Tumour news

I saw Mr Speake (Doug) yesterday and he has decided to go ahead and operate to remove my tumour on Thursday 7 November, which is exactly four weeks from today. The radiotherapy was a success and they are pleased with the result, and it will continue to work over next four weeks.

It's another waiting time for me but now I know where I am. He remains hopeful of curing me but will not be able to give a prognosis until he has the pathology report after the operation. Which is fair enough I guess.

He tells me it's all very complicated and difficult, with lots of risks due to the location of the little bugger. He tells me I will be a few days in a High Dependency Unit after the operation and then some time in normal hospital ward. How long will depend on how well I recover and any unexpected developments.

The radiology people have noticed an area of concern on my liver, from last weeks scans, so I have to go for another MRI scan tomorrow. They will let me know the result the following Friday by phone.

It was a difficult afternoon, but luckily Sue my cancer specialist nurse was on hand to see me after I saw Mr Speake and she spent forty minutes with me talking me through it all and giving general support. She's a bloody marvel.... thank you Sue. I will have to send you a link to my blog sometime soon.

I went to my support group at Maggies' this morning. Brilliant place, so glad they are there for me and everyone else who goes through this crap. You are the best. Thank you. This morning was a huge help.

Sunshine on Leith, Blue Jasmine and more

That's my six weeks of waiting over. I've had my scans, the team will have viewed them last week and had their chat about my little tumour - wish I'd been invited - and this afternoon I see Mr Speake to find out the next step on our journey together. Lets hope he's had a good night's sleep and is on the ball. I think I will be his last patient today, hopefully nobody will have upset him.

I'm finding it very difficult to concentrate, especially for the last week, as I get closer to finding out what the future holds for me. Which is partly why I've not blogged for a few days, and partly because of laziness of course, and always finding other important things to do instead. Mind you I did get all my windows renovated last week, so I suppose that's some kind of excuse.

I can't say that it's been easy but I remain optimistic and still expect to make a full recovery. Things are going to take longer than I had expected, as I keep getting fed new information, drip by drip, and I can now only hope that by this time next year I will be able to recommence my travels.

If Mr Speake does operate to remove the tumour I will require eighteen weeks of chemotherapy, beginning in December, taking me up to May 2014. I will then need to wait at least two months before they will look at reversing my colostomy, and a further two months before I will be allowed to travel by plane. So looking at very late 2014. Not the retirement of my dreams. Patience required and I'm not blessed with buckets of that virtue. Will have to develop some. Wonder where it grows?

Meantime I've kept occupied with some cultural activities. I went to see Sunshine on Leith with John and Emer yesterday. Great movie, had me in tears by the end, though John insists I was in tears half way into it. Mind you he does admit to a little tear in his own eye too. Superb performances from all. Jane Horrocks does a superb version of Sunshine on Leith. Surely one of the great Scottish love songs, and certainly the best supporters song of all time, without exception. Nice to see Peter Mullan showing his soft side - he does have one you know- and he sings Oh Jean almost as good as the boys themselves, with a bit of Tom Waits effects thrown in for good measure. The four young actors playing the main parts are clearly stars of the future, with oodles of talent and looks.

The stars of the film are The Proclaimers back catalogue, great songs, so many of them, too many to list, so go listen, or best still see the movie. I will go again and certainly buy the DVD when it's released. Morningside here in Edinburgh gets a few mentions. One of the Proclaimers used to live a few doors along from me, here in Morningside. I may have mentioned this before but no harm repeating things, I once or twice sold him a Socialist Worker. Never got his autograph though. Silly me.

The other star of the film is of course the City of Edinburgh. Makes me feel so happy to know that I can walk into that scenery whenever I feel the need. It's simply stunning, beautiful, unbelievable. If you've never been to Edinburgh this is probably as good a view as you will get without actually coming.

Great scene outside The National Gallery at the foot of the Mound as the whole world joins in on a version of  I'm Gonna Be. A nice wee earner for the Edinburgh tourist board, not that it needs one. Our pubs look good too, though I couldn't identify any of them. Don't know if John or Emer did?  Go see it is my advice. As good as Mamma Mia, if not better. Greater songs for sure.

I've also been to see the new Woody Allen movie Blue Jasmine which is definitely worth seeing, if only for Cate Blanchett's performance. Oscar bound methinks, she is. But she will have to control that drinking and talking to herself in the park and on the streets. Children get upset with that kind of behaviour Cate!

I've read some books too but will tell you another time. Some crackers too.... I'm listening to The Proclaimers singing Oh Jean as I finish this post..... and only four songs came from the album Sunshine on Leith, I think five came from This is the Story, including the opening song, Sky takes the Soul.... there are 21 songs altogether in the movie.

A Fond Farewell

Now I feel as if I've really retired, following my little farewell event in The Newsroom pub here in Edinburgh last Friday and not forgetting the splendid lunch with my DWP visiting team colleagues in Howies Restaurant. So it seems like the end of something. Forty years of my life and now for the rest of it. 

The whole day was a moving experience for me and more than I could have hoped for. I was so pleased to survive the whole day as I'd been worried that I would not hold out. But my old body held out well. Tired but happy.

I want to say thank you here to all my colleagues who gave so generously towards my retirement gift. I was overwhelmed by your generosity. Thanks also to my colleagues in Wester Hailes DWP who not only raised £174 for Maggie's Cancer Centre, but also made such a generous gift to me personally. You have all touched my soul and I will never forget such kindness.

I also want to thank those who gave me individual gifts. I don't wish to embarrass you here by naming you but you know who you are. And that includes you Steve, who remembered how I introduced you to Neil Young and the night we went to see Live Rust, all those years ago. 

I was so pleased to see so many old friends and colleagues from my years in the civil service. It was good of you all to turn up. There were so many of you, just too many to list here. I have memories of all of you and many escapades along the way. We did some work too. 

You were and are all brilliant and the British public don't appreciate nearly enough what you all do to keep their system going. I wish we'd won more pay rises over the years but we didn't do too badly. Keep up the struggle and keep supporting our union. Sometimes it's all there is between us and chaos. I mean you just have to look at Ian Duncan Smith. Need I say more? 

That's all for now folks. I'm happy to have been your colleague and friend these past forty years. And hope to see more of you retiring and joining me in some cafe over the next few years.

I'm off now to see the new Woody film, Blue Jasmine with my old friend Emer and to give her her birthday present, a few days late, but still. 

Thank you to DWP Wester Hailes

This post is by way of a thank you to my colleagues at the DWP office in Wester Hailes, Edinburgh for their fantastically generous donation to Maggie's Cancer Centre.

I have now retired from DWP and yesterday my pals in Wester Hailes had a dress down fund raising day to celebrate my retirement, with all the proceeds going to Maggie's Centre. I brought in some cup cakes and chocolate doughnuts to say thanks for having me in the office for the past eight years and they raised the amazing sum of £174. I think I'm allowed to use the word amazing in this context, if it's good enough for Brian Cox, it's good enough for me.

Amazing as there were only about 30 folk in the office yesterday. I am so impressed, I can't say thank you enough. You are a fine bunch of people.

Special mention to Liz and Lesley for organising it all. I've known Liz for many years, too many to mention here, and Lesley for quite a few, and I know the amount of work you do fund raising for so many good causes over the years. You deserve lots of praise for your efforts, and a medal would be awarded if it was up to me. I know we tend to hide under our desks whenever you appear on the horizon, but we love you both really.

And I've not forgotten Liz that you are waiting part two of my Leaving DWP post, and I promise it will be here soon, and you will get a mention, for sure. But I won't reveal any of your secrets, so don't worry!!!

Anyway thank you very much to all the fine staff at Wester Hailes DWP. Your generosity touched my heart and I'm sure Maggie's Centre will be hugely grateful and impressed. THANK YOU.

This afternoon I'm having lunch with my DWP visiting team colleagues, and then my farewell event in the Newsroom tonight. Celebrating forty years of debauchery in DWP!!! Wonder who will turn up?

A Joke

Airplane is coming in to land and pilot is announcing arrival etc, but then forgets to turn off the speakers. He can be heard asking his co-pilot what he's planning to do later.

Co-pilot says he's planning on having a couple of pints, and then getting the knickers off that new stewardess. Uproar in the cabin, and the aforementioned lady is running towards the cockpit.

She's stopped in her tracks by an old lady who says, there's no need to rush dear, he's going for a couple of pints first.

If that's in bad taste, blame Tam on Radio Scotland...

Eighteen Weeks, Dylan and Toibin

Last Thursday I had an appointment with Dr McLean, my oncologist. I was expecting a quick once over so she could be sure that my body had survived the five weeks of chemo and radiotherapy without lasting side effects and that I had no ongoing problems.

All seemed to be in order and going according to plan. She confirmed my scan dates and appointment with Mr Speake, who will operate on me sometime in October, and told me that the team would discuss my case on 3 October and Mr Speake will put me in the picture when I see him on 9 October.

She then told me that she would not see me again until early December when she would be arranging more chemotherapy for me, which will last for eighteen weeks. I knew that more chemo was a possibility after my operation, but eighteen weeks came as a nasty little shock, and means my treatment will still be going on come next May, when I had hoped to be seeing the back of it all.

I was so taken aback by this piece of news, that I couldn't think what to ask her and now, of course, I'm full of questions that I should have asked but didn't. It has taken me a few days to adjust to this but I think I've got my head round it now. I assume that Dr McLean has known this all along but didn't want to burden me with too much information all at once. She must have been thinking, let's get him through the radiotherapy first and then hit him with the eighteen weeks. But I think I would have preferred to know from the beginning what lay ahead of me.

