Blue is the colour.

It has been a long time since I picked up (pressed down on?) a keyboard. In fact, nearly six weeks have passed since my full-hip (ball and socket) operation at Birmingham's Royal Orthopaedic Hospital (ROH) on the last day of September. The failure to blog since has arisen from a combination of the experience of physical discomfort and a dearth of energy and optimism.

So, firstly, by way of explanation, the seat at my desk is a little low for me to follow the first of the three golden rules of hip-replacement therapy - at all times keep your knee below the hip - otherwise you experience stiffness and pain in your new joint which may, as with transgression of rules 2 and 3, result in dislocation.

Now, I already knew something about the discrimination visited on 'high-seatist people' because of my earlier experience with sciatica/spinal/neurological problems - but I now know a great deal more. The simplest, shortest, excursion can be a nightmare if I need to sit down. There is evidently a 'low-seatist' conspiracy designed to force 'high-seatists' like myself, either to gather on uncomfortable bar stools in dimly lit and badly-serviced nightclub ghettos - or to emigrate to Kenya in the hope they will be accepted into the high-furniture homes of Masai tribesmen and their families. Don't believe me? Just have a look at how many low seats put your knees above your hips! Once you see it, you can't stop.

Whoops, I digress; a hobbyhorse of mine.

Rule 2, by the way, is 'Never cross your legs' and rule 3; 'Never twist your trunk to reach for something behind you'. Fortunately a lot of work must have been done in recent years on these issues and discrimination, though by no means extinguished, has been effectively addressed.

You may have lost the thread by now but the second reason for my failure to blog has resulted from the struggle, over the course of the last few weeks, with a sense that things were not good; improvements in mobility were painfully slow, various ailments took on sinister proportions - and there hasn't been much to watch on the TV.

However, as this blog bears witness, in  the last couple of days I have detected some progress. The TV is still awful but the ailments have quietened and mobility has discernibly improved.

So, yesterday we went to the theatre - a place 'normal' people inhabit. This was our first trip out involving  a drive of some distance (Stratford) with myself hauled onto the back seat (knee level with, but not above, hip) and the first outing for my new and highly-coveted, blue badge.

I, or rather Di, submitted a lengthy medical treatise to the blue badge agency but I was, nevertheless, called for an assessment. Richard drove us to Harborne; he has an SUV-type vehicle which seemed to offer a solution to the transport problem but even that proved uncomfortable. After extracting me from the car, I was seen by an occupational therapist who put me through my mini-paces.Though impressed by my 'crutch control', in an upstairs office she confided that, within moments of seeing me, there was never any likelihood of my being refused.

Some weeks later, the blue badge was desperate to show what it could do. So, after a hassle-free drive down the M40 we began to cruise the streets close to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre (RST). Within a short period of time we chanced upon a nearly-empty, on-street, disabled parking bay just yards from the theatre.

Minutes later, people parting like the waters of the Red Sea, I made my way propelled in an SUV-modified wheelchair (lots of cushions) and was soon safely installed in a bay reserved for me in the auditorium. The people immediately behind me had to stand throughout the play (Richard II) but that was a minor hiccup, given the knee-hip calculus.

We enjoyed the play, we enjoyed the drive, we enjoyed being in the world without pain (though, in truth, I was 'dosed up to the nostrils').

Today, I had my second hydrotherapy session at the ROH. My first had been something of a disappointment because the promised ambulance had failed to arrive. Before anyone begins to mutter, I want to point out that the ROH insisted on providing transport and at this time we had yet to try any alternative. In any case, once sampled, it is impossible to decline the experience. I have never felt so safe, so cared-for as I did on those three journeys between home and hospital. If I was picky, the only thing missing was the police motorcycle escort - that would have been a thoughtful addition.

Today's full hydrotherapy session helped to sustain and reinvigorate the sense of progress with my mobility.

So, now I can blog again - you have been warned.

P.S. thanks for the cards, best wishes, emails, visits, help, love, offers of help, apples, flowers, loan of dvds, books...............

Update on Rod

Just a quick blog to let you know that Rod had his operation during late afternoon on Monday. He was transferred to the high dependency unit as a precaution and, given that everything was progressing as expected, he was returned to the ward yesterday. The operation went smoothly and his recovery was progressing well until he found himself experiencing increasing levels of pain and discomfort during yesterday afternoon and overnight. It seems that the epidural was anaesthetising his mattress rather than him (there was a leak) and once this was discovered he was put on another pain control regime which is now working, although leaving him feeling very tired.

The physios attempted to get him walking this morning but Rod's blood pressure was low causing him to feel  faint and, fearful that he was going to pass out on them (they must have had a scary vision of being crushed under his 6'2" frame), they wisely decided to wait and try again tomorrow.

Rod is very grateful for all the love and best wishes that have been coming his way (and mine) so thank you for that and I hope to be letting you know, over the next few days, about his discharge date.

Diana

Hip Op; music to my ears.

'If all parts of the system work smoothly, the [scan] results will be securely and digitally despatched to the ROH in time for the MDT meeting. Our hope is, that my case will be discussed and a date for surgery agreed and in the near future.'

The above is an extract from my previous post which told of my referral to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital (ROH), nine days ago The decision then had been that the surgeon needed more scan information before the date for any hip operation could be set.

I am very pleased to report that the system DID work smoothly.

I went for that evening MRI scan at the Priory Hospital (Monday 23rd September) and their strategy of allowing me to enter the 'tunnel' feet-first left my rolled-back eyes with just enough of a view of the outside world to quieten my incipient claustrophobia. It was a close run thing but fifty minutes later I was safely disinterred. Nursing an emaciated credit card we left for home.

The transfer of the MRI images to the ROH evidently happened because the very next day (Tuesday lunchtime, 24th) I was phoned by another consultant who told me that my case had been discussed at the multidisciplinary team (MDT) meeting that morning. The very good news was that, in his view, a normal hip replacement would be possible as the femur below the head was cancer-free. He said that, given the urgency, I could expect to be operated on within a fortnight.

The following day (yesterday) the surgeon's secretary phoned to say that a date had been scheduled, next Monday (30th).

Buoyed by the news, we drove to Gethin and Judith's home in Ticknall, Derbyshire. They had researched a day trip that would take in a walk/wheelchair ride of the impressive Staunton Harold estate (recommended) and then a detour through the picturesque town of Melbourne. On crutches, I was able to gawp at the wonders of the the largely-Norman parish church which has ambitions to be a cathedral. It is an amazing place for those who love massive, Romanesque columns and zigzag patterned arches. As I now know, it is given top rating by Betjeman's Best British Churches.

