Our outing to the Royal Free passed without incident. As expected I will be back on the drugs in a week or so. Something called ‘Mel’ I am told. Presumably not after a Spice Girl – it’s one of the old-fashioned cell killers, bit of a classic, the Burberry Mac of chemotherapy. Everything bodily was fine and stable and that is the important thing. Heart is in good order (somewhat to my surprise) kidney function fine, liver flexibility fine – they use a bit of sonar kit that gives your liver a thump and then listens for the echo. You have to try not to jump. My body fat is gross but no one seems to care. One of the nurses was telling me how busy they were getting. What was once one nurse assigned to delivering the plutonium or whatever it is, is now four. My trip through the scanner alone would cost £7000 per go if I was not a UK citizen. I am seriously fortunate. Who knows what the effect of the new drugs will be. As long as they work I don’t give a shit.

Maria and I kind of enjoy our visits. One of us is usually taking on the anxiety while the other is away with the fairies. This time I dedicated my time to getting scared while Maria knitted. In the past she has been hyperventilating while I have been dreaming of butterflies. It is always one of us. The fact that she always comes with me and puts up with my mood, which fluctuates between sombre and downright cruel, should be a for trigger incredible gratitude, however this only ever emerges on the way home – when the bloody thing is over and I can breathe and eat. (Ever since Olivia Hussey in Romeo and Juliet took the unfortunate sleeping draft, anxiety brings about an instant cessation of eating). So I always gush my gratitude on the way home on the tube feeling like a complete wimp.

The environment at the NAC is set up to be quite scary. The lift suffers from Alzeimers so it its very slow, forgetful and doesn’t arrive when you call it. It seems to know you are anxious and enjoys prolonging the agony by providing a guided tour of level L1a and the service zone before finally releasing you at UL3. At UL3 you are greeted by a doorbell into the Amyloidosis Centre which challenges you to ‘Wackamole’ – can you get from bell to door handle before the door locks again. There is normally a stream of knackered ill people waiting for taxis or bottles of wee. We all wrap wee bottles in plastic bags thus maintaining the illusion they are actually wine boxes and we are just off to a 1980’s dinner party for the undead. The staff are fantastically nice – not so the patients. The fact that some are, as it were, on their last legs does not give them the right to be moany or unbelievably boring. One woman entertained the crowd with an account of her glasses fitting in ‘Boots.’

Yet again my sound system for my scary tube ride failed me. I had downloaded ‘late night woman’s hour on ‘parties.’ All was well and I was soaking up the audio rays lying on my gurney – sadly my hyper efficient Romanian technician re arranged my iPhone at the last second and I was fast forwarded to the play out music (sleepy lagoon) from an ancient episode of desert island disks. It was too late to make a fuss, the Romanian was also quite stern, I remembered her from the last insertion, and I was too British – so yet again I lay in silence contemplating 30 minutes of grinding, wiring and a barely audible Mozart piano concerto 21 (the slow movement) – they don’t know that most people of my generation associate this music with a Swedish film from the seventies about bitter sweet love and suicide, hardly fitting for a journey, which other than the absence of the red curtains and the oven is remarkably reminiscent of ones last. Anyway happily after 10 minutes the next podcast must have automatically downloaded and started to play. A more recent episode of desert island disks – and yes I had heard it.

Still – it’s over for another 6 months hurrah!

I am the hospital for a routine eye test for glaucoma so plenty of waiting time to compose a post.

As you know, dear reader, I disapprove of birthdays. I find them a bit of bore. That frigging repetitive greeting, the ghastly cards, the obligatory happiness, the cake, the meal, the pressies are ok, but in my view the whole birthday thing ruins a nice day, during which, with luck, the people you love are knocking around and you can party!

In an effort to address this I moved my birthday to Boxing Day and assimilated it into that other day that annoys me that begins with X. Anyway we had a brilliant family band session in the village hall with all my lovelies participating or enthusing. We managed to avoid all the tiresome birthday prerequisites and at sixty one I felt young and rebellious and ready to rock. Maria and I sung a duet – I was Robbie Williams to Maria’s Nicole Kidman in ‘Something Stupid’. I was brilliant, atleast in my minds ear. Relaxed, smooth, characterful with just a pinch of ironic twinkle! –  Footnote – I was not – I have a recording – starts ok – then a  sort of bee-gees virus afflicts me and as I ascend to ‘staying alive’ heights my tuning goes into first-day-of-the-Suzuki-violin-method-for-a-four-year-old zone. In an effort to correct this I step off the pitch cliff edge arriving at notes, less bat-like, but no less terrible. But it was fantastic fun and an opportunity to show off my new very posh birthday bass amp. Thank you Maria

Listen to this first – (no its not us) – I adore this song and this performance.

Now you can read this

Sixty one is definitely old. I am not a sprightly pensioner in slacks springing from one three peaks race to a triathlon followed by a yoga class. I am old knackered with an elastic waist band balloon belly and very proud of it. Our compulsory worship of those oldies that ‘survive’ as if they are an endangered species of marmoset really annoys me. The old are currently messing things up for the young and the sooner they bog of the better. Except me.