I still feel optimistic, hopeful and determined to make it through this mess, but I must say the past week has been confusing if not a bit frightening. I mean eighteen weeks, come on now comrades as old Duncan Hallas used to say to us, get a grip here, what with me planning to go to South America next year, they will have to get a move on in 2014.

I'm listening to the new (old) Dylan album, Another Self Portrait, as I write this. He helps me make it through. Where would we be without him? Lost? The album is terrific, Dylan at the height of his powers, song writing, musical and singing. Greil Marcus said in reaction to the original Self Portrait, in 1970, "What is this shit?", but he writes the liner notes for this one. He has changed his mind about it obviously. So many great songs even one called "Spanish is the Loving Tongue"  soft as music, light as spring, adios mi corazon".... lovely, Bob.

Been finished reading Colm Toibin's new book The Testament of Mary. It's a fifth gospel told from Mary's  point of view. Beautiful piece of writing, sad and moving, but inspiring, and daring. The holy father will not be amused I'm sure. If it doesn't win the Booker I shall be surprised, but as the chair of judges is Robert Macfarlane I'm sure whoever wins will be well worth it, and I will needless to say eat my hat if Toibin doesn't win, and of course read the winner. If I have time.

With Emer to see What Masie Knew

That's three weeks now gone by since my last dose of radiotherapy, slowly beginning to feel less tired and able to go further for longer. I have a new system for my stoma, a big improvement, much easier to use and less intrusive. Thanks to my stoma nurse Mary S. Three more weeks to wait now for my scans, for which I now have dates. Will be seeing my oncologist, Dr Mclean on Wednesday for general check up, and to make sure the chemo isn't killing me, or something. It's strange how she has become my oncologist. Very possessive, but it seems right somehow.

Now that I'm feeling fitter I have managed my first ride on the top deck of an Edinburgh double decker bus. There is no better way to see Edinburgh than from the front top seat of a double decker. Well there may be but I can't think what it might be right now. I've also managed my first walk down the High Street for about four months, and it felt fantastic. Is there a more beautiful, historic, exciting High Street anywhere else in the world? I think we all know the answer to that one.

I've also signed on for a couple of classes with City of Edinburgh Council and been to my first cancer support group at Maggie's Centre, which was excellent, will write more about it another time. I met a Stornoway woman there, who turns out to be known to two old friends of mine.. although she only knows about one of them at moment. Smallish world.

Not only all that but I also managed a second trip to the cinema, to see What Maisie Knew, with my good friend Emer. Good movie, with Steve Coogan and Julianne Moore playing two terrible disgraceful parents giving a no holds barred exhibition of how not to parent. Excruciatingly painful at times but also very funny. It's based on a novel of the same name by Henry James. The stand out performance is by the wee girl playing Maisie. She does not say much, though she's on screen most of the time. But she does not have to say much as she must have one of the most expressive faces I've ever seen and gets through enough emotions to last her a life time and a half. Extraordinary and delightful performance. Her name is Onata Aprile and I'm sure she has a huge career ahead of her, which I hope to witness.

Thank you to Emer for coming with me, but not just for coming to this film, but for being my good friend for over twenty years. I won't say how many as don't want to give your age away. Thirty something I think you told me last week!! Thank you for all your support, not just for past few months, but for what seems like a lifetime, which it is I suppose. You are a beautiful person, I doubt if I will ever be able to pay you back for everything. I have many memories of concerts, and bands and films we've seen together or with other people. So many and too numerous to mention. Maybe we will make a list next time we meet. Anyway Emer I love you.

Louise Michel

I was listening to Great Lives on Radio 4 this week and was very pleasantly surprised to hear that Paul Mason had chosen Louise Michel as his subject, in fact I was astonished that he even knew about her, never mind that he would rate her so highly as to choose her as his Great Life. So thank you for that Mr Mason, and I shall listen to you more intently and carefully in future, and maybe even read one of your books.

I first heard about Louise Michel in 1979 when the late great Paul Foot delivered a brilliant talk about her at the SWP annual Easter Rally. In those days, from the late seventies to sometime in the mid eighties SWP used to gather in the thousands to hear the best speakers and left intellectuals in the UK speak on various topics. You had to be there.  The cream of British Trotskyism was there, Tony Cliff,  Duncan Hallas, Paul Foot, (all dead now) Eamon McCann, Nigel Harris and many more. Every one of them a superb speaker but Paul Foot exceptionally talented. Maybe we shouldn't all have gathered in the one place; easy targets for the British state don't you think?

When I heard that Paul was doing his talk on Louise Michel I thought to myself, what is this shit? Well I didn't really, but just couldn't resist a wee dig at Greil Marcus who opened his review of Dylan's Self Portrait album with these words, though he now says he was misunderstood, but that's what they all say Greil my man. Just accept that you were wrong to be so nasty to our Bob.

Anyway back to Louise, who was brought totally to life by Paul. Some of you reading this were there at the time and probably heard the talk. Let me know if you remember it and your memories of our times in Skegness. Derbyshire Miners Holiday Camp I seem to recall we used to take over for the weekend. Wonder what became of the Derbyshire Miners and their holiday camp?

For those who don't know her or have never heard of her she was a French revolutionary socialist, anarchist, teacher, poet, writer, fighter and one of the leaders of the Paris Commune of 1871. One of the greatest and most important episodes in European working class history and she was central to it. Paul Foot of course told us all about her story as he described the Commune and why it was important to our history. Unforgettable performance and Louise Michel has been a heroine of mine ever since. How could I have doubted Paul Foot? Ridiculous.

Those of you reading this who never heard him speak have missed something special. He delivered some brilliant talks on Shelley the one on the revolutionary nature and power of Ode to the West Wind being spellbinding in it's brilliance. Lots of thanks to Paul Mason for reminding me and I would recommend a listen to him on BBC iplayer. It should be there till Monday at least. Lets finish with Shelley himself and his Ode to the West Wind:

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy? O, Wind,
If Winter comes can Spring be far behind?

That will do me, couldn't put it better myself.

Eh Joe and The Great Gatsby

I didn't make it to much at this year's Edinburgh Festival, what with one thing and another and me being so tired after all the therapies, so it was a huge delight to get to my one and only show, a Samuel Beckett play for TV adopted for stage by Atom Egoyan and presented by the Lyceum Theatre and starring the great, the one and only Michael Gambon, as Joe, one of my favourite actors of all time. I went with my wee brother, who seems to follow me around to all Beckett productions, these days, most of them anyway, or so it seems. It's a pleasure having you on board of course young man, and you do seem to know more about Beckett than anyone else, so an expert in the family is always a good thing to have.

Joe sits in his bedroom, alone, checks the doors, windows and cupboards, draws the curtains, which are even on the cupboards and doors, just like my mother had in Aird Tong. Then he checks under the bed, and who hasn't done the same, just in case the bad man/woman is hiding there? Thankfully I've never come across anyone hiding under the bed, so far, but one can't be too careful with that sort of thing, I could well understand why Joe was being so careful.

We then see him, centre stage on his bed, sideways to the audience, and he hears a woman's voice, an ex-lover, remonstrating with him. His face is projected front stage, at least six feet tall, craggy, saggy, baggy, lined, every movement or no movement, full of depth and meaning, every emotion there, from a to z, as  quietly, revengefully, threateningly, the almost friendly voice, reminds him of his past misdemeanours and tells him the story of another rejected lover who killed herself, very slowly over days. Gambon never says a word, but it's more powerful for that. The disembodied voice is Penelope Wilton, whom we never see, but who dominates the theatre.

Both performances are mesmerising and a little bit spooky, disconcerting and totally engrossing. The words of course are what matter and give all the pleasure.... she says to him "You know that penny farthing hell you call your mind....that's where you think this is coming from, don't you?" and later when she is talking about his father she says to him "mental thugee you called it." though I'm not absolutely certain what or who he/she is referring to.  Neil reckons that by the end Beckett is doubting his atheism, at least I think that's what he meant. If not maybe he will come and tell us.

I've also had my first trip to the cinema since being told of my tumorous colon and very enjoyable it was too. It's so exciting being in the cinema, I forgot how much I missed it. I went to see The Great Gatsby, with my good friend Gordon. Excellent movie and superb performance from DiCaprio, who's matured nicely and looks magnificent. I think he's going to be one of our finest actors. He's been in tow of the best films I've seen this year. Tobey Maguire was perfect as Carraway, and Carey Mulligan was beautiful looking and acting wise. The film was in 3D which I had not expected but seemed to add something to the whole feel of it. Gatsby's parties were terrific in 3D, as was his view across the water to the green light across the bay on East Egg at the end of  Buchanan's dock.

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning -
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

DWP no more - part one

Last week I retired from the civil service after 40 years of dedicated, or sometimes  not so dedicated, service. I feel a bit like Samuel Beckett, who according to Seamus Heaney, when he was an old man, was sitting in a Parisian cafe with a friend, who like Beckett himself was somewhat socially shy, and after another gap in the conversation, turned to his pal and said "I've been waiting all my life to be old." You can maybe hear his voice if you just close your eyes and listen. Well I've been waiting a few years now to retire and had lots of plans for world travel, if not world domination, but due to the arrival of my tumour nothing is quite as I had hoped or looked forward to. But let's make the most of what we've got and next year is looking good to me.