We strolled/hobbled past the lake below the adjacent Melbourne Hall before returning to Brum and thereafter, bed - I haven't been out of it since as I ratchet up the practice regime for my 'confinement' next week.

I didn't think that I'd ever say that I was looking forward to a hip replacement operation but then again there are a lot of other equally outlandish statements that have escaped my lips over the last two and a half years.

Joe is making a flying visit from his current sojourn in the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia, so it's possible that he can be persuaded to pick up a keyboard and post the next post-op. bulletin?

Walking on eggshell.

A couple of days ago I posted an update on the Manchester debacle and my referral back to Brum. We were awaiting an appointment at the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital with a surgeon to discuss the treatment for a recently located metastasis in the head of my femur and the possible timing for surgery.

Well, the meeting took place on Tuesday, two days ago. I'm really not complaining but I think it helps to set the context for further decisions if I tell you that the out-patient clinic was very busy and we were just about the last to be seen, nearly three hours after our appointment time of 3.00pm. The registrar who greeted us was  initially trying to juggle images of my femur/hip area with medical reports, my case history and a mobile phone that regularly disturbed and distracted him. He explained that in addition to working in the clinic he was 'on call' for the wards and other enquiries.

We weren't sure whether to feel sorry for him or us.

Unsure as to the significance of the scan images he eventually asked the consultant for his opinion. A tall man, his cheerful and assertive handshake was matched by a prompt conclusion - further scans were needed to establish how far down the femur the cancer may have travelled. This could only be determined by another MRI. He was alarmingly clear that a large 'hole' was located in the head of the femur leaving an outer layer within the socket, 'eggshell thin'. This could be tackled straightforwardly by a full hip replacement - unless the length of the femur was compromised.

He asked his registrar to send an urgent MRI request to my oncologist. 'Urgent', we discovered meant within two weeks at the QEH or three at ROH. Both appeared ominously lengthy. Quite apart from the anxiety about the state of the femur and learning a date for surgery, the cancer clock was still ticking, some three months after my last chemo dosage.

The next day, as details of the likely wait unfolded we made a decision - one that I'm sure all our friends and family will understand - we would 'go private'. For £577 you can get a 'two-site' MRI scan at the Priory Hospital. There was just one slot before the next Multidisciplinary Team Meeting next Tuesday morning at the ROH, Monday evening. We briefly visited today, just to ensure that the scanner would not trigger my susceptibility to claustrophobia - even as my wallet experiences an unwelcome attack of agoraphobia.

If all parts of the system work smoothly, the results will be securely and digitally despatched to the ROH in time for the MDT meeting. Our hope is, that my case will be discussed and a date for surgery agreed and in the near future.

Meanwhile, we have had so many phone calls and visits from friends, there's been little time to enter a downward spiral - though having said that, there are still some slots between 3.00 - 5.00 a.m. that have yet to be filled.

There are sure to be more twists in this gripping/griping medical thriller - stay tuned.

To Manchester and back.

It's Sunday evening and I need to update this blog.

It's been a long time coming because the developments since my last post might be, euphemistically described as, unpromising. If you haven't heard the details, I will take you back to where I left off, blogwise, with a decision to be made about joining the immunotherapy programme at Manchester's Christie hospital. It was a no-brainer, I quickly said 'yes' though I'll admit to having some continuing anxieties about the side effects that might be expected.

However, I never started Manchester. My acceptance of a place prompted the organising of two pre-admission scans; one an echo-cardiogram to establish whether my heart could cope with the stress of the treatment and a new baseline CT against which future post-treatment cycles could be measured. I passed the first but failed the second.

But I need to rewind.....

Prior to these scans we had left Brum to start a ten-day holiday in Scotland, taking in stops in Boat of Garten, a cottage in the Torridon area and a Bank holiday weekend in Edinburgh. Before the trip North I had already begun to experience some pain in my left hip and this quickly worsened so that by the time we reached Torridon, I was pretty much confined to the bedroom apart from brief journeys out with the aid of a stick.

I was able to take some vicarious enjoyment from Joe's kayaking and walking trips but I was in truth, frightened about what might be happening and eager to get home. We left Joe in Edinburgh to visit some of the Festival Fringe events and once the Bank Holiday was over approached our GP surgery for help.

At the same time there were the scans to undergo. A week after arriving home, I had completed both and awaited results. I had already asked for the CT scan to include the pelvic/hip region and just a few days before I was due to be admitted to Christie's I was told that the scan showed metastatic spread to the head of the femur requiring urgent surgery. I was advised to avoid any weight-bearing use of the left leg and referred back to the QEH.

We were devastated. The tsunami of fear and distress was not unlike that which we had experienced at the time of the original cancer diagnosis more than two years earlier. Not only had our hopes for a cure evaporated but I was faced with the prospect of major surgery and uncertainty as to what else might be happening given that I had been off 'chemo' drugs for 8/9 weeks. And as a constant reminder of my plight, I now go nowhere without a stick (a few feet), elbow crutches (a few metres) or wheelchair (for any greater distance).

Friends and family have been generous and supportive but being so disabled is difficult to accept.

A week later, I had a meeting with my QEH consultant oncologist who managed to establish that the referral he had made to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital had resulted in an appointment for the following Tuesday. Yesterday, I visited the ROH for x-rays and today, I wait for Tuesday's appointment.

I feel a little better than I did but the waves still threaten.

So, I am trying, as my brother John advises, to 'stay in the moment' by which he means, 'don't think too far ahead, take things one day at a time and try to be positive.' It helps, up to a point but with both the cancer and surgery-clock ticking, it is both difficult to weight and wait-bear.

Indiana Ling?

For those of you who have asked the question 'How do you adjust to/cope with/come to terms with the knowledge that you have a terminal illness?', I think the considered answer must be, 'by degrees'. You may think, more than two years on since I was first given the news, that I'd be reconciled to the idea by now - but I am still insulated from reality.

So there are times, such as now, today, when I simply can't take in what is happening to me, when a sense of sheer incredulity takes over.

I 'know' that my life must be under threat because I hear people, skilled, well-paid, difficult-to-reach people, tell me so in a matter-of-fact way. It is implicit, rather than explicit, deduced by reference to the dwindling list of treatment options, the reported growth in nodules, the limited time-efficacy of drugs.

I know too, because I write a blog that people read, (or at the very least, visit) and then there are the concerned enquiries from friends and relatives - and so, my difficult-to-extinguish hope that this is all a mistake, or a dream, is unsustainable, in error.

The most recent reminder of my plight arrived yesterday.- but first, I need to take you back to my previous blog.

