IN just a few years from now, you may not be able to read independent reports of crime in your area, or a summary of what was said in a council meeting.

If your local councillor is arrested, your hospital is cutting services to the bone, or your neighbour had to wait seven hours for an ambulance, you may not find out about it. You might get some news from the council magazine, or the police force’s Facebook page, but they’re not going to tell you if they’ve messed up, or overspent.

The biggest threat our country’s independent press has ever seen is hanging over the UK’s printing presses. We already have one of the most regulated media in the free world, with stringent libel and privacy laws. But section 40 of the Crime and Courts Act could make newspapers completely obsolete.

This law could make every media outlet responsible for paying not only their costs but the claimant’s, in court, and applies even if the newspaper wins its case. What that means is that anyone can sue a newspaper for libel or breach of privacy – and even if they have no case, they could potentially ruin the publisher.

The ‘get out clause’ for section 40 is dependent on publishers joining a press regulator with a Royal Charter. The only one with a charter is Impress, which has a handful of minor publications as members, but is treated with suspicion by the media because it is backed by Max Mosley, who has a vested interest in even tighter controls on our already over-regulated press. Instead most have signed up to IPSO, which does not have a Royal Charter, leaving members open to double court costs.

Local and regional newspapers are declining anyway, but section 40 could be the catalyst which makes them completely unviable.

I HAD a sad week. I said goodbye to my beautiful Cocker spaniel, who lived to the age of 14. I held him close as the vet administered the fatal anaesthetic, my face buried in his fur. It was very peaceful and he simply fell asleep.

Unfortunately, as the last of the injection was being administered, the needle flew off the vial and I was splattered with sticky blue lethal liquid. Bramble, thankfully, had enough dosage by this point to do its deadly work and I said a tearful goodbye to him.

It was emotional getting home, his obsolete collar and lead in my hand, his empty dog bed and muddy paw prints still decorating the kitchen floor. Later, as it was a day off work, and to take my mind off it, I visited the hairdresser.

As she touched my hair, asking what cut I wanted, her fingers met with a sticky patch on the top of my scalp.

I was feeling rather stoic and British, and I just said I had taken the dog to the vet for an injection. It turned out the hairdresser was a huge dog lover and also had a Cocker Spaniel. It seemed a bit awkward to tell her out loud, in the very quiet salon, that the injection had actually been a fatal one, so I ended up (god, why didn’t I just say something?!) talking away about Bramble in the present tense, as if he was still alive. It had gone too far by then, and I couldn’t face the awkwardness.

I wish I’d been born somewhere else. Being so very British sucks sometimes.