I've not been working for the past couple of months, due to being in hospital and radiotherapy and other stuff, so it's not quite been the retiral I had imagined. I went in to see my colleagues on my last official day of work, 28 August , and it was good to see them all again. We've arranged one or two celebratory events, which I might tell you about nearer the time. But this posting is by way of a brief reflection on 40 years. So many memories, people, happenings, successes, disasters, friendships, too numerous to list, it's hard to know where to start.

Let's start at the beginning then, why not, seems like a good idea. I began work for DWP, or DHSS as it was back then, on 23 July 1973. A good summer, I'd been living in Glasgow for a year or two, and at the time sharing a flat with my wee brother Neil in Great Western Road, or was it Bank St? We shared so many flats in Scotland's second city I get confused now putting them in order. Anyway he had just told me that my presence was required at his marriage ceremony to the lovely Elaine. It was a bit of a rushed business altogether, because Neil had been a very naughty boy indeed, witness the fact that Gayle is the same age, more or less, as my civil service career. The ceremony was attended by the masses of Glasgow and the reception followed was in a Reo Stakis steakhouse somewhere in the city centre. They were a very popular in Glasgow at the time. Wonder what became of Mr Stakis?

Having seen them off on their honeymoon we set off down the M6 to Cheltenham, where the Department in it's wisdom, had decided to send me -  perhaps they felt a Scottish presence was needed in Gloucestershire. I still remember the drive down there, the first of many, in my Fiat 124 Special T, which I had very recently bought from the compensation money I was paid for losing my elbow in 1969. A pitiful amount, I hasten to add, but was the best I could get without going to court, or so I was told.  Just as well that  I bought that car as there was not much left soon after.

The Special T was very powerful, very fast,  and red. Or was it green? The most powerful car I've owned. There are videos to be found on You Tube of it being raced, if you like that kind of thing. I should not have sold it. I miss it more than any other car I've had, unless you count the Ford Cortina?  I think we drove down overnight for some reason. Maybe because we were young.

I need an editor for my blog, as I seem to have lost the plot here. Where was I again? Ah yes just arriving in Cheltenham where we managed to rent an excellent flat in Lansdown Rd, an excellent flat, in a beautiful old house, with an orchard at the back and other fruit bearing trees. The caretaker was an old lady who very much enjoyed her little tipple, but kept us in supplies of free apples and, which she liked to bring up to the flat at the most importunate moments. She would offer a drop of her sherry, for that was her favourite tope, as an excuse, but she always came  with a pie or some other delectable delight.  It would have been ridiculous to refuse her. She used to sit round the back keeping an eye on things, watching the world go by and putting it to rights as she saw fit. Once or twice we found her the worse for wear and had to help her to her flat. She was a funny old soul.

My first manager was  Mr Gent, and he was true to his name. Most of my time down there in Gloucestershire I worked as a visiting officer, covering most of the Cotswolds, and there are not many more beautiful places to spend your days driving around, than the Cotswolds. As I remember it the sun always shone and it never rained, but maybe my memory is playing  tricks again.

The names of all the places I still remember with fondness. Stow on the Wold, Bourton on the Water, Lower Slaughter and Upper Slaughter, where there was a ford I used to have to drive across, Moreton in Marsh, Chipping Campden and Chipping Norton, Cirencester and Tewkesbury and many more. It seems hard to believe but there were lots of poor folk in the Cotswolds at that time and probably still are today despite  PM  Dave and other rich bastards living there.

The other visiting officer for the Cotswolds was my friend Ivan, a Welshman, from Haverfordwest  who was a lovable rogue and always setting up or closing deals. I never knew exactly what he got up to but he seemed quite well off. I remember that he never used a brief case, always carried papers and files in the boot and under his arm. Would be sacked for that today, but those days we didn't carry laptops and memory sticks, everything was in our heads, I think. 

Ivan and I used to meet once a week in a pub in Chipping Campden where we played dominoes with the locals for money. I don't remember making much money out of it but we had good times. All the work got done of course. Back in the office in St George's Rd we had Betty keeping us on out toes and controlling everything. Our office looked out onto Cheltenham Ladies College playing fields and Betty would remonstrate with anyone caught spending too long staring out the window. Not that I did I hasten to add.

This is way too long but I'm not up for editing it, so will leave it at that with me stuck down in Cheltenham, waiting to return to the land of the brave. So lets call this part 1.

My mother and Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney died yesterday. Thankfully he has left us enough poetry to keep us going for a few years or more. I saw him once in Edinburgh, I think when he delivered the Sorley Maclean lecture in 2002. A lovely man and great story teller to boot. He was very fond of Sorley and translated from Gaelic, Maclean's masterpiece, Hallaig. He reckoned that Sorley should have been awarded the Nobel prize for literature and who could argue with that. I met Sorley a couple of times and had the good fortune of hearing him in Edinburgh and other places doing his readings. I took many non Gaelic speaking friends to hear him, male and female, and they were invariably entranced by the man and his poetry. I visited his house up in Braes in Skye one time and saw him walking about outside but I was too shy to go up to say hello, even though I had spoken to him in Edinburgh. I think I was afraid he would not have remembered me!!! Which undoubtedly he wouldn't have.

My mother didn't of course know Seamus Heaney, just in case any of you thought she was a secret lover of his. She probably never heard of him. But reading his poems often brings her to mind. He seems to have known her without ever having met her. For that I will always be grateful to him and continue to read his poems. I'm not sure whether it's correct to use my when referring to my mother, it's not as if I was an only child, far from it, and maybe the rest of them feel I'm being too possessive, but it's just that saying our mother just does not feel right. Don't know exactly why. Or maybe it's because our seems too competitve as if I'm comparing her to other mothers, of which I'm sure there are many fine examples, but none quite like her. Yes I know I'm rambling, no need to go on about it. I think it's chemo fog.

She used to do her washing every Monday, starting early. In the old days all by hand so it was a full days work, but later when she was persuaded to get a twin tub it took just half a day. There used to be a washing line grand prix in the village to see who got the clothes out on the line first, so she was always on the look out to see if next door had the washing out early. Something  to do with the Calvinistic work ethic maybe, hard work being good for one etc. She usually won the race, until a younger woman came and built a house next door and was up even earlier. We did suspect a certain sloppiness in her washing technique which gave her an edge.

Sometimes we used to help her hang the clothes out, if we were off school and more often help her bring them in once they were dry. I remember the winds howling round the gable end and being blown off my feet by the blasts. I'm reminded of this by Seamus' poem Clearances:

The cool that came off sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.

I couldn't have said it better myself. So beautiful, so many memories, makes me cry. I could have chosen other verses from this longish poem, but this will do for now. So many other poems, the man was a genius, way and beyond the call of duty.

I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing, from the end of Personal Helicon. I love that phrase to set the darkness echoing....

O charioteers, above your dormant guns,
It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,
The invisible, untoppled, omphalos.

From The Toome Road. That last word you will probably need to look up, but it's worth the effort. If I rememeber I will tell you about my own personal  1973,Toome Road episode.

I also like Postscript, reminds me of Isle of Lewis and driving all round it many times, and also The Harvest Bow, which he wrote for his father and reminds me of mine.

Thats all for today, all these poems and more can be found online in poemhunter or poetryarchive or other places. Go read....

Forty years later

Dark Side of the Moon, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and a rector

BBC R4 reminded me this morning that it is now forty years since the release of Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd. Obviously, I hear you say, but there is a slight possibility that there is someone somewhere who has never heard it. Unlikely I know but we cater to all types on this blog.

It was 1973, I was living in Cheltenham, and my pal Mike took me for a drive in his Jaguar XJ6, or was it an XJ12; he was showing off as he often did, and probably still does, in the nicest of ways of course, and he was playing this cassette tape which turned out to be Dark Side. It was before the days of surround sound but Mike seemed to have the world's finest music system installed in his car. He was a bit like that, a tech kind of guy. I was more impressed with his tape than his car, or maybe not, I don't really remember, but the music I've always remembered and still play, on CD of course, though I've also got the vinyl version and probably the tape that Mike undoubtedly copied for me. Happy days. One of the great albums, which will be played long after none of us are around and Lady Gaga is long forgotten.

Furthermore and incredible as it may seem it is now fifty years since the release of She Loves You by a little band called the Beatles, on Friday August 23, 1963, if memory serves. The greatest band of all time of course, I'm sure we can all agree. The boys wrote the song in Paul's home in Liverpool, his father suggesting they drop the yeah yeah yeahs as it was too crude and American, and just sing yes yes yes instead! The pillock.

I first heard this song in the most beautiful village in the world, Aird Tong, on the beautiful Island of Lewis, as I did most Beatles songs until 1966. I don't remember exactly what I was doing at the time or where it was that I first heard it. Maybe lying in bed listening to the radio or maybe someplace else. Maybe someone reading this can remind me. The songs remain fresh to this day and I still listen fondly to them. Happy memories indeed. Sadly I never got to see the band in concert, though I have seen just about everybody else from those days, Stones, Kinks, Animals, Bob (many times), Georgie Fame, Chuck Berry, Van Morrison, Geno Washington and the rest, but never the boys. A pity.

I've recently finished reading Leaving Alexandria by Richard Holloway, ex Episcopalian Bishop of Edinburgh, one of the few bishops I would give the time of day to. He gave up the bishopric because he no longer believes in all the stuff he spent his life preaching to the world. I enjoyed the book in parts but did not find it helpful in understanding what his position is/.was. He certainly did some strange things in his life, but his book is worth reading.

