Until now, it’s fair to say that almost my entire focus has been on the actual treatments received at the point of receiving them … than the effects.

From the slightly squeamish moment when the GP rolled her delicate fingers around the hitherto small lump in the neck and gave me that slightly concerned look, to the progressively more uncomfortable 40 minutes of ultrasound prodding and probing, to the six needles stuck into various incriminating places in the neck in the early biopsy and the many tubes through nostrils, throat and finally the Mother of all Bitches, the peg into the stomach.

All invasions.

All unwelcome.

All painful, more or less. But, all relatively temporary in themselves and therefore bearable.

Even the 60 minute MRI scan, with my head anchored to a frame within the bowels of the colossus of the noisiest machine ever allowed to get that close to the human head, it was only for one hour and therefore bearable, just. Only just. (I am actually shaking whilst remembering this bit).

But today, things have developed. Like the changing tide on which I live my rather random life as a ‘live aboard’ houseboater on the Thames, the shift in cause and effect, has already begun.

The first signs started yesterday morning, Day 2, when the predicted nausea from the chemotherapy raised its ugly head. By 5am I was already gulping back acid reflux and immediately jumped out of bed and grabbed for the anti sickness tablets I’d been prescribed, “just in case”, they said.

Right! It’s nailed on there will be some discomfort, but I just didn’t believe those nice people at the hospital in their white coats.

To be fair, it’s nowhere near as bad as that of a decent hangover type of nausea, of which I have had far, far too many in my over-sociable lifetime. Or a nausea caused by vertigo. No sir.

This is just a sort of internal uprising, a mini revolution going on down there and the occasional rebel trying to make a run for it and exit back through the place it once entered, the mouth.

Within minutes of swallowing the tiny prescribed pill, the troublemakers are quite quickly subdued and I rested comfortably until the next uprising about four hours later.

Tempted to recommend this miracle cure to Boris, I managed to go back to sleep and dream of what shit storm is heading his way next and why I’m so happy I never did succumb to any temptations to become a politician. Did it really take a dose of cancer to learn that lesson too? I think the almost inevitable risk of any public scandals I might have gotten myself into also prevented me from any further interest in such a career, but that was Devine intervention, not cancer!

And now on to the next symptom that something is really not quite right with me. Yes readers, this is ALL about me, me, me.

Surrounding yourself with loved ones when embarking on ones’s ‘cancer journey’, is, without doubt, the single most therapeutic treatment in the world. To be able to see the tiny face of giggling Zadie, my first grandchild, on zoom, practically on demand, is sheer joy.

To have my iPad screen filled with the faces of my distant (logistically, not lovingly) family, eyeball to eyeball, tear to tear, is both frequent, indescribably more than I deserve and often deeply emotional. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.

And so to be a Northerner and live in a marina in Chiswick, west London, slightly ‘off grid’ amongst other likeminded souls, is actually turning into a beautiful blessing.

Not least are my neighbours kind and caring, they are tough, funny and pragmatic. When I recently rang one at 3am whilst shivering like a demented dog and seeking her help, she promptly told me to “Drink water, go back to sleep and you’ll be ok. I’ll check on you when the sun comes up”.

Not one to be argued with, (she has accomplished many things, not least sailing her newly purchased, first ever boat, a 130 year old barge across to west London from Holland).

I went back to sleep, stopped shivering and realised it was a reaction to my second covid jab and not the cancer. Probably significantly affected by the red wine and shots I’d downed at the party we’d all been at earlier. I lived to fight another day. Phew!

And so on my second day of treatment I was delighted to host one of my best and longest standing friends from school, Bren Robinson. Anybody who is reading this and who knows Brendan, will already be right in their thinking.

We have had a blast!

One of the funniest, cleverest, warmest and cuddliest people I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve met a few!

And so, in between my various hospital visits, client calls and presentations, the sun has come out and we have managed to walk several miles of beautiful Thames towpath, visited a few of the nearby picture postcard riverside pubs and last night we BBQ’d on the boat with my old neighbour and German crime screenwriter, Captain Umlout (you guessed it, not his real name!).

Brendan and Otto were immediately in cahoots, on great form, taking the piss out of me from every which angle. And I loved it! Probably deserved it too if I’m honest.

However, like all things, even the best of reunion parties have to come to an end and as the sun started to fall into the red carpet it casts across the beautiful Thames, the last sips of red wine began to hurt the throat as it made its way down to the bubbling uprising meeting it on its way up.

The incorrigible rebels had become an army and the red wine only temporarily subdued their evasion long enough for me to reach for a double dose of the anti-sickness miracle cure.

As we watched the sun go down, I KNEW this was going to be one of my last enjoyable tipples for weeks, possibly months, hopefully not years and definitely not ever as my sense of taste and smell is annihilated by the forthcoming treatment. I could do with losing some weight anyway! (Cue the Monty Python, “Always look on the bright side of life … dedum, dedum dedum dedum”.

Quietly and without ceremony, we said goodbye to the dapper Captain Umlout, chuckling at one more last quip, and duly descended into the hull of my boat to end the evening with a modest cup of Yorkshire tea (courtesy of Mel), chocolate biscuit and our somewhat embarrassing bedtime dose of tablets, which, I’m rather concerned to say, Brendan trumps me by a mile!

But. And here’s the nub of the story… that cuppa hurt. The throat is already tender and each small sip burns as it heads past the throat and into the drowsing battlefield below.

Taking another sip of the now tepid tea, I test the theory again. And again. One more time. Nope. They were right, I was wrong, this treatment is going to affect me just as much as the next person.

It’s suddenly got real.

By the time we had one more bromanced cuddle and a bedtime pledge to get up early to squeeze a short visit to Richmond Park and catch sight of the deer in the early morning, mist, the battlefield was at full cry and I went to bed somewhat humbled and a little scared by the prospect of what is coming next.

It’s now 4:30am on the morning of Day 4. The throat is warm but not burning. The stomach is hiccuping but not convulsing and the tinnitus is just doing it’s thing. Fucking tinnitus … you can rely on that bastard ailment to turn up at the party when you least need it!

Come on Brendan, wake up, let’s make the most of this beautiful day before you head back to God’s own country and leave me alone to reminisce so many great times we have shared over the years, not least these past two chaotic, sun blessed fucking funny days. And do come back soon.

Please.