I have emerged from my day of imbibing and passing fluids. I must say it was a very pleasing day all in all. There is nothing more relaxing than being cared for and waited on hand and foot with no nagging sense of guilt, after all I could not exactly nip off to Costa – although some hardy smokers are to be seen in the carpark with their tripod wheely things . I suppose I could have gone to Costa but I was pretty embarrassed just walking through the hospital waiting room, like some harbinger of ‘this could be you if your diagnosis is crap.’  The tripod wheely thing really is the ultimate badge of poorlyness even more than a wheelchair in my view. It elicits a kind of – ‘oh God what’s wrong with him, must be really bad’ sentiment. At the most I had two bags on my tripod my friend across from me had four and his had protective black bags over them, like monks hoods – we competed as to whose tripod communicated nearest to death. He won.

The drugs do their work over the next three days basically destroying cells in order that new ones can emerge – unfortunately the primitive part of the brain assumes that you have eaten a mouldy  or some icky stone age sabre tooth kebab and accordingly induces you to puke – not realising that the kebab has been given intravenously and puke as much as you like it aint going nowhere. So I have three days worth of primitive part of brain switch off vomit reflex drugs. I also have to inject myself in the stomach once a day with what the nurse described as a tiny needle. I would count anything longer and thicker than a petite baby’s eyelash as not tiny and this constitutes at least two drawing pins in length and a strand of capellini pasta in girth. I don’t relish it at all. She was worried enough about my preparedness to cope, to suggest I came into the hospital so they could observe me do it to myself. Can you imagine inflicting pain on yourself with a sharp instrument while being judged by a professional panel – no thanks. Anyway first ‘shot’ is tomorrow night. Wish me luck.