Things are on the move again regarding my treatment. I have had a lovely holiday from the chemo but tomorrow I have the final test before they decide whether to go ahead with the transplant. This is the test I like least because it involves passing an alarming black tube into my stomach and scratching about for bits of this and that that shouldn’t be there. As they already know that I have things that shouldn’t be there I am not worried about the results but I am not a fan of the process.

One should be aware, for future reference, that anything unpleasant or scary is handled in a particular way by NHS staff. They lavish you with terrifying kindness and concern. Clearly this procedure falls into the scary category because I have already had a comfort call from the hospital ‘looking forward’ to seeing me – the feeling is not mutual. When my cancer news was broken to me I had a consultant plus a very supportive nurse with as broad a smile of ‘don’t cry’ her training allowed. That said I find their kindness really touching so no cynicism intended. Now I know you can breathe with the pipe stuck down your throat – I did not really doubt it but the mad fearful side of my feeble personality still lurked – I am much less frightened. Still there is something particularly gross and somewhat alien about stuff down your throat entering your stomach. It feels horribly penetrative and just a touch prison showerish.

I am still very happy and content and not worried much, but until the decision over the transplant is made I find thinking beyond the fairly immediate unappealing. I am really enjoying my life, family, our cats, good arty things – have a great new book on Jack Vetriano, any technology things, tv, eating (I have rediscovered pies), the New Statesman, reading novels, other people’s dogs, car boot sales (except they are over) driving the car (but not far) and my new passion for poetry (oh dear oh dear). Not nature, healthy food, Tesco, nice views including the stars, cancer films, nostalgia, UKIP, drippy music such as, that terrible terrible movie with terrible music ‘War Horse’, heritage themed architecture (Prince Charles’s views on architecture are moronic) show me a nice coal powered station any day rather than the junk he would have us preserve or worse reproduce. Drinking has also no great appeal because alcohol is probably off the agenda for ever. I have had none since January. I have written 22 poems most in less than an hour in the wee small hours. I publish them to my private website and then rarely correct them. Thus they serve as both a gallery of excellence and a catalogue of errors and bad taste – any other approach would turn this process which gives me such delight into drudgery. I want to reiterate my recommendation of the don’t correct – bluauur it all out! method to all of you with a secret novel in waiting, write, don’t think otherwise you miss the chance to create all together.

Bye for now. Wish me luck tomorrow I don’t need it but I do hate it. What a big baby!