If you recall (I know there are other issues in your life, so forgive the reprise) my last CT scan revealed growth in the nodules/lymph node/tumour - these terms appear interchangeable at times - and as a result my oncologist recommended a shift from one to another, equally unpronounceable, drug. I was due to sign the consents the following week and we duly returned fully expecting to do so.

However, Diana raised at this follow-on appointment, the question of a different treatment for kidney cancer,  one pioneered by the Christie Hospital in Manchester; immunotherapy. She had first mentioned this approach two years ago but our consultant had deftly dismissed it in favour of oral drug therapy.

Two years later, he responded differently, saying that should we wish him to make a referral he would be happy to email the consultant in Manchester. We asked for a few hours to research and discuss before getting back to him later the same day.

To agree to a referral seemed a 'no-brainer' - there was nothing to be lost from gaining further information and a second opinion. So, the referral was requested by us and following a few days in Norfolk with the family, we returned to find an appointment had been made.

The date was yesterday's.

In the early morning, we joined the other teeming 'car-cells' and moved up the M6 hoping to avoid a haematoma in this artery well-known for its sclerotic condition. We reached the hospital in good time, thanks to the navigational skills of GPS, and after giving bloods and having my first-ever ECG, we met the consultant.

I won't bore you with the details but the upshot was that 'the Prof' as he is soubriqueted, considered that I was in the category most likely to gain from the treatment programme. The tantalising, if statistically remote, prospect of a 'cure' - never on offer with targeted drug therapy - was held aloft and eagerly examined but for such a glittering prize there is of course a high price to be paid.

Like Indiana Jones, in the Temple of Doom, I have to dodge the many potential and strikingly unpleasant side effects. The therapy works through the repeated intravenous infusion of a natural protein that supplements the body's own immune system, stimulating it to make killer T-cells that attack the tumour.

Patients are hospitalised for five days in two phases separated by two weeks recovery followed by eight weeks recovery. A CT scan follows before the next full cycle. If a patient is benefitting from the programme, there may be as many as four full cycles, spanning  something like a year in duration.

So, there's a decision to be made - and speedily. I have already been off all cancer medication for six weeks. I know what those close to me are thinking but they all say that ultimately, the choice is mine. You are probably thinking along similar lines.

Meanwhile, I have been shocked to discover - or is that rediscover? - that I have a life-threatening condition.

Writing to you helps me to process the fact. Thank you.

The Streets of London

A couple of blogs ago, Judith left a comment in which she encouraged me to 'keep sharing' - so, after a lengthy break - I'm back.

A lot has happened in the mind-numbing narrative of my condition and then there have been travels and trips of a modest mileage and other events.......but......

I guess, if you can face it, I should start by updating you all on the results of the MRI scan (21/05/2013). It confirmed serious 'wear and tear' but, more importantly, failed to show any 'hot spots' in the spinal column - the disease had not metastasised. Ipso facto, the back pain of which I had complained around Easter time was not the result of any spread of cancer.

So, this was good news and on the back of these results the oncology registrar had no objections to my request for a further reduction in the chemo dosage. I would be on just half of that on which I had begun the regimen nearly two years earlier.

Even better, with the help of a re-referral to Mark, 'my physiotherapist' at QEH, I began to develop an understanding of what had happened to me at the time of the acute back pain. I came to realise that the episode of over-exercising on the bike coincided with my self-initiated, weeks-earlier efforts to reduce the dosage of my other, neuropathic, medication. The exercising had triggered muscular inflammation or some such and I no longer had the levels of drugs in my body to control the neurological trauma. Result; excruciating, scary, crippling, prolonged pain. QED.

However, with the neuropathic drug dosage now restored to the original levels, I was able, tentatively, to return via 'Pilates-lite' to cardio-vascular working-out. I even got back on our abandoned exercise bike.

That's the good news.

.... but, about two weeks ago I had another CT scan - 'to set a baseline', as the oncologist said, for the newly-reduced chemo. Yesterday, I had the follow-up appointment and the result is - 'all-change'.

The scan revealed regrowth of the lymph nodes in my chest and modest growth of one of the nodes in my lungs. We are still talking 'small increases' but sufficient for him to conclude that the drug I am on may be losing its efficacy (but not as a result of the reduced dosage). The average length of patient-time on this drug is eleven months, I had been on it for nearly two years - my time was up.

Consequently, he was recommending a different drug, 'son of Sunitinib - Axitinib.' I know they sound like Sumerian or Persian princes but they are part of this new generation of oral chemotherapy and this new drug had only emerged from clinical trials and been passed by NICE in the early part of this year. He assured me that the trials demonstrated that the side effects were less severe than Sunitinib but the Googling I have undertaken today, reveals a very long list of 'probables', 'possibles' and 'unlikelys'.

I told him that we would 'go' with his recommendation - that 'I was in his hands'. He, a modest man, said that he was uncomfortable with taking that responsibility. The fact is; the responsibility is mine (I sign the consents next week), even if I have need to defer to his expertise.

This consultation was quickly followed by an invitation to join a pharmacology department pre-research discussion on the third floor of the Cancer Centre. Of course, we had already agreed to take part. We spent more than an hour in a small group of patients, partners and pharmacists in an exchange led by a university lecturer. The research focus, to be honest, appeared to be too narrow and perhaps, looking in the wrong place.

They wanted to learn what we, the patients and partners, wished to know that would help with the self-administration of our medication. There was one man present who was taking more than a dozen different drugs. He had gone home, after his first visit to the hospital pharmacy, with a carrier bag full of pills and potions. Living alone, he had developed his own spreadsheet to help make sense of it all. He struggled to contain his emotions as he spoke of the way some drugs had triggered deep depression.

For Diana and myself however, the question of what we wanted to know went wider than any narrow focus on drugs. What we wanted to know about appeared to be outside the knowledge boundaries of many of the specialists we have met; information about holistic approaches, alternative therapies that can help hand back a sense of control to the patient and family. We don't expect a beleaguered NHS to offer this as part of the 'normal service' - only that they keep an open mind and provide signposts (no doubt with the obligatory disclaimers).

The other thing with which they might assist, is bringing together people who are going through  related experiences. I learned so much from listening to other patients, not least a sense of 'if you think you have a raw deal, think again'.

I guess this is the same kind of message Ralph McTell has been singing about for more than forty years.

My great climacteric

Tomorrow, 22nd May 2013,is a significant day for me; it is the occasion on which I enter my great climacteric. A climacteric is defined as 'a period in which some great change is due to take place in the constitution', though whether this be for good or ill is unclear. These periods are said to occur when we reach an age that is a multiple of seven and an odd number; 7x1, 7x3, 7x5, 7x7, 7x9 and some say, in these days of longevity, 7x11 and 7x13. The great climacteric however, is 7x9 = 63

I'm not sure how many further 'great changes' my body can take.