He tells about an old rector, called Albert Laurie, at Old Saint Paul's church in Edinburgh, where Holloway himself preached for many years. Laurie was a great social benefactor and did lots of good work amongst Edinburgh's poor in the early twentieth century. The streets of the Old Town had to be closed on the day of his funeral as so many of the city's poor came out to bid him farewell.

As he got older his sermons began to ramble somewhat. One of his regulars was Professor A.E. Taylor, prof of moral philosophy at Edinburgh University who used to sit at the back of the congregation and could be heard groaning audibly, "No, No, Stop, dear man, stop, please stop. Oh no no no!"

Any of you who have had the dubious pleasure of hearing a Free Church man preaching loudly and never endingly, will, I'm sure, understand exactly how the good professor felt.

Ode 1,5

I think I promised you all a Horatian ode recently so here it is:

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
     grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
         cui flavam religas comam

Simplex munditiis? heu quotiens fidem
mutatosque deos flebit et aspera
    nigris auquora ventis
       emirabutir insolens

qui nunca te fruitar credulus aurea
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
    sperat nescius aurae
       fallacis! miseri quibus

Intemptata nites, me tabula sacer
votive paries indicat uvida
    suspendisse potenti
       vestimenta maris deo.

My good friend George chose this ode, so you will need to ask him why. Translation will be made available if there is a big enough demand. Apparently John Milton did a translation but I've not been able to find it, just yet. If I do will let you know.

I wasn't allowed to study Latin at school because I took Gaelic and one could not do both. So my classics education is somewhat lacking. George is now teaching me and in exchange I give him some assistance with his Gaelic. A good deal I reckon.

"simplex munditiis" according to George's translation, means "artfully arranged, but meant to look casual", which effect you cannot get in English.

But best of all George reckons that "credulus aurea" means something like "dumb enough to trust a blonde"!  Not sure if this is politically correct these days, but if not blame Horace (or George).

So that's your ode for today. My spellcheck does not like Latin.

Moving On

Cara, Lydia, Niamh, Hester, Kelsey, Orla, Susan, Smaira, Amanda and Alison. Thank you again for taking care of me at the cancer centre for the past five weeks. Just thought I should mention you all by name on here. You are the best.

I now have a six week wait to find out if the radiotherapy was successful in reducing the size of my tumour, to make it operable, which seems like forever, but is probably not. It will be a nervous few weeks I'm sure, so must keep myself busily occupied, see some festival shows, a film or two and maybe take a trip, up north or down south, or possibly to Portobello, where I'm told there are many pleasures to be enjoyed.

I don't expect to have anything more to report on my health situation until early October. I have a couple of appointments with Dr McLean, my oncologist and some scans late in September and then an appointment with my surgeon, Mr Speake on 9th October, when, all being well, I hope to be told it's all systems go for an operation to remove the little bugger. My tumour I mean and not Mr Speake, who's not little and certainly not a bugger. Though he did stick his finger up my bum, but purely in a professional capacity, so we forgive him for that.

A new David Walliam's comedy called Big School began on BBC on Friday night. One of the funniest shows I've seen on tele for a long time, excepting Family Tree with the brilliant Chris O. Dowd, it had me laughing out loud. I don't know where Walliams went to school, but his teachers reminded me of the madmen and women who taught us up there in The Nicolson Institute, maybe he was there in the sixties. Is he that old? Catherine Tate plays a mad French teacher and Frances de la Tour is the drunken headteacher.They are both superb.

There's one scene where Walliams addresses the school assembly on the thorny subject of graffiti and is egged on by another teacher to describe the graffiti in question, so that the kids know exactly what he's on about. Of course it's a drawing of one of the craziest of the teachers having a good time with a sheep. The whole assembly of kids start chanting BAAAA BAAAAAAAAAAA with the teacher in question hanging his head in utter embarrassment. Hilarious, and yes I know, quite childish, but you have to see it and just be childish with them.

I promise a higher tone in my next post, maybe an ode from Horace. So get your Latin dictionaries out.

Last day at LA5

That's it then. Today I will have my last session of radiotherapy, five weeks and twenty five doses later and it seems like yesterday it all began for me. My last day brings very mixed feelings. I will probably get up on Monday and start getting ready to go to the cancer centre again. It's become such a part of my life that I will miss going there. This seems very strange to feel this way, but that's the way it is.

I'm very pleased that I've got through this stage of my treatment without any major setbacks. It's been exhausting but I won't bore you with the details of that, just take it from me that it wears you out totally. I was going to say that it literally brought me to a standstill a few times, but that would be an incorrect usage, despite what some dictionaries now claim the word to mean. Literally. But it did send me to bed at strange times. The tiredness I mean and not literally.

Which is why I've not been able to write my blog for past week or so. My concentration is not too great. Not been able to read much either. Except the newspapers which bring grim news from around the world, from Egypt to Syria. And of course our own wee Scottish girl stuck there in Peru. Silly girls. I once worked with a wee boy in Lima whose mother got arrested for carrying drugs, while she was on her way back to UK with her wee boy. He ended up in an orphanage in Lima until an uncle was able to come and pick him up. I often wonder what happened to that wee fellow. He was beginning to learn Spanish by the time he left, but I think appreciated being able to talk to me in his own language.

I think the reason I feel confused about finishing my treatment is because I will miss the support and encouragement I had from the girls in LA5, and the nurses and Dr McLean and also being able to chat to other cancer patients and share  experiences. Yes I will definitely miss my trips there, but now looking to the next part of my treatment. Which for now means a six to eight week wait to see if the radiotherapy did it's business.

That's all for now, hope to write more regularly next week, catch up with festival and a movie or two. Just wanted to do this update today, to show I'm still here and doing well.

Cancer Car Park and a silly joke

Twenty four of my friends in Peru have read or at least looked at my blog in the past week. I'm very sad not to be seeing you all this year, but next year I will be there. I'm working on a blog posting in Spanish in next few days, so look out for that. If the tiredness doesn't get to me too much.

We oncology patients have our own free car park at Western General Hospital,  and we're always guaranteed a space. I call it the cancer car park. After a while one gets to know some of the patients coming and going, all with their own weight to carry. I sit in my car for a while and watch them coming and going, reflecting how strange it is that I'm now another cancer patient just like all of them. We need to stick together.

There's a solidarity amongst cancer patients, I reckon, we all know what we are going through but find it  hard to express and explain it, but fellow patients intuitively know and understand. I sometimes talk to other patients in the cafe at the Cancer Centre and in the LA5 waiting room.

James is a young guy, maybe late twenties or early thirties, whom I've been chatting to and got to know a little bit.. I first spoke to his wife while she was in LA5 waiting room, while he was getting his daily dose of radiotherapy. They are a lovely young couple with two children at home in Fife. It turns out that he has exactly the same cancer of the colon as I have, and more or less in the same location. Our treatments are very similar and he is running a week behind me. Such a young guy to be going through this. I really feel for them. Shit happens.

He has a different surgeon but the same oncologist as I have. His surgeon didn't do a colostomy before the radiotherapy, though he's been told he will have to have one after the surgery. I'm so glad now that my surgeon persuaded me of the wisdom of having it done pre op rather than post op. It's hard coping with it but getting easier by the day. I won't bore you with the details, but I suspect life would have been very difficult without it, and probably my therapy would have had to be suspended while they operated to fit one. So well done Mr Speake, you knew best of course.

I hope James gets sorted and lives a long life with his young family. Which I'm sure he will. Folk share the most intimate details of their lives as they sit there in the Cancer Centre. One woman was telling me about her son moving to USA just before she got diagnosed. So proud of him and his important new job. She just wanted to share it with someone, get her mind of things and look forward to visiting him, a trip she has had to postpone.

 A few days later she came back and sat down beside me, I didn't recognise her, but she had obviously decided that we were now good friends. She seemed distant and needing to talk. We chatted again about our treatments and then I remembered who she was. She has spoken to her son on the phone. I told her about Skype but not sure if she took it on board.  She left to go down town to meet friends even though she was exhausted. She was going by bus, so don't know where her husband is and didn't  like to ask. Would hate to be told he had died of cancer or something.

Very Silly Joke: " the jockstrap was invented by Alfred Hitchcock" according to Barry Cryer.

Accelerating to the speed of light

They tell me that the chemotherapy could cause some memory and concentration changes during the treatment, which the doctors call mild cognitive impairment (MCI) or "chemo brain" , but that all will be back to normal after my treatment ends. Not noticed anything yet but if I start repeating myself on here you will know it's the drugs talking and nothing to do with me.

Sometimes when I'm lying there on the treatment couch, which is hard and very metal, I feel euphoric, on a bit of a high even,  thinking, hoping the machine is making me well again. Other times I think what the fuck has happened to me, what am I doing here in this strange room? This was never supposed to happen to me. But it did so get on with it.

I wrote a post on here on Saturday but I deleted it by mistake. I have no idea how or where it went to, a complete mystery. I tried everything to recover it but there's no sign of it anywhere. I wonder where these things go to when they disappear like that? If you see it send it back to me please. And that's why there's been no news for a few days. I must be careful where I put my fingers in future, so to speak. I think I must have been showing off, typing without looking at the keyboard, or maybe it's the chemo playing tricks on me.

