teams are now surplus and you and I have seen some fabulous people leave our sector.

When my son interned with you and the fabulous Southern Cross crew, you sent me a message, which I've kept. "He's a really lovely person ...you must be a very proud mum."

I think it took me 10 years and (still) counting to "move on".

I guess we can still meet over these Sunday pages.

Sometimes, late at night, my husband watches footy replays, smokes cigars and drinks Mexican beers.

That dear reader, explained why on Tuesday, he was diagnosed with coronavirus.

Too many late nights, too many cigars and Richard's your uncle.

When the diagnosis was made, late on Tuesday, I was gobsmacked.

How could that be?

We hadn't even been for a sneaky Buddha chicken takeaway?

Must be the beer and cigars, I imagined.

OK. He's got bronchitis.

He is truly crook.

Here's the deal: I'm not a big fan of fear.

I'm cranky at the uber enthusiasm and joy on the smiling faces of researchers in Queensland and Victoria as they race towards creating an anti-viral vaccine to 'save us' from novel coronavirus.

I get that science is fun. I was very adept with a Bunsen burner and my biology teacher in grade 11 loved to pinch my bum in the prep room ... while no-one was looking.

But those sciencey smiles belied the numbers that really excited them. That is, the motza they could make from "curing" the world.

I love a good needle. My cats and I are fully vaccinated. I'm grateful for penicillin, rarely take an antibiotic but do have my flu shot every March.

And that's my gripe.

According to the World Health Organisation, the usual flu causes up to five million cases of severe illness worldwide and kills up to 650,000 people every year.

Meanwhile, a severely disabled boy in Wuhan province died this week after his only carer, his father, was hospitalised with novel coronavirus and he was left alone, without food or water. People feared he was contagious. Be afraid?