Mid-May also marks the second anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I was told by the surgeon that the mean survival time for those in my position, with renal cell carcinoma that has metastasised to the lungs, was just in excess of two years.

Now, were I to conform to the mean - that would result in a significant change in my constitution.

However, I do know that the medics and the NHS haven't yet, given up on me.

The MRI scan and the cystoscopy (11/5/2013) have come - but not exactly, gone. The MRI turned out to be a doddle. Concerned as I was by the prospect of being 'entombed' in the tunnel, I took what precautions I could. I discovered that there are two scanners in the QEH Imaging department and one is more spacious than the other. I opted for the former and then requested backup sedation from my G.P. After a telephone consultation in which I asked for advice on the maximum, sub-lethal dosage, she prescribed diazepam. I duly took my tablet at the recommended time and - experienced no change.

For extra insurance, I opted to take my sister into the scanner room. She was to be directed to stand at the head of the scanner and repeatedly assure me of the proximity of my head to life-sustaining, open space.

Ok, so I took some trouble over this.................... but when I was admitted to the scanner room, my concerns evaporated. This bright, spherical , techno-miracle was so different to the elongated toilet roll of earlier experience. It still made a racket when in operation but at least I was unable to hear most of it - I fell asleep.

Now, I await the results as to the origins of my acute back pain. Though fine today, having just returned from a walk through a seasonal, shallow blue ocean in Austey woods near Wootton Wawen with Mary, Pete and Keith, I have been immobilised and bed-ridden on other days.

I see the physiotherapist on Friday and the oncologist, Thursday week. I'm hoping that between them and the radiologist's report, they can come up with a narrative to account for what exactly is going on with my spine - and better still, some advice on how to improve it.

As for the cystoscopy, the 'preamble' went well but the insertion of the 'box brownie' scope came to an abrupt halt when the doctors advised me that they could not continue. I had just settled back, both hands behind my head, in order to watch all the action on the overhead monitor, when they quickly decided they would have to terminate the procedure.


Apparently, I have a stricture, a narrowing, of the urethra and this would mean arranging a further appointment and another procedure. My urethra would be dilated in order to progress and examine the bladder. This will be carried out under general anaesthetic.

To be honest, I wasn't too upset to be told I was coming back for a G.A. (as we say in the business) - but you had probably already guessed as much. Please, don't be misled, I'm actually pretty tough. I once had a rose thorn removed from my finger without any pain relief, save that from my mother 'kissing it better'.

This was quickly ruled out as an option by the medical team last week.

Green and pleasant land, dark satanic mills

Where to start?

To answer my own question, perhaps with 'the now'.

I am sitting at my desk, early on a bright, but chilly, Saturday morning. I am worried. Within a couple of minutes of emerging, larva-like, from my bed, I could feel the return of acute pain deep in my left buttock at the base of my spine. It had started again yesterday, just before my re-referral appointment to the QEH physiotherapy department was due.

I won't bore you with the details but this pain first occurred after a lengthy workout on an upright bike at Moseley School's Health and Fitness Centre. For a while, until the paracetamol kicked in, the pain was excruciating and I could only move if bent double with my head down to the floor. I was relieved when after a few days on painkillers, I was able to walk as before; not exactly a model of agility and grace but no worse than I had been for what feels like half-a-lifetime ago, when all this began.

The physio was good. He explained that this new, acute pain was probably different to the chronic, neurological pain in my back and leg. The new pain he said was the result of trauma  (exercise) and was probably referred to the base of the spine from higher up in the lumbar region. All will hopefully become clearer after I have another full spinal MRI, scheduled for a few days hence.

After previous, claustrophobic, experiences, I am not looking forward to that. It has been ordered by the oncologist after hearing about the acute episode; I think he wants to check for further spinal metastases. For good measure, at the same consultation he ordered another cystoscopy.

'It was only a light pink', I whined after hearing his response to my telling him of a few occasions of blood in my urine (aka haematuria - it sounds more principled in the Graeco-Latin). 'It doesn't matter to him', I mused uncharitably. 'He just clicks a button'.

'And it only happened twice!'

'Three times', Diana added, treacherously.

So, I emerged with a double whammy - and now, this damn acute pain has returned to add another woe....

Enough. Time to change the record/cd/iPod playlist................

I was right about Geoff's funeral (21/4/13). It was emotional and it was special - attended by a sea of mourners. We said 'goodbye' at the crematorium and celebrated  his life at an amazing wake in the church hall on Billesley Lane. It was the kind of event with much music, food and drink, that Geoff would have organised - which, in a way, he had.

It has taken, it is taking, a long time to process the events and emotions of that day. Even now, I can feel my mood changing as I type - so I'm not sure that I can write about some of the darker 'stuff' that hung over me like a dense cloud last weekend. We were on Tees-side, a trip planned well before Geoff's death. It is an area of which I had no knowledge beyond the descriptions of an emigre, now honorary Brummie, Neil. He recommended RSPB Saltholme in the Tees estuary and a visit to the famous transporter bridge as well as hinting at other more pre-industrial delights.

We booked two nights in the Premier Inn on the Tees barrage and promised ourselves further nights at more picturesque accommodation as we wended our way home through North Yorkshire.

In one of Saltholme's bird hides, a knowledgeable and friendly RSPB volunteer explained that the original inter-tidal, estuarine, mudflats originally covered more than 14 square miles - but that was in pre-industrial times. Following extensive land reclamation, this very special habitat was now reduced to a few hundred acres.

Saltholme's scrapes and pools are not tidal but combined they elbow their way into a space between the industrial skyline of Middlesborough and the truly impressive chemical works to the south of Hartlepool. The backdrop for the many visitors to the reserve is a filigree pattern of poles, pylons and tall sky-piercing chimneys linked by horizontal pipes; the superstructure of the chemical works. It may sound strange, sacrilegious - even pretentious - but the vista brought to mind the ornate decoration of high-Gothic, rood screens in a mediaeval cathedral.

After the avian delights of Saltholme we moved a short distance up the road to the gleaming, muddy delights of Seal Sands and the Tees National Nature Reserve, remnants of that vast inter-tidal zone mentioned above. Thence to Hartlepool's historic highlights before the frustrating search for something to eat.