I'm now in my fourth of five weeks of treatment, which seems incredible to me, but there you are, I'm down to single figures of sessions to go, nine in fact. All seems to be going to plan and no more hiccups along the way. I'm quietly confident.

There are nine young women in the team on LA5 and I think they've all had a turn treating me. I don't know where the NHS finds them but each and everyone of them is pure dead brilliant. They are obviously highly trained and skilled, but what impresses me most is their ability to make me feel at ease, relaxed, as if I'm the most important patient in the whole wide world. Not to mention their ability to help me cope with the loss of dignity involved in the whole process. It's got to the stage now where I'm looking forward to seeing them every day and wondering how I'm going to cope when I no longer see them.

There are always two radiographers with me and they have the task of getting me into position for the treatment to hit the spot. There are three laser beams aimed at my bum; one from each wall and one from the ceiling, which have to be aligned exactly with the crosses which were tattooed on me by the oncologist a few weeks ago. Once I'm face down on the couch I'm not allowed to move anymore. I'm allowed to breathe but that's all.

The girls then have to jiggle about with my bum, one on each side, until all the lasers are in alignment with my tattoos. So I have two young women fighting over my bottom. Their hands are nice and warm, and somehow or other they make it all feel quite normal, so that I don't feel any loss of dignity. Thank you one and all. You are a credit to the NHS and I shall never forget you, no matter what happens afterwards.

Then they leave me on my lonesome in the room, which has very thick lead and concrete walls to keep any radiation inside and to keep them safe outside. The accelerator delivers it's doses of proton particles to my tumour at just under the speed of light, which is about 187,000 miles per second, or was last time I checked. This is all quite astonishing to me. Of course there's nothing to be seen, but I still check to see if I can spot any of these protons flying through the air, but to no avail.

One needs faith in these situations. A bit like belief in God, nothing to be seen but he's up there somewhere. Or so I'm told. The accelerator works it's way around to each site and does the deed. It has a kind whining sound it makes as it works away. Meantime the radiographers are watching from the room next door to make sure I'm OK. And then it's all over for another day.

LA5

I am now half way through my radiotherapy treatment, thirteen down and twelve to go. So that's all good. But I'm incredibly tired. Just want to lie down all the time. Went to bed last night at seven and watched Robin Williams on my ipad till I fell asleep, a few minutes later. Not that Robin was boring, far from it. I wonder about semi colons sometimes, does anyone use them anymore?

I go to hospital every day for my radiotherapy. The machine that treats me is called LA5 and is a linear accelerator of which there are eight in the hospital, mine being number five. The science of it all is quite astonishing and beyond me, but I'm grateful that it's there and that some bright scientist somewhere had the inspiration to use the science for oncology purposes. Thank you whoever you are or were. I guess there was more than one of you. It beats making atom bombs don't you think?

There are a lot of people involved at the hospital making sure that I get the right dose and that it's targeted and delivered accurately. I wonder sometimes how they do it and how they know its all going to the right place. They've explained it to me, more than once, but I'm afraid it's beyond me to explain it all on here. I just trust them. My life in their hands for sure.

My oncologist is called Dr McLean and she is one of those people who immediately inspires confidence and makes you feel at ease and assured that she knows what it's all about. She starts of the process using the CT scans to plan my treatment and then lets the physicists know exactly what she wants done and they then design my treatment so that the accelerator can be programmed.  She showed me the plan and how the linear accelerator has been set up and knows what is expected of it. It made sense at the time but I must admit it's a lot of faith to be putting into one machine. This thing is going to save my life so it better be on the ball. They don't hide anything from you, good news or not so good.

So far all is going well apart from my tiredness and some pain. That's all for now. Need to rest before I drive to hospital. More tomorrow on the actual treatment itself, which is a daily excitement.

Cancer

Yes I know it's been a while, but I'm still here and doing fine as far as anyone can tell right now. And yes I did say I would post on here regularly and maybe even promised to do so on a daily basis but things got in the way and it was hard to sit down and write again. But it's time to stop making excuses now and get on with it. Thank you to those who have been checking out my blog recently but finding nothing to read. Will do better in future.

This post will be by way of an update on my cancer (still unnamed) and my treatment so far. My five day stay in hospital turned into two weeks and they sent me home with a colostomy, which was nice of them. They said it was necessary in order to give my other treatment the best chance of success.

I will require five weeks of daily radiotherapy treatment which began two weeks ago on 15th July and will end on Friday 16th August. This is supplemented by a daily dose of chemotherapy in tablet form. I had to stop taking the chemotherapy for two days last week because my white blood cell count dropped to an unacceptable level. I'm now back on it but a lower dose and more frequent blood tests to keep an eye on it. This combination of treatment leaves me feeling extremely tired and all I am promised is that by weeks four and five I will feel tired. So that's something to look forward to. I will need to find another word for the tiredness condition I suppose. Any suggestions?

It's raining here in Edinburgh today after five weeks of the most unexpected but hugely welcome  sunshine. I guess five weeks is as much as we have any right to expect. Must break off now as I need to go to Waitrose to do my week's shopping, which they will deliver for me at 2 pm so long as I've been through their till by 1 pm. Home delivery is required as I'm not allowed to carry anything heavier than a bag of sugar, which I never buy anyway, so what's the use of that. Waitrose deliver for a very small charge and they give me a free Observer to boot so I feel it would be churlish of me not to take advantage of the service.

I'm also not allowed to use a hoover or do anything much that requires too much effort, so if you're passing by and are useful with a hoover, perhaps you could come on up. Otherwise I shall have to employ a cleaner I suppose.

That's me back from shopping and awaiting my pal John B to visit. I think he wants to go look for some books to read. Well yes of course to read, what else would one buy books for?

My life has changed utterly in the past few months and I'm still coming to terms with it all. My plans for this year and next have had to be put aside for now. No more travelling to South America for at least a year. I'm aiming to be on the road again by autumn 2014. The doctors at the hospital have told me to plan for a year of treatment and recuperation. I will have a CT scan six weeks after the end of my radiotherapy and the team will then discuss my case on 3rd October and if all has gone according to plan and the radiotherapy has done it's business I will have an operation, hopefully in October to remove the tumour.

This is not exactly what I would like to be writing about and certainly not what I expected to be doing in 2013. I will write some more about how it's affecting me but that's all for now. This was only meant as an update on my situation for people who don't see me so often. Hope it's not too boring. Will write some more tomorrow. I've not been to the cinema for six weeks and I'm getting withdrawal symptoms. I hope to sort that out soon......

8,097,982

Apparently my blog is ranked the 8,097,982  most viewed in the old US of A, which is nice, but come on you Americans, surely you can do better than that? So get clicking and reading. Oh and I'm worth $782.61. I think that's if I allow Google to put ads on here, which I have no intention of doing, unless times become really hard of course.

Thanks to my good friend John B for this piece of information. John has recently retired and is keeping very busy.

I've had another call from the hospital today and they have now decided that the MRI scan can be done on Monday, once they've checked me into my ward. This could have something to do with me questioning whether or not they could really claim that the original date of 3rd July could be classified as urgent, in any normal sense of that word. I'm very pleased with that. All I need now is a good result from the scan.

This weekend I shall be busy preparing for hospital. They tell me I should be home by next weekend if all goes to plan.

A Flower and Another Phone Call

There I was sitting in Costa Coffee at Holy Corner, drinking my coffee, minding my business and reading J.M. Coetzee's Diary of a Bad Year, not an easy read but worth the effort, slowly of course, its impossible to read him quickly, when Gisela came over and handed me a flower, a lily, and a get well card.

I was so pleased, not to say surprised, to receive that flower, especially as it was the day I'd seen the surgeon and he'd hit me with all his plans for my upkeep. I put it in a vase and it survived for a week, till yesterday in fact.

I've got to know Gisela a little bit over the past few months. She is one of the servers working in the cafe. She is Portuguese, from the Algarve, where her father has a small inshore fishing boat which keeps the family going in these hard times in Portugal. I don't know what he fishes for, must remember to ask her. He has one crew man, his son in law. Must be a nice life being a fisherman in the Algarve.

Gisela has been here for a few months now and lives with her four cousins who have also had to leave Portugal to find work. Thank goodness for Europe I hear you say, we can look after each other, which is so much better than fighting each other. And you're right of course.

So thank you Gisela for helping me forget myself for a bit. You are very kind and thoughtful, Portugal should be proud of you, even though I do say so myself.  You brought a tear to my eye.

I've just had a phone call from my nurse at the hospital. Apparently I've to go in on Monday, for an operation to get me ready for radiotherapy and she gave me date for MRI scan of 3rd July. Doesn't seem to me as all that urgent, so she's going to check to see if it can be brought forward. So happy days...

Things have changed

Things have changed in the past few days and I now face  a more indefinite and complicated few months, probably more like a year than a few months, but with a few hurdles thrown in just to keep me on my toes.

The next step will be an MRI scan on my liver, which hopefully will show no spread to there. They have spotted a couple of lesions which require investigation but I'm hopeful that they will prove to be non cancerous.

Once they give me the all clear on that I will start five or six weeks of radiotherapy, followed by another six weeks of waiting for the radiotherapy to do it's business and reduce the tumour to a size that will allow Douglas to operate safely and successfully.

Unfortunately the tumour is larger and deeper than they first thought, prior to them viewing the MRI scan, although he did warn me that this could be the case. He phoned me the day after their meeting to talk me through all this. Not really talking it through, as I'm left having to go along with whatever he suggests and recommends.

