I am mid early birthday celebrations while the boys and the girl are here. It obliges them to buy me presents before they escape to their various fast lanes.

I had the most wonderful if unplanned day. The original plan was to go Tai but halfway through the morning in my selfish spirit of ‘let’s only do what I want to do as I am ill’ I decided I could not be bothered. I think the whole birthday specialness is so overrated. I much prefer birthday idleness and indulgence. Presents are the only thing that matter to me and given the family were trapped and Maria knows about my insistence on expensive, toylike and no soft stuff I was confident they would deliver on that front. True the boys are less predictable, somewhat prone to use my Amazon account to buy my present with a card made of Staples A4 printer paper and the moving greeting ‘Happy Birthday Dad” love ‘n’ son. On one occasion many moons ago Arthur sent me a card with ‘Happy Birthday Arthur’ on it. All that I have just said is of course a gross exaggeration, they are both extremely thoughtful and generous (nearly all the time when they have not forgotten that my birthday was scheduled early – like this morning). Anyway I had more chemo in the afternoon. The only cute nurse at the hospital was a birthday treat – although my efforts to woo her with my pasty face, conversation highlights that include tingling, puking and pooing and my ballon like belly stuck out toward Mecca for her to insert her magic wand into don’t seem to be making much progress, so not having scored, on the way back we (my incredibly good humoured loved one) popped into Waitrose, bought loads of Pizza and stuff and I had the best birthday evening I have ever had watching West Side Story with the whole family. We all agreed it is a masterwork and despite being clearly of its time it successfully transcends its period feel just as Brief Encounter did when we welled up watching it yesterday. WSS went on so long my presents have been delayed till today so I woke at 4:00 to start clearing my play room ready for the pile.

I had a few troubled e-mails due to the tone of my last post. (Yes I know that title rang alarm bells – oh dear maybe I set out to do that – a classic Freudian slip – yes I did oh no argh) No. The fact is you have all got it wrong – I am not troubled, you are on my behalf, you great nits. I will always write truthfully that means sometimes I get scared, not depressed, not anxious, not sad, not hopeless, not not not…. Scared like you do before you jump off a diving board – coo that’s a bit scary. Being a bit scared is part of the illness deal, it strikes me once in a blue moon when my illness itself or the BBC reminds me of my illness. I deal with it by enjoying life, buying stuff, loving my friends and family, eating, sleeping, driving, avoiding walking, playing with the cats scabs and de rusting my paper guillotine. I REFUSE to fudge it – if you lot can’t take it then that’s your problem not mine. I will not vet what I write so you lot feel ok about me (mind you I deeply appreciate the fact that you care) so unsubscribe or don’t read this blog if that’s what you want ( no don’t do that – have you seen my post Russian brides stats).

Actually ever since I started Chemo I have been feeling great. Massively better than before so why on earth should I be anything other than a little ray of sunshine. AND THAT’S THE TRUTH.

I have got really into Twitter. I was so unconvinced at first but a dear friend and colleague told me he thought it was like being in the pub with your mates and once I adopted that approach and stopped showing off or promoting myself I like it. I follow all the family and a very few friends, Russell Brand, Richard Dawkins, HeForShe and my favourite ‘Voice of God.’
You can follow me @gravityisahat if you have a Twitter account. It’s really fun trying to condense your thoughts to 140 characters or less.

Nearly time for a Tsunami of presents – everyone is still asleep except no doubt the cats and their dead friends – eternal sleep for them. I wrote my first mawkish sonnet which is now published for the benefit of my exclusive critics. Very difficult indeed some serious flaws – rhyming ‘under’ with ‘balaclava asunder’ is a golden moment worth of Donne.

Love and peaceful revolution. Trust not in fairy stories. Kick Nigel Frarage’s arse. Trust no authority figures other than me. Vote Labour (I suppose hmm glum) unless you have any better ideas.