Meanwhile a dam of emotion threatened to burst at the most inappropriate moment; at breakfast the following day. I wanted to explain to Diana that I felt myself to be a fraud. There and then, I had to put the stopper back in the bottle; this was neither the time nor the place. Back in the hotel bedroom, I uncorked. Someone had recently said that I was 'inspirational' and others too, reading this blog, have used similar words. They - you - do not know the truth. I am at times a complete mess, hiding behind this jaunty veneer of amusing anecdotes. There is nothing admirable about my fears now made more real by Geoff's death.

But despite Diana's ministrations, I cannot escape the paradox - even this blogged confession has elements of the artful..................

We abandoned the ideas about North Yorkshire and drove home via Redcar, o'erlooked by the Tata steelworks, the Victorian resort of Saltburn and the beautiful Cleveland hills.

Parallel lives

It has been an eventful, emotional, blog-inhibiting few weeks.

My fellow kidney cancer sufferer and good friend, Geoff, has died. Three weeks ago he was admitted to Queen Elizabeth Hospital (QEH) following difficulties with what, at the time, was thought to be a stubborn chest infection. When I first visited him on the 6th floor he lay on his bed in his pyjamas hooked up to a network of translucent tubing as though he had recently struggled free from the grasp of some predatory spider and had yet to wipe the strands of web silk from his body.

In his own words, he looked like a recently-released inmate of a WW2 concentration camp. With sunken cheeks, a grey pallor and little bulk to his once burgeoning limbs, he spoke softly and with dwindling energy towards the end of brief phrases. It was distressing to see him in such a weakened condition. At the same time we and his family really were comforted by the knowledge that he was receiving good care, that he was in the right place.

In the following days, it gradually became clear that he would not be coming home. I managed to visit him just once more and he spoke then of his wish 'to go'. In the few minutes we had, even now at the end of his life, he sought reassurance that I and others would continue the fight to save our allotment site (an issue that had first brought us together more than twelve years earlier). I briefly stroked his head and wished him 'safe journey'. We shook hands. His grasp was still firm. Each of us knew what the other wanted to say.

He was transferred to St Mary's Hospice the following day and died peacefully in his sleep two days later with his family around him.

I will be, I am already, missing the 'big man'. In truth, I have been missing him for many months, ever since his illness robbed him of the strength and mobility required to enjoy our old life. Our friendship had been infused with a new and special quality from the time we were both diagnosed with kidney cancer nearly two years ago. We both had the primary tumour removed and the corrupted kidney with it. We were both informed that our cancer had metastasised to the lungs (principally) and were both administered oral chemo medication.

We have shared many conversations laced with black humour about the nature of our parallel lives; both grammar school boys from county towns, teachers, early marriages, divorces, re-marriages, second families, love of  open spaces, neighbourhood communities and finally, illness. We have shared journeys to the QEH Cancer Centre and restorative visits to Winterbourne Gardens. We looked to each other for help in knowing how to live with our condition - and now he has gone.

Geoff would not want us to seek his beatification. For all his faults and possibly because of them, he was, he is, loved by many people. His funeral will be a sad, moving and very special event.

I will continue - and a more fortunate person for having known him.

Waste; the final frontier.

I am now two weeks into the current 6 week chemo cycle (weeks 5 and 6 being drug-free), my 14th. I continue to oscillate between optimism and the 'slough of despond'. At this precise moment, I'm feeling good - largely I think because I've had a couple of (modestly) thorough workouts on exercise bikes both here at home and at my old school's Health and Fitness Centre.

But then, I am reminded that I was feeling similarly upbeat just one short week ago; my exercise regime was on the up, my weight down (marginally) and I was back to juicing and making smoothies using our home-made, organic, almond milk.

Then, on the Friday morning, just as we were preparing to leave for a forecasted wet weekend in Southampton, Di called to me from the bedroom, to say that the green waste lorry was outside, on the road. She knew that I had recently filled three bags with woody clippings and trimmings from the garden and was ever-hopeful for a collection.

I kerlumped and plodded into action.

The three bags left on the patio had to come through the house. They were not heavy but they were bulky. Leaving all interconnecting doors open and various ornaments and household papers strewn across the floor, I reached the front door.

'Too late, they've gone,' added a distant voice, helpfully.

I was already too breathless to tell Di of my instantaneous decision to pursue the lorry. I decided that the front door, as with all the others, would have to remain open.

If all this already sounds a little over-the-top, you have to understand that, in our part of the solar system, green waste removal is not subject to any known laws of physics. Comets are more predictable - and more frequent. It was, and is, necessary to seize the moment; carpe temporis punctum.

So, by the time I'd opened the door and reached the pavement, the wheezing, cumbersome bulk (that's the lorry, by the way) had disappeared from view. I quickly resolved, reverting to my pre-cancer mindset, to run after it. Here, after all, was a man who had exercised just the previous day on an elite model exercise bike for a combined total of 45 minutes, burning more than 250 calories in the process and who still had the strength to walk around the perimeter of the local golf course. The vehicle had to be somewhere just around the corner. I didn't wait to do the maths - it was a no-brainer.

By the time I had reached the crossroads, looked right and spotted the stationary lorry some 300 metres further up Cambridge Road, I had been forcefully reminded of my new status. It was as though my waist was attached to some strong, inelastic, rubber rope that permitted me to move but only at the cost of increased resistance. An alternative analogy would be that my veins carried, not oxygenated blood,  but the product following its mixture with my toxic medication, molten lead.

Encouraged by the fact that the vehicle was motionless, I continued my pursuit, catching up and then overtaking, an elderly neighbour, Rosemary. With my bulky load I pushed her, with arms splayed, to the wall  and exchanged a few incoherent words by way of apology and explanation. After further exertion, I realised that I had been spotted by one of the hi-viz-jacketed team who waited nonchalantly for my arrival then helped me to throw the bags into the rear of the vehicle; for that at least, I was grateful.

I was wrecked. I slumped forward with rubbery hands on rubbery knees. The rubbery band, against which I had so recently strained, had reached maximum extension but far from pulling me back, now required that I  fold it up and return under my own steam.

I reached a bemused, but patient, Rosemary, who, at nearly 80 years, has, on occasion, been the recipient of community-care type interventions on my part. Now she, her brow furrowed with concern, insisted on walking me home. This frail, white-haired woman with poor eyesight and dodgy knees, took hold of my hand and hobbled with me across the road and back to my, still-open, front door. So much for my regained athletic prowess. I was reminded of what I had irrevocably become - needy and knackered.

I felt deflated for much of the weekend in Southampton, recovered by Sunday, (thanks, in part, to a late-night chat with Mike) only to hit more choppy waters on the Monday -

and so it goes, and so it goes.

Here be dragons.....