He tells me that the tumour is in a difficult spot and hard to get at. He hopes that the radiotherapy will reduce it sufficiently to give him enough of a margin to remove it successfully and not leave anything behind. He will not be able to give me a prognosis on my cancer until he has operated. He is doing everything to give him the best possible chance of success. I will have to trust him. There was a moment after his call on Friday when I doubted him, but I guess that's normal. I'm back to full trust in him now, in fact I was soon after his call.

So as you can imagine I've not had an easy few days. I've over the initial shock of his call now and getting on with life. I'm back to waiting for news of scans and therapy starting. My life in their hands.

Meantime I feel quite strong and determined, knowing that the next year is going to be the hardest of my life, and there have been a few difficult ones I can tell you. Peru is out now before Xmas but still on for next year.

Part of my therapy will be writing this blog. It's not quite what I had in mind for my blog when I started it back in August 2006. Hard to believe that was seven years ago. But I'm glad of it now as it helps me focus, and maybe helps people I know and love keep up with my progress. I aim to put a post up every day, even if it may only be a few lines some days. I hope I don't bore you all. I will try to keep it interesting and even make it my work of art. Hmmmmmmm............. don't think so Donald.....

Calum's Road

To the Traverse Theatre last night to see Calum's Road, a play based on the book of the same name by Roger Hutchinson, which is the story of one man's twenty year road building effort. It's a brilliant  piece of theatre. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Is that a permissible word? If not you know what I mean.

Calum Macleod lived on the Isle of Raasay, between Skye and the Scottish mainland, also famous as the birthplace of Sorley Maclean, great Gaelic poet, whom I had the pleasure of meeting one time many tears ago. Calum lived on the north of the Island and along with his neighbours fought with the local authority to build them a road, but to no avail. Calum decided that he could no longer wait for a road to be built by the authorities and in the 1960s begun to build the road himself, all on his own. I say the 1960s as the exact year is in doubt as Calum gave three different start dates, ranging from 1963 to 1969.

When he began to build the road there were one hundred people living on the north of the Island; by the time he finished twenty years later there were two, Calum and his wife Lexie. These are the basic details as I remember them from the play and reading the book some years ago. But of course the play is so much more. It's about land, clearances, love, survival against the odds, leaving and returning, determination, bravery, defiance, hard work, beautiful scenery, art, music and all that's best about man. An absolute delight, one of the best plays I've seen for some time. Go see it if it comes near you.

It was maybe not the best of times for me to see it. There was some bits of Gaelic songs and lots of great music. The whole cast at one stage sang a Gaelic psalm and it was just heartstopping. I don't know if you have ever had the pleasure of hearing Gaelic psalm singing? I was moved to tears. Very embarrassing but I think I got away with it. I just sat there and was back in Tong Free Church listening to Angus Bhragair and my mother and the rest of them belting out whatever psalm it was. I was so caught up and moved by it that I forgot to remember which one it was.

Probably more tearful because I'd had another phone call from Douglas Speake, now calling himself Doug, and telling me things are more complicated than they first thought and the whole process is going to be longer and the operation more difficult and no promises or prognosis until after the operation. More on this in later post.

A Consultation and a Phone Call

My consultant, Douglas Speake, seems like a fine young doctor. And I mean young, maybe early to mid thirties, long uncombed hair and fashionable unshaven look. A bit like my nephew Iain, for those of you who know that youngish man, except darker.

By the time I got to my appointment I had convinced myself that I was just one mass of cancer and the end approaching fast. I was seen on time which was just as well as I had run out of miseries to heap on myself. Douglas, and I'm sure he won't mind me calling him Douglas, as we were on first name terms by the time we parted, after an hour, put me at me ease very quickly. And as soon as I realised that he was not telling me of cancer in my lungs and everywhere else I was so relieved I could have kissed him.

The good news is that the cancer is confined to my bowel, though the CT scan has shown up a couple of lesions on my liver which will require further investigation by way of another MRI scan. But the tumour in my colon is just as Dr Sami said it was when I saw him four weeks ago. So good for him.

Douglas will go ahead and operate but I may require some radiotherapy before the operation to reduce the size of the tumour and make it easier to extirpate the nasty little so and so. I was planning to give it a name but I think that would be tempting fate, especially as I expect to be rid of it soon, and hope to have no further dealings with it or any mates it may have. So sorry little tumour but your life is going to be too short to warrant a name.

As I write I await a call from the hospital to let me know exactly what they decide is the best way forward. Apparently the team are getting together this morning to discuss my case. Though not, of course just my case. The team being made up of surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, specialist nurses and anyone else who feels the need to be present. It's weird thinking of them looking at my scans and photos of my intimate parts. Let's hope they like what they see. 

I've just had the phone call from the hospital and things are not quite what we thought yesterday. It's now been decided that I will need the MRI scan on my liver first so that they can clarify what these spots are. Hopefully not cancerous, but if they are we are in a whole new game.

If I get the all clear on the liver front they reckon I will need five weeks of daily radiotherapy on the tumour in my colon before they operate. Douglas will call me tomorrow morning to talk to me about it all. So if you have any questions, now's the time to speak up.

This morning I felt relieved and confident that all will be well, but now I seem to be back where I began, waiting for scans and another appointment. I think my plans for South America by year end will have to go on hold. But lets keep it open.

Tomorrow is a long time

It will be four weeks tomorrow since Dr Sami at the Western General Hospital told me that my colon was misbehaving and had grown some cancerous cells just for the hell of it. It's been a long four weeks and I'm glad it's behind me now, though I would be lying if I were to say that I was not a little apprehensive about my trip to see the expert tomorrow. Been hard keeping positive and optimistic and I can't say that I've not been a little bit worried at times, but got through with a few dodgy moments and here we are at last.

I'm back at the Western General Hospital tomorrow to see the (my) consultant, Douglas Speake. I've resisted looking him up on the old interweb thing, so I'm picturing what he looks like and how he speaks. I hope he realises that he's been on my mind these past few days and hoping that he has a good night's sleep, followed by a good day tomorrow and that he delivers me some good news, that the cancer is confined to my colon. I'm quietly confident but prepared for difficulties.

Meantime I've kept myself entertained with lots of trips to Edinburgh cafes, going to see a few plays, some cinema, reading good books, and talking to friends. I've finished reading the second Cromwell book from Hilary Mantel, Bring up the Bodies, which was a terrific read, better even than Wolf Hall. Looking forward to final volume, even though we all know what becomes of him. Also read Colm Toibin's book The Master, which is a novel/portrait of Henry James, and a splendid read, which gives me the urge to read some James. I read The Untouchable, by John Banville, a novel loosely based on the lives of some of the Cambridge spy ring, but definitely a novel and not a history, and worth reading. Banville is one of my favourite authors, for now anyway, but this is not his best piece of work. Read a few other things too, and a few poems.

Had lunch with Keiran in new cafe down Fountainbridge, called Loudons. Keiran is being very supportive, as I knew he would. Thanks K. I stopped of in Costa Coffee on my way home and young guy behind the counter said good luck and I'll be thinking of you tomorrow, which was kind of unexpected and all the better for that.

That's all for now, I'm going for a drive, seeing as I can't walk very far.

Dorian Gray, St Peter's, Fr Gray and MRI

Just in case anybody is anxious to know, I can now confirm that the story about St Peter's Church and the priest, as per my last post is quite true. The only small mistake was in the priest's name, he is John Gray and not Edward. Thank you to John L. who gave me a copy of the authorised history of St Peter's by a chap called Michael TRB Turnbull, published in 2007, the centenary of the church, and thank you to George, who knows Michael Turnbull, for the same information online. Small world.

John Gray was working as a civil servant in the Foreign Office in London in 1888, and writing poetry in his spare time. According to Turnbull he "began to associate with so-called decadent writers and painters, many of them with links to Paris and the French symbolist poets." Among these were Oscar Wilde and a millionaire Jewish convert to Roman Catholicism called Andre Sebastian Raffalovich, himself a published French poet and novelist. His own story is equally fascinating but for another time.

It was this fellow Raffalovich who would become Gray's benefactor. Gray went to Scots College in Rome and was ordained as a priest in 1901, when he came to Edinburgh and started work as a priest in the Cowgate area, one of the most impoverished and notorious districts in the city. Mostly made up of migrant Irish, about 10,000 folk. Now next door to our lovely parliament where King Salmond reigns over us. Unfortunately Gray could not cope with the sheer poverty and misery of the place and suffered a breakdown and developed pneumonia.  He was told by his doctor that he should go to London, where he moved in with his friend Raffalovich, and from thence the pair moved together to Rome, Gray to go back to the Scots College and Raffalovich to stay in the Hotel d'Italie, across the street.

From here things moved on quickly and Raffalovich proposed his plan to finance the building of a church especially for Gray, to be located in the Morningside area of Edinburgh. According to Turnbull he himself wanted away from the "increasingly xenophobic and incestuous life of literary London". He wrote to Archbishop Smith of Edinburgh making his proposal and offering colossal sums of money to pay for the building of the church and a house for Gray and to pay for the upkeep of the church and of Gray, so to speak. Turnbull reproduces the letter in his book and it's shall we say quite interesting if not astonishing.

Raffalovich explains his motivation for his generosity in the conclusion of his letter: " It has been evolved because of my deep and lasting interest in Fr Gray and from a wish to do something for Edinburgh and at the same time my high regard for Your Grace's person." So that was nice of him.