Speaking of bogging off and given that I am writing this in a hospital which is traditionally ‘the last port on ones life cruise,’ when I die I want to be a tiny bit useful. There seem to be two choices that appeal to me. One is a new machine that liquifies and blends bodies with a sort of bio yogurt and then flushes the result into the sewage system or sprays it, silage like, onto the fields to enrich the next crop of edamame beans. It is such a grotesque idea it appeals to my sense of the absurd and my reluctance to endorse the idea of dignity in death. Being dead is not anything at all – it is certainly not dignified.  Being blended in a juicer and flushed down the lav or sprayed about like a goolish jet wash sounds like a Steven King outtake. However the idea smacks of ‘green’ conscience and that is something I would struggle to claim. My Auntie Barbara worked in a hospital in a cancer department. She died of the disease and being an insider she donated her body to ‘the cause.’ This seems like a good thing, besides given the rarity of my condition I reckon the medical students will be racing for their scalpels.

Nonna has a different attitude to death. A recent brush with a stomach virus not only elicited (from us) an obsessive installation of video cameras around her house so we can see her if she has a turn (she was very poorly) (she has been warned not to disrobe, as is her habit, on the landing) but also the purchase of two sets of in-the-coffin footwear from Amazon Prime. Both in black. One styled for winter – more robust, less slippy on the ice and the others, sandals, for summer, black but strappy and cool. While Maria and I appreciate the need to have the right footwear for every occasion the price, £70 for each pair for just one wearing, did seem excessive. Still it makes her happy and us laugh – privately.

Eyes in excellent nick – huh – good – home I go.

When we go strolling in the park at night
All the darkness is a boon
Who cares if we’re without a light
They can’t black out the moon

I see you smiling in the cigarette glow
Though the picture fades too soon
But I see all I want to know
They can’t black out the moon

We don’t grumble, we don’t worry about a lot
Oh, when will you stumble, you stumble into my arms
And when you kiss me, don’t you realise
That my heart’s like a big balloon
And like the lovelight in your eyes
They can’t black out the moon

Family – I could not be happier with everything they are and do. Punch my face in I am so f*****g smug! I adore them all.

Wedding – I adored that too. Selfishly, I, yes I, felt very special

Cats  – Vince is obsessed with me – which is flattering but tying. If I am at home for a day he glues himself to me like we are training for the Crufts cat ‘heel’ awards. He still lies on the keyboard and pats me as I type. I adore him.

Health – I am really not bad, better than I really would have imagined a year or so ago. I have managed work very well. I am a pathetic old man going up stairs – I actually dread them – but that may due to the extra belly load of fat I carry. My diet is EAAAAT “eat anything at all a lot”  my at rest pulse rate hit 130 last night – not good – so self-medicated and it’s just got back to normal – hurrah for beta blockers.

Sir Peter Hall. On the night he died and before it was announced and for the first time ever I was googling him to find out what he was up to. He was always incredibly nice to me and tolerated my complete ignorance of most things clever. I was an excellent assistant to him and he was an excellent mentor. We shared many a big breakfast at a greasy spoon in Brixton discussing Shakespeare’s verse. Yep for real.

Politics – I am more convinced than ever that I am right. The End.

Religion – see above.

Donald Trump – I hate myself, why do I wake up every morning and rush to read what he has done in the night. It really is like looking down the toilet after a big dump – you don’t learn anything, you are just disgusted – oh ever since being ill I have become very lavatorial (to those that are offended I promise to find better metaphors) but in this case it really is the most fitting.

Lights in the kitchen – must be bright – moody kitchen lighting results in last minute fumbles for reading glasses and burnt toast. I believe our kitchen lighting totals about 500 watts now. It’s like a sunny beach. Not the place in Bulgaria where Arthur dropped his kegs and danced on a night club bar btw..

Bass playing practice. Sporadic and depressing. How can I still be so bad after so long.

My students – some seem to like me quite a lot – why does it hurt so much when they don’t ? After all I am so nice. Got it! I am very opinionated – some people hate that. Reminder to self be bland – nah. I bought a small group of them coffee – they seemed really confused. In the midst of all this one possible significant creative flowering, I hope – she’s lazy though. Suppose that could be good sign?

Poetry – none

Short stories – none

Ridiculously complicated set ups consisting of computers and what not. – one

 – did it work – not really – were the students impressed – not really – was it worth it – yes – I even made the collapsible table to show it all on.

New lighters – 2 or 3 – one Japanese one on its way. It is on off pink shade with a silver poodle on it

Serious discoveries. The work of photographer Julie Blackmon (below). Grew up in a massive family in the mid west I think – now has loads of children of her own that she photographs in surreal scenarios that are both silly and frightening. I treated myself to one of her very pricey books.

Disappointments – still have not done my chemical photography despite getting the kit for Christmas 2 or was it 3 years ago. Both my girls are keen to have a go but we never get it together – right!! this Christmas maybe.

Strictly Come Dancing – best thing on Telly except Peaky Blinders – why do we continue to under value light entertainment – this show is superb – brilliant presenters, dancers, choreography, music lighting and a great concept. I know I know I am always on about it.

Fizzled out

bye

Julie Blackmon