In former times, both the prospect and undertaking of travel have (usually) been a source of enjoyment. Since being diagnosed with kidney cancer and scoliosis of the spine however, my feelings have shifted. I want to use whatever time is available to see, to meet with, to experience both known and unknown people and places but I am also more circumspect about moving away from home with its comforts, security and routines.

All this is a preamble to recording that we have just returned from a few days in north Suffolk exploring the coastal region between Southwold and Aldeburgh. This is the area in which we were staying last Christmas (There and back again; 08/01/2013) but having received the gift of an overnight stay in a Suffolk village coaching inn from my sister, we thought it a good idea to turn the single day into a longer, exploratory holiday and then tacked onto it a weekend with the extended family in Norwich.

I particularly wanted to sample, with Di, the delights of Minsmere RSPB reserve. It did not disappoint - and neither did Di. She was so enthused that we spent the larger part of two days there. Safe within this wildlife sanctuary it was as though we could take long, deep breaths as the wheels of  the world slowed. Against the backdrop of the distant 'Taj Mahal of the nuclear age', Sizewell B power station, we scanned acres of brackish, shallow pools bespeckled with all manner of ducks, gulls and waders. With the help of various fellow-birders we spent hours in various hides disentangling our teal from our wigeon, our snipe from our redshank, our shovellers from shelduck, our avocets from exocets.

Walking alongside extensive, straw-coloured, reedbeds we briefly glimpsed the Wellington bomber of a bittern in flight and the dark and sinister spread primaries of hunting marsh harriers. We would have spent a third morning at Snape RSPB but the weather took a turn for the worse, reducing visibility and thereby our chances of seeing very much birdlife.

Thanks to an emailed suggestion from my friend John, exiled in London these last forty years, we also discovered the unusual, heather-cloaked 'sandlings' of Dunwich Heath which rises above Minsmere on its northern border. This elevated position is the reason for the location there of a block of old, white-walled, coastguard cottages now available for rent from the landowners, the National Trust. We will try to book a week very soon.

Finally, if you don't know Framlingham, it is well worth a visit. A barman insisted it was rated one of 'the ten best places to live' within the UK - but he did concede that it still lags well behind Moseley in Birmingham.The curtain-walled castle is enormous, signifying, as does the scale and wealth of the nearby church, the former status of what is today a small, relatively-unknown, market town. Now downgraded to a position where it is approached only by network of B roads, Framlingham's history and heritage leave us vestiges of the world of those who came before.

But to return to the theme of the first paragraph; however interesting, informative and delightful travel may be; however rewarding it is to see family and sites of familiarity - climbing into my own bed takes some beating. So here is another paradox; my condition provides both a stimulus to experience a wider world while at the same time, serving to shrink my horizons. In the last two years I have travelled to more places than ever but never been so fearful of the unknown obstacles that may arise; the furniture in a restaurant that makes sitting so uncomfortable, the bed that is too short or too lumpy, the inability to follow the diet that has become so central to my health, the prospect of mislaying my medication.

It is as though the psychological map of the known world has grown smaller and the uncharted oceans with their unknown lands, bear the medieval warning; 'Here be dragons.......'

'Keep right on to the end of the node........'

I promised that I'd let you know about the scan and blood results that were due at my oncology appointment today (Thursday 28th February).....

The news is good. Well, better than 'good' - it's just about fan-flipping-tastic.

To recap; around 4 months ago, I had asked for and been 'granted', a reduction in my 'chemo' medication (it goes under the brand name Sunitinib - 'soo-nit-i-nib') because of  the increasingly-intolerable side effects. The worst of these was 'sore feet syndrome' which made it nigh on impossible to walk more than a few metres in the latter stages of the period in which I was taking the drugs (weeks 3 and 4 of the 6 week cycle).

The 25% reduction in the dosage had the desired effect; my feet have been less sore and I have been less fatigued. However, one big question remained; how might the reduction in the dosage have impacted on the effectiveness of the drugs? A recent CT scan would help to answer this and it was these results we expected today.

So, we learned that the lymph node in my chest ('near the heart') had shrunk and the 'small' nodules in my lungs were 'stable'. My bloods showed a slight increase in haemoglobin (which is also good), my white blood cell count was ok as were my liver, kidney and thyroid function.

It doesn't get much better than this. We even spent some time with the registrar discussing possible options for further reductions but this is a complex issue with a balance of risks and technical stuff to absorb. What is  apparent is that our two parties look at things differently; the medics favour my taking the strongest dose I can tolerate while we favour taking the minimum that is effective in keeping the nodules under control. The big problem is of course cell mutation. Eventually the disease will seek and find a way around the drugs - then there may be other drugs available but they too come with significant side effects.

Never mind, all that's for another day. We have learned to live for today and today was good - even the sun agreed. We had a celebratory lunch of baked potato and beans at Winterbourne and then drove out to Worcestershire for a garden centre experience.

While writing of memorable days; don't forget that Sunday week (March 10th) is Mother's Day (note the apostrophe - apparently we celebrate a singular mother, our own, not all mothers).

Twenty-one years ago, Joe was just three weeks old when this event took place. I intuited his wishes and delivered a card on his behalf. It read;

                                               Mum’s the Word

                                            (Mother’s Day, 1992)

                                      Through my eyes, I see your face

                                      now coming into view

                                      through my mouth, a storm subsides

                                      the comfort drawn from you

                                      through my skin, I feel your skin

                                      a warmth I sense anew

                                      and sounds and scents are strangely known

                                      as though we are one, not two.

                                      So, though I cannot say the words

                                      I want you to know it’s true

                                      and for a voice, ‘til I can speak

                                      my dad’s will have to do.

                                      He writes these words; the first is ‘mum’,

                                                 then ‘I’ 

                                                             then ‘love’,

                                                                            then ‘you’.

I'm just hoping that I won't need to intuit in 2013 (for any of my progeny).

The proof of the pudding....

Who said that romance is dead? A couple of weeks ago I took Diana for a uniquely amatory experience - a 'rawmantic dinner' at a private house just around the corner from where we live. You think you know what is going on in your neighbourhood but here was a new world of raw vegan food - on our doorstep.

Now, I know what you're thinking; 'the cheapskate - taking Di out for a lettuce and raw carrot salad followed by an artfully-sliced apple'.

Think again.