Morningside got it's church, and John Gray his parish, which he served from 1905 until his death on 16th June 1934, just a few months after his friend Raffalovich who had died in his home at 9 Whitehouse Terrace, Edinburgh on 13th February 1934. Just a stone's throw from St Peter's.

On a more controversial note Turnbull tells how the first broadcast by the BBC from St Peter's in January 1934, was sabotaged, when the cables for the broadcast were cut, almost certainly by Protestant Action, who were very active in these parts in the 30s, and later of course.

On a more personal note, today I had my MRI scan, so that's me fully scanned now and will know the result when I see the consultant on Wednesday.......

Sausage Sandwich Game

I had lunch with my friend George yesterday and he said that he had met "a meretricious sesquipedalianist inebriated by the exuberance of his own verbosity" which our late father often said to me and I think was also said by Disraeli in the Commons, referring to Gladstone. I think, but if you know different perhaps you could tell me. My spellchecker has never heard of the word. Knew I would beat him/her someday.

George also told me a story about a link between Oscar Wilde and St Peter's Church just along the road from here in Morningside. Apparently, according to George's source, Wilde based the character Dorian Gray on a chap called Edward Gray, who was a friend of his in London. What kind of friendship is not clear. After Wilde's trial Gray trained for the priesthood but was, apparently unable to find a parish prepared to take him, but he had a rich acquaintance who decided to build a church where Gray could be installed as the priest. So he built St Peter's for him and there he served the good people of Edinburgh very happily.

George's sources are impeccable if not implacable, but I have my doubts about the story. I mentioned it to my friend John L when we were having a coffee later yesterday, but he had not heard the story. He tells me that he has a book on the history of the church and will bring it along to the cafe next time. So hopefully light will be cast. I will post a picture of the church sometime soon.


My Saturday morning radio was recently disturbed when Radio Scotland took Janice Forsyth off air. This meant I had to find some new accompaniment for my ironing etc. Saturday mornings on Radio 4 have never been the same since John Peel went and died on us in Cusco. But what a place to go? So R4 was out. I started listening to Danny Baker on Five Live and what a fine broadcaster he turns out to be. Very funny and inventive. He has a weekly feature called the sausage sandwich game which is one of the greatest of all radio games. Not quite as brilliant as Mornington Crescent but in that league. Incidentally does anyone have a copy of the rules for Mornington Crescent? I seem to have mislaid mine, and it's not the kind of game to play without a book of rules.

I've now had my CT scan and await MRI scan on 3rd of June. I've been given a date for my appointment with the consultant, Mr Douglas Speake, on 5th June, a week on Wednesday. So things are progressing, if somewhat slowly, but progressing.

Waiting with Daft Punk

So much time we spend waiting for something to happen. Waiting for planes or trains or buses, waiting for the film or play to start, waiting for that person to arrive, the plumber or the repairman, or your friend who is always late, just generally waiting around for the weather to improve or the good times to start or the bad times to go away. I seem to be doing a lot of waiting these past couple of weeks. Can't say I like it too much. I can think of better things to be doing. I try to keep my mind busy with things but it keeps letting me down. I shall have to give myself a good talking to.

There are some things, of course, which are pleasurable to wait for, and enhance the whole experience. Its all part of the nowness of things. Like the man said. Waiting can be a pleasure. Even waiting for a CT scan? Don't be stupid. But will have to try.

As I wait to head off for my CT scan I'm listening to the new Daft Punk album Random Access Memory. Do we call them albums anymore? Thanks to Iain for telling me about the  iTunes streaming of it last week, after which I went and bought it from HMV. It's a beautiful piece of work. I seem to remember you buying me a Daft Punk cd many years ago Iain and not really being able to appreciate it. This new one is in another league altogether. Fully deserves all the praise it's been getting. One of the best albums I've bought for a while, very relaxing. Thanks Iain, it has helped me forget about things for a while. Which is the whole point sometimes. Good for the concentration too.

My friend John L tells me that CT stands for computerised tomography, tomos being Greek for slice or cut. So I'm away to get digitally sliced and cut today. I will have to wait for the results until after the MRI scan on third of June. More waiting. Well best be off now. Just as well we have the NHS.

A Camera up your Bum

Spending Saturday morning having a colonoscopy procedure is different, but not to be recommended, unless that's your thing, which I'm told it is for some folk. Less traumatic than I had anticipated but I'm glad it's behind me, so to speak.

It is not exactly the most dignified position to be in, eight am Saturday morning flat on your back with some guy poking a camera where no camera has any right to be. And he's accompanied by two nurses, one of whom thought it was a great time to strike up a conversation, and the other is keeping an eye on things, my blood pressure, I think.

Dr Manning seemed like a nice young man, glasses, intense, concentrated look, reassuring, so I let him get on with things as he knew best. Said I could watch things on the screen if I wished. Meantime nusrsie is asking me about the weather, and what my plans are for the rest of the day. I'm thinking to myself this guy has just had his finger up my bum and now he's pushing his camera up there and you expect me to chat away, as if it's just another day, and not forgetting that  I've also got an oxygen mask on. But one does not like to be rude so one does one's best to keep her happy; maybe she's bored. She is very pleasant really and keeps me nice and relaxed.

I decided that I should have a look at what's happening on screen. By this time I'm lying on my back and doctor says progress is good and we're getting there, taking some photos and videos, soon to be on YouTube he says. I can see the view the camera has and it's like going up some bloody, throbbing tunnel. I couldn't believe the size of it. I didn't really take to it, so only watched for a few minutes. It reminded my of some of these documentaries that are sometimes on tele, of operations being carried out, where you can see everything going on, which  I can only watch through my fingers and then turn over to something less stressful.

Doctor says he will be stopping on his way down with the camera to have another good look at the tumour and he will let me know when he gets to it. Which he does so we are looking at it together. It doesn't look good. He says its about 4 cm in size, which is not too big but neither is it very small.

And then it's all over. He wishes me good luck, shakes my hand and away I go to get my tea and toast, my first food for two days. Tastiest toast I've had for some years. I have a memory of Sunday morning back in Aird Tong, and our father allowing us to make toast, holding the slice of bread on a toasting fork up against the old peat fire. Don't know where the old lady would have been, maybe she was unwell that morning. Anyway that was memorable toast too. The best of toast.

A woman I know who works in Morningside library told me that some people pay good money for that kind of procedure. Don't know what kind of friends she has, but I think I can guess. I always had my doubts about her. She wear a cycling helmet at work. What kind of person is that, I ask myself.

Dennis Potter called his tumour, Rupert, after you know who, but I'm not at that stage yet. But open to suggestions.

Meantime things move on at snails pace. My next stop is a CT scan on Thursday and then an MRI scan on Monday third of June. After all that they will tell me how good or bad things are. So maybe two and a bit more weeks to wait.

Wolves and a Morris Marina

I was very sad to see Wolves suffer another relegation. Shouldn't be happening to such an historic team. I've always had a soft spot for them, ever since I was a wee boy, just a few years ago. I was talking to Coinneach about my feelings for Wolves and was pleased, though not surprised to learn that he felt the same way. We were recalling being given a football annual every year back in the fifties, we think it was called Buchan' football annual, but couldn't remember for sure. It was probably another name altogether. If you know the name or used to read it please let me know.

I remember being impressed by the colour of their strip, golden, and their stadium, which was the first picture I ever saw with floodlights. Were they the first to play under floodlights? Anyway I was chuffed to bits that Coinneach had the same memories of Wolves and keeps a wee soft spot for them too. Come on Wolves lets see you get back up where you belong.

Today I got word to go for a colonoscopy on Saturday at 7:30 am. Which seems a bit early but I guess the old NHS is very busy and needs to work every day, morning to night. Not exactly looking forward to the experience but it has to be done. I have to prepare for it over two days and arrive empty bowelled. I've also got word to go for my CT scan on Thursday 23 May, so things are moving.

I sometimes feel as if I'm losing control of my life, that the machine is moving and there's no way to stop it, or to get off, and it will keep going no matter what I say. Lets hope it's a benevolent machine. Once I get these scans done and know exactly what I'm confronting things should become clearer. But at the same time something inside tells me says lets put it off for a while. But that would be just daft. And of course every little thing I feel I think that must be cancer too. Maybe it would be best if I stopped thinking altogether.

I went to work today and am going in again tomorrow but I'm not sure I can cope with much more work after that. I was wiped out by early afternoon and had to go home early. But it was good to see my colleagues at work again, and good to feel their support. Thank you folks, you know who you are.

I'm way too tired to be writing this at night. I usually can only manage to write in the mornings, so this could be last post until I can write in morning again. John Cooper Clarke was on HIGNFY over the weekend. He's 64 now. I saw him a few times back in the eighties. Good to see him looking well. He mentions a Morris Marina in one of his poems. Remember them? I think I once owned one. A wreck it was too.

Shooting Star

Nine years ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer and two months later NHS operated to remove a tumour. Turned out it was benign. It was like being given a new life to live. Those two months were like a living death, especially when the consultant started talking about palliative care. I think he was the oncologist, so maybe he was touting for business.

After that reprieve I promised myself to live a full life and savour every moment. I've tried hard to keep my promise, and I think mostly I've succeeded, but I have to admit there are gaps when I really think I should have done more, enjoyed more, understood more, looked more, felt more, savoured more, seen more, risked more. But on the whole I reckon I can feel happy with my efforts at living life. Could do more, but who couldn't.

