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.