This was a delicious, four course meal of exquisitely intense flavours. We sat down with two other couples, the hosts and a visiting female trainer (in tantric yoga - seemed appropriate) living in France. We started with a fresh fruit and beetroot-coloured juice in a flute, the rim of which was frosted with psyllium husks. This was followed by a spicy, cold soup again of a blood-red colour derived from beetroot, with an accompanying 'pumpkin cracker' made in a dehydrator. Then we enjoyed a couple of sushi-like delicacies consisting of avocado and sprouting seeds wrapped in some kind of seaweed. The 'main course' was a raw vegan lasagna with 'courgette pasta' and a filling of, among other things, cashew nut paste. This was served with a sprouting seed salad (probably alfalfa or broccoli). The 'pudding' was a slice of a carob-topped 'torte' with a fruit filling and whole grapes on a dried nut base. To conclude, we enjoyed two exquisite after-dinner, heart-shaped, carob and nut-paste, 'petit fours'.

In terms of volume (my family's usual measure of a 'good meal') we hadn't eaten a great deal but in our post-prandial discussion we all commented on how satisfyingly-full we felt. I'm sure that this had something to do with the intensity of the flavours in this uncooked dinner so skilfully concocted from unadulterated ingredients.

If I could eat food like this all the time, I too could live on a raw vegan diet but I can't get away from the idea that our hosts must spend most of their time in the kitchen.

Meanwhile we continue with our more-modest, plant-based diet in the hope that it makes a contribution to slowing the growth of the tumours in my lungs. By the way, I have to take the medics word for the existence of these tumours. I don't currently suffer from any direct physical effects. I do suffer from the 'chemo' medication I trustingly swallow and from the sciatica resulting from the scoliosis in my lower spine but not from the cancer itself.

Apparently, scoliosis is more widespread in the general population than you might think. We sufferers should form a support group, perhaps with Richard III as our patron?

Meanwhile, we should learn about the all-important latest CT scan results this Thursday (28th) at my regular oncology appointment. The proof of this particular pudding could well be in the eating.

And if things have not gone well and if I do become less mobile as has my old friend Geoff, who suffers from a similar condition, I can now, at least, look forward to enjoying the greater variety of wildlife visiting the garden. Why? Because my generously-motivated brother has dug a pond for me. It is still at the stage where it needs the softening effects of plants and the covering of the unattractive black liner at the margins but its an exciting addition.

I have wanted a pond since Shakespeare shredded the reputation of the last of the Plantagenets - now, at last, thanks to recent excavations, I have one.

Credit Tebbitt

It has arrived - and there is an air of anticipation in the house. I am referring to our latest item of conspicuous consumption, a Technogym Excite 700i upright exercise bike. The idea is to build on recent progress made with my exercise regime. I need regular cardiovascular work to counteract the toxic effects of the powerful 'chemo' drugs. The problem has always been; 'How to do this without creating further problems for my scoliotic back?' Recent, graduated and regular workouts on the equipment at my former school's Health and Fitness Centre, have indicated that an upright bike would be best. £450 later and the second-hand bike is here. Diana says I need 30 minutes a day of cv exercise to add to my 45 minute Pilates routine. Together with a regular walk to the shops, managing emails, a 'cup-of-tea' visit (home or away), catching up on the BBC news website, meals and  the usual bouts of procrastination and that's it, the day is over.

It has arrived - and I'll admit to being more anxious this time around. The letter informing me that my next thoracic/abdominal/pelvic CT scan is scheduled for the coming Thursday evening came with the enclosed small bottle of 'omnipaque' contrast that I have to swallow 24 hours before the appointment. It is strange how I briefly experienced a butterfly wing of excitement when the padded envelope complete with bulge arrived through the door. Amazon parcel? A forgotten order? An unexpected gift from an unknown admirer? I'll confess to a feeling of disappointment on opening the seal.

Yet, I should be pleased. This scan, already delayed, is important because it promises to provide information on the critical question as to whether the reduction in my 'chemo' dosage has reduced the efficacy of the drug. If it has then my recent tangible, physical improvement and the accompanying, reassuring sense of control, will have been dealt a serious blow.

The 'sense of control' referred to above derives from the two areas of lifestyle that offer a measure of self-help when confronted by a barely-understood condition like cancer and the barely-understood interventions of medical science. These areas are diet and exercise. When things are being done to you, you need to feel that there are things you can do for yourself.

As far as the dietary element is concerned, if 'you are what you eat', then my flesh should, by now, be composed of organic vegetable fibre, my hair of wholemeal vermicelli pasta and my heart powered by soya protein. My pulse should be regulated by pulses and the blood that courses through my locally-grown veins must be a blend of organic carrot and beetroot juice. Tumours should have no purchase within such a body; they should wither on the vine-leaf dolmades. Our weekly supermarket shopping trolley is now so stuffed with vegetables that we serve as role models for those still fortunate to be eating high sugar-salt, dairy-drenched, processed, hydrogenated, saturated fat-fuelled ready-made meals. A fellow shopper, following me alongside the checkout conveyor belt, asked whether she could come home with me. She was, she said, 'so impressed' with the contents of my trolley.

She could, quite plausibly of course, have been employing a euphemism.

My mood swings according to whether I am focused on that which I can (up) or cannot (down) do. When I exercise, I sense the possibility of restoring something of my physical self. Intellectually, I know that I cannot undo what has been done but there is, at least, a possibility of improvement.

Ok, that's enough procrastination for one morning.

The time has come for me to follow Norman Tebbitt's famous dictum, 'get on your bike and look for [a] work[out]................'

Into ever-widening orbit drawn

A number of events have taken or will take place over the last few, and coming, days - and like any good continuity announcer, I continue to search for the links...................

Two days ago, I was in a packed St Francis chaplaincy on the University of Birmingham campus attending a memorial service for Tony, a long-serving member of the teaching staff. I didn't know Tony well but have been very fond of Alison, his wife, ever since she came to the rescue at the time Diana was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Alison, a woman with more than a little of the no-nonsense Scot about her, helped both of us in many ways but particularly Diana with organising her work commitments in advance of an operation and subsequent time on sick-leave.

Tony died of complications arising from an operation linked to his bowel cancer. The funeral had been held in the Highland town of Boat of Garten near Aviemore, the family home since their respective retirements a few years ago. The memorial service was an opportunity, particularly for those unable to travel to Scotland, to pay their respects and take part in a celebration of remembrance.

I could not of course, though it feels shameful to admit the fact, stop myself from musing on the question of what might be said about me in similar circumstances. Would it be possible perhaps for me to offer some prompts for those reckless enough to address a future, thinly-populated audience?