I'm not sure yet exactly what I have to confront this time round, need to wait for MRI and CT scans to tell me that, but lets hope it's only bowel cancer and not more, but whatever it is I'm in much better shape emotionally and psychologically to cope with it than I was back in 2004. I think.

So the thing now is to stay positive, which is easy to say as I sit here, but harder to achieve. Incidentally has anyone else noticed how often commentators and interviewees on the BBC begin sentences with the word "so"? It really gets on my goat. So unnecessary people. Get a grip.

I'm listening to Oh Mercy this morning as I wait for my big brother to arrive to visit and take me for lunch. Though he didn't say that lunch was on the cards. Oh Mercy is the album Dylan devotes a chapter to in his biography, Chronicles Volume One, which is definitely worth reading for the musicians amongst you. Have you read it yet Chris K? The stand out tracks are Man in the Long Black Coat, Shooting Star and Political World. Though the rest are worthy tunes too. Someone said I should put links on here to stuff I mention, but I don't think so. Concentrate! It's mostly on YouTube or Spotify if you use that tool, which I don't. I prefer the real thing still.

I was going to sort out my sock drawer this morning rather than write this, anything to distract me, displacement activity, I think it's called, but I realised that this is the best displacement activity, and in any case my socks are multitudinous and will need a major culling to sort, and the Sabbath is not the right day for culling anything.

Speaking of the Sabbath I see that Phillip Roth has announced that at the age of eighty (his birthday is the day before mine) he has given up on writing novels. His novels have kept me going many times over the years. I first read him in the sixties, when I got to know Portnoys Complaint, and have been reading him ever since. He is my favourite novelist, if one can have such a thing. It's hard to believe that I won't ever again be looking forward to the thrill of a new Roth. It's just seems unthinkable. So come on Philip get your finger out and onto that keyboard once more. I may come back to old Mr Roth another time, but if you haven't yet read his 2010 book Nemesis you should do so now.

"Seen a shooting star tonight and I thought of you"

An Important Announcement

I'm listening to the Dylan album Tell Tale Signs, Rare and Unreleased 1989 - 2006, beautiful and inspiring songs, just what I need right now. One can always rely on old Bob to be there in times of tribulation, whatever is going wrong or right. Who else but His Bobness could leave brilliant songs such as these unreleased? Thankfully he saw the error of his ways and put them out there. Cynics among you will say it's only Columbia maximising their profits, but "I don't believe you", as Bob himself  may have said. Maybe he did say that, for all I know. "Only one thing I did wrong, stayed in Mississippi a day too long".

Best version of the song is the one on Tell Tale Signs, but for those of you who don't have the pleasure of owning the album there's a good live version on the old YouTube thingee, just search for Mississippi by Bob Dylan and there it is, as if by magic. What a thing is the interweb. And while you're there you should have a listen to Rab Noakes doing the song live at Celtic Connections in 2012. Quite marvellous. In fact you must listen to Rab, even if its only his guitar playing, but his voice is glorious, and Dylan's lyrics are perfect. Every line a wee gem. I too was once in Rosie's bed, but probably a different Rosie and can't remember one thing she said.

As I've maybe said once or twice before there are not many days that pass when I don't listen to some Dylan, and I reckon I'm going to need him even more over next few weeks.

When I was a boy and some one was diagnosed with cancer the word was never spoken, as if the very use of the word would bring death in it's wake. I don't think there was even a euphemistic word that was used. It was all down to looks and ways of speaking. A bit like Les Dawson and his pal playing the two old women talking about the naughty bits of life. Though more serious of course as cancer was like a death sentence in those far off days. Still is for some I guess.

By the time my father was diagnosed with cancer back in 1983 things had moved on somewhat and we could say the word, though it was still used as little as was deemed absolutely essential. He's been in my thoughts this week as I've had a diagnosis of bowel cancer myself. Which came as a bit of a shock to me. Though the thought crossed my mind over past few weeks, I felt sure the problem was down to my diabetes, but no such easy outs.

The doctor I saw was a nice young man called Dr Sami El-Muhtaseb; likes to be just Dr Sami. He was such a young guy I kept thinking should you not be at school young man? Anyway he spent a good twenty minutes messing about with his fingers, and a camera and probing about vigourously until he seemed quite happy, having called in a young nurse to assist for a few minutes, and then told me to get dressed. He told me that he had found a polyp on my colon, and I thought to myself, well done young man, so what does that mean? And why are you speaking euphemistically, this isn't the Isle of Lewis in the fifties?

He was looking at me in a kind of sad way, as if he wanted to tell me more but just couldn't bring himeself to do it. He seemed upset for me as if he didn't want to be the one giving me bad news. So I asked do you mean that I've got bowel cancer and he said yes you have cancer of the colon. I asked if he could be sure and he said yes I'm sure. We then chatted about what was to be done and what I can expect next. I will be having an MRI scan to check that the cancer isn't spread anywhere else, and a CT scan and then a meeting with the surgeon, who will operate and the oncologist, who will administer any therapy I require. I also need a colonoscopy. So lots of busy times coming up for me. I'm hoping that all this will be over and done with vey quickly but no dates so far. My main wish now is that the MRI scan is done and I get confirmation that it's only cancer of the colon. If so I will rejoice, and feel as if I've had a good result. They tell me cancer of the colon is very treatable. So three cheers for that and for the old NHS.

Dr Sami then introduced me to a Specialist Nurse called Rachel, who again talked me through what to expext and what support was available. I have to admit I had a tear in my eye, but recovered quite quickly. She's given me her card and I've to call anytime I feel the need to talk. She was what can only be described as lovely. I walked from the hospital back to Princes Street in a daze, a state of shock and disbelief. Everything is changed, different, new.

I'm still coming to terms with the new reality. Yesterday I had a suberb walk with my nephew Iain in The Hermitage of Braid, a beautiful woodland, river walk just a few minutes from my home. Thanks Iain for that, really enjoyed our walk, we must do it again soon. As Dennis Potter said "...but the nowness of everything is absolutely wondrous".

I will write some more about how this news has hit me tomorrow. I plan to make a full recovery and be in Peru by Xmas......

From Fergie to Potter

I've been very lazy recently and not written anything on my blog for over a month, which is very bad of me, so apologies to all the good people who have been checking and finding no nourishment. I promise to do better.

Lots of happenings in big wide world since we last spoke and lots of chatter in the media about a few of them so I won't be boring you with more of the same from me, but I can't let Maggie's death go by without a comment, seeing as I spent most of the 80s demonstrating against her and her awful crew. There could not have been many weeks went by without some demo or strike to get involved in. Did we win? Maybe not. Was it worth all the time and effort? Definitely yes. As Simon and his pals say on his wonderful TV show, two hundred per cent yes.

One memory which I must share with you is taking Iain and Anna to see ET at what was then the ABC cinema in Lothian Road. In those days one had to queue outside to get into the cinema. So there we were minding our business, when Anna starts to chant "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie! Out! Out! Out!". Marvellous and priceless. Obviously well brought up that girl. At the movie Iain crawled under the seat, says he dropped something, but I still have my doubts about that one. In the end we all had a good cry as ET left us to go home. Although Iain disputes his tears I think to this day.

And of course yesterday the biggest event of the year so far, when my pal Alex announced his retirement from Man U. I will miss you my good man. Thanks for all the memories over the past 27 years. We will never see your likes again in these parts, flaws and all you are greater than all the rest. Now take a rest and leave Moyes to get on with things.

Tomorrow if you all come back here I shall tell you what's happening in my life. My good friend John Llewelyn was reminding me yesterday about a Dennis Potter interview just before he died in which he spoke about seeing apple blossom "the whitest, frothiest, blossomiest blossom there ever could be". Thanks John and more of Potter and the nowness of things tomorrow. It keeps me going. So come back folks.

Morning Prayer

It's been a while but I'm still here. One year older. I wish I could say that's also one year wiser but probably not. Shame on me really. My late aunt's favourite word was "really". Everything was really, especially when she was annoyed. "Really Don" she would say, or Neil or Coinneach or even my mother could be addressed in this fashion, but never my father. I think she feared him. Or there again maybe it was him who feared her. Who knows now?

Birthday month has been busy and eventful, including a trip to see my beloved boys in Manchester. But more of that another time.

Last night my old friend Fiona took me out for dinner. We have known each other for many years. Since she was a girl and I was a boy, or thereabouts. Fiona is the most adventurous person I know. She has worked in all the worlds major trouble spots over the past thirty years. She is a nursing education expert and has helped various countries to develop their various nurse training and education systems. I forget all the places she has worked in, but she has spent five years in Rwanda, a long time in Gaza, Afghanistan and Pakistan. And other places which I forget now. Her stories are quite amazing. I'm trying to persuade her to write them down for posterity but she resists. So come on Fiona, now that I've made it public lets see you get on with it.

Now she tells me that she might be going off to work in Bangladesh for a year or two and here's me wondering whether or not to continue with my own travels. Fiona you've inspired me yet again. I think you deserve an award for all the work you've done over the years from Gaza to Rwanda and points beyond. Thank you from me for all it's worth.

Fiona told me about a wee prayer she learnt from her sister. We don't know the origin but I thought it was too good not to share it with you all. So here it is:

"Dear Lord,

So far today I'm doing all right. I've not gossiped, lost my temper, been greedy, grumpy, hasty or selfish.

I haven't sworn; I haven't moaned or complained about anyone or anything.

But Lord I will be getting out of bed in a minute and I think I'll really need your help. Amen"