One suggestion would, as was the case with Tony, centre on the importance of family. I'm really not sure what my children (and grandchildren) will say about me but around the same time as the memorial service I had received a late-Christmas, long-distance parcel from my son, Stephen, who, as most of you know, lives in the States. The parcel turned out to be a photo 'trans-imaged' to a large, frameless canvas. The photo had ben taken by Amichai on the dunes at Walberswick in Suffolk during our time there in Christmas week. It, the photo, is populated by my three grown-up children and two grandchildren.

The gift is a joy and I have already looked intently at it on many occasions. I am moved by the warmth within the grouping and if my muse hadn't deserted me (without so much as a 'goodbye', much less an explanatory note) I might have been moved to write something poetic - so, prose will have to do. How did this happen - that five healthy, life-loving, big-hearted young people were so indissolubly connected to me by both nature and nurture?

By the way, that's a rhetorical question.

Next Monday is my father's birthday. Had he lived he would have been 98 years old. He died 35 years ago, my age come the month of May this year. Of the five in the photo he had time to meet just Claire and Stephen. He too would be proud - in his own, low-key, hard-to-fathom manner.

A few short sentences ago you heaved a sigh of relief when I wrote that I had been unable to find poetic expression for my feelings about the family photo. You sighed too soon. Here is one I wrote earlier, in the year 2000. It features Joe, who will be 21 years old in a few days, my father - and me. I'll leave you to join the dots.................

                                                  Satellites

                                    Tonight, as we with separate purpose walked

                                    you, a perfect 8, playing by my side

                                    and into ever-widening orbit drawn

                                    by worlds new-grown inside your head

- and I, with my father once more;

he, a man, so sombre-proud

proceeding with lunar-heavy tread

straight and undeflected, as though

upon some path, we’ve walked before.

I saw my son, knew him for me

but still cannot be certain

across long light years, whether he,

imprisoned now in fading photographs

and of such gravity,

looked down and smiled,

and saw himself in me.

Finally, we had a consultation at the QEH Cancer Centre last Thursday. I am cleared to go forward to the next round of oral chemotherapy, the 13th. The all-important CT scan will not be administered for another four weeks or so. I'll keep you informed.

There and back again.

Lunchtime, the Sunday before Christmas, 2012. That would make it 23rd December if my maths is correct.

We are on Southwold beach in north Suffolk and though it isn't raining the wind-chill means that we are in 'survival mode' - thermals are vital apparel. My brother, 'John-the-elder', and myself are returned to the hunt, only this time we have brought a 'youngling' with us in order that we might induct him into the tribal skills of fishing from the beach. The 'youngling', is my son, named 'Joe-Bilbo' and he is puppy-eager to begin.

We counsel patience. There are arcane signs in this bleak and to many, featureless landscape. We must first take time to read them. Is the tide on the ebb or flow? What will happen with the weather ('John-the-elder' has much to say on this)? Where are the fish most likely to be found given that there are small breakers 150 yards from the shore? Which bait, ragworm or squid, is best suited to the conditions?

We claim our portion of the deserted beach and skilfully assemble our equipment. I demonstrate to Joe the necessary but brutal art of baiting the hook. Deftly, I disembowel a worm and work the hook through it to ensure that it is not lost when the cast is made. Blooded, I sense Joe's rising excitement, his wish to test himself.

Again, I (sometimes known as 'Greybeard') counsel patience. There is no 'youtube' here to offer assistance. I deploy well-honed pedagogic skills, forged in the furnaces of  innercity classrooms, to help demonstrate the need for co-ordination of hand and eye, the importance of releasing the line at the precise moment the weighted 'trace' (technical term - see glossary) is launched in the desired direction. At its best, this choreography of man and rod (no relation) has been likened to four dimensional poetry.

I make a first, laboured cast of just 50 yards or so and hurriedly withdraw the line in order to allow Joe an opportunity. My tuition receives instant reward as he synchronises effortlessly to drop the weight with a satisfying 'plop' 100 yards distant into the deepest part of the trench that lies between ourselves and the breakers. John and myself take turns to use our second rod whilst keeping a 'weathered eye' on the youngling. My son is expectant. I smile in a knowing way to my brother and he returns the same - 'the boy has much to learn'.

Whatever the odds against success, we share the responsibility of awareness that back in our faux-traditional, black, weather-boarded, barns , rented for a full week, there are women and children dependent on our efforts. The nearest supermarket may not be open throughout the Christmas week and our numbers on Christmas Eve will swell to twenty as the tribe gathers for the annual ritual.

Distracted by our cares, we are at first unaware that Joe has decided to reel in. He says that he has some resistance on the line and I assure him this is likely to be the seaweed I have already encountered from my own casts. Then I see the silver agitation in the shallows and leap to help him with the catch. The fish is fat, sleek and writhing in my hand as I remove the hook.

In Dorset, Norfolk and most recently at Aldeburgh, a few miles to the south, my brother and I have spent many, many hours in quest of a fish worthy of putting on a plate. In fact neither of us has ever caught a (marine) fish as large as this. Now, Joe, with virtually his first cast has landed a sea bass (initially identified by myself as 'a large whiting'; a mistake rectified by a passing fisherman) worth £20 to a local restaurant. Later, Joe insists that Judy (who together with Diana has brought lunchtime sustenance) takes photos of him with rod and fish held aloft.

John and I continue fishing for several hours, long after Joe has lost interest and left us to explore Southwold with Oren, Ella and Claire. Between us we manage to catch several more small whiting and dabs but nothing like Joe's sea bass. It is the only fish we will eventually cook and eat. Though admitting it chokes me like a half-swallowed fishbone - it was delicious.

Fast forward to now. The stay in our well-appointed Suffolk barns was a great success. Photos can be viewed on my facebook home page or that of Chris Ling, Claire Lichtenstein, Anna Holland or Stephen Ling.

The week was unique, including as it did just about everyone on the 'Lingside'. To be honest, however, I was largely a spectator over the course of that memorable week. Everyone mucked in and created something truly special but it was as much as I could do to maintain some of the daily routines that have become so important to me. There were occasions when I lapsed from my healthy lifestyle and consumed some alcohol, turkey, chocolate and even a couple of pieces of gammon!

Back home our vegan routines have been re-established and given that I'm at the 'top' of my chemo phase of the cycle, I'm feeling pretty good. No doubt this improvement with sore-feet syndrome and fatigue is due largely to the reduced dosage that was agreed back in October (see 22/10/12 post). What remains unknown is the consequence of this reduced dosage for the efficacy of the drugs. The next CT scan, to be discussed with my oncologist in late January, will give us an answer.

I would like to send a Happy New Year greeting and much love to everyone who has made it this far. Oh! and I have managed to see 'The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey' in the company of Joe and his old schoolfriend Matt before Joe returned to Durham.

But you may already have guessed as much.