211. May I be ‘classic’ for a change?

Tuesday’s appointment began promisingly. We arrived in plenty of time and I’d been squeezed in before Mr Gout’s first appointment - I could see that on both check-in lists. Dennis had to sit outside and the eye clinic, which I’ve only ever seen heaving with people, was virtually empty. Seats were 2 metres apart and there was a one-way system. I was quizzed about my medical-quality mask - was it my own mask? had I worn it before? Was it fresh on today (trick question, considering the answer to the first two. Honestly, who would share a mask??). Then I was allowed to sit and stew till I was called for at 9.25 on the dot. The poor man in the queue behind me wasn’t allowed in - he was too early. They mean business here. Although my answers to the raft of COVID-questions were all No, of course I developed a nervous cough. I feared I might be ejected. If only. 

A rotund nurse checked my eyes using what looked rather like a Venetian mask. She wiped it down with antiseptic and missed nothing except the handle - that should have been a warning. Then she took me to another area and I had a prime seat for the TV. I watched a full hour documentary about bears, very interesting but not enough for me to fail to notice the steady turnover of patients while I sat put. When it got to High Society, I began to get more antsy and, with only 30 of my 120 minutes of parking left, I went off to find the nurse to ask if there was a delay. I knew Den’s mind would be working overtime after all this time. The explanation was that Mr Gout had had to deal with a couple of complex cases and was running late but I noticed the nurse scurrying through carrying a folder of notes. She hadn’t passed them on!!

I went in soon after that. The examination was unspectacular, though I did have both eyes anaesthetised so I’ve no idea what he did. I rolled them in every direction possible (and more) and was informed that my eyelid was “unusual” in that he could detect no apparent cause for the discolouration (still spreading) or the swelling. He didn’t mention the lumps but he prodded them a bit. I wanted him to say these are the classic symptoms of X or Y, not tell me they’re unusual. I was unusual in September 2018. I had a skin infiltration (use the right language) of effing cancer. Give me ‘classic’ any day.

The upshot is that he wants an MRI so he can have a better idea of what’s going on behind that socket. What? I went about my eyelid, not my eye. I’m to go back in 5 weeks and, he assures me that, if my eyelid doesn’t go back to normal, they can easily “give it a lift”. I didn’t ask if they do 2 for 1 but imagine having one tight eyelid and the other showing the wear of 69 years! So, no further along, everything still hinging (should that have an e? My iPad won’t allow it) on an ultrasound and an MRI. 

I rang the breast care nurses to tell them I’d still not received dates for the tests and they rang back to tell me they are on the system - Sunday January 3rd at 2.30. About half an hour later, the post arrived with my appointment letter. Carol is driving us there and, if she doesn’t assume that involves fetching us back, it’ll be taxi or goddaughter (though I’m using her on the 11th when I go for my zometa infusion. Neither of us feels happy about a cab in Tier 3 but needs must...

So, where does that leave us? At the back of my mind, all sorts of fears try to surge up and get pushed down but that means there are surges of adrenaline I could do without. Dennis is just in a mire of misery but I swear if he doesn’t cough up a Christmas card tomorrow, that will be hard to forgive. Otherwise it’s wait till 8th January for the results and, I hate to say it, pray. I know we don’t push the boat out at Christmas, but this is not really what I wanted.

BUT I still have it in me to say: 

210. Waiting, still waiting

I don’t know how many times I have written reassuring responses, oozing with empathy, to women on the Breast Cancer Now forums, new to Cancerworld and feeling desperate as they wait for tests and results. One of the Community Champions, Shi, always writes that no one has cancer until they are told by their oncologist that they have cancer. I usually wade in with reassurances that the vast majority of lumps referred to breast clinics turn out to be benign and that, with the worst case scenario of a cancer diagnosis, what follows is all doable. And that’s true. But no words can shift that weight of fear and those sneaky what ifs that catch you at the most inconvenient moments.

My first appointment is with a Mr Gout (?) in ophthalmology at St James’s on Tuesday. This was organised over the phone so I have no letter and, more important, no map. I know it’s Chancellor Wing. I know it’s Ground Floor (phew). I’ve been there before to get zapped (the other eye) but I can’t remember. So that means getting up even earlier, to get through rush hour/school run traffic, find a parking space and then slowly walk to the right building. I’ve a feeling it’s before A&E but that doesn’t help unless we can’t find parking nearby.

Dennis insists on coming with me but he’s not proving a tower of strength right now. He’s permanently locked into worry/fear mode in all things health-related now. I have had a bit of a cold for the last couple of days - almost incessant sneezing but not much else - you’d think I’d done it on purpose (I still don’t get how I caught it when I’ve been socially distanced at all times). Now of course, if it hasn’t cleared up by tomorrow, I may well be banned from my appointment. They ring the day before and take you through a checklist and I may fail, though I have no COVID-19 symptoms. Wouldn’t that be dandy?? So I’m eating vitamin C tablets like sweeties as that has only once failed to halt a cold in its tracks. Fingers crossed.

So... the fence. Or fencing.

First, a digger was at work at the end of the garden, with a pretty scary blade (?) that swung perilously close to our property at times. But we have the 5 metre buffer so we should be safe. Dennis commented that they might as well come into the garden.... Next day, I noticed this: 

They’ve clonked into the back fence with such force that they’ve knocked all the upright posts and the first three panels sideways. Then one post has resisted so the panel beyond that has broken. You can’t see much of the damage here but there are slats of wood broken away - a sorry sight. I contacted the site manager. No problem. Send him photos and he’ll consult Head Office. Three weeks on and we’ve not even had an acknowledgement. 

The weeds are there because the patio has been left to overgrown. The ground beneath seems to be flooded with water from the site and the stone slabs were lifting under the pressure. Let it go wild since Den doesn’t have the time and I don’t have the strength. Yes, we do need a gardener. I digress. We did meet with the site manager over another issue. This happened next: 

It may be hard to work out but it beggars belief. Miller Homes has ignored the 5m buffer and erected a fence to plot 27 that adjoins our fence. Just a few feet but strange nonetheless. We are assured that the buffer exists, only it’s being incorporated into the garden of no 27. Not 25 and 26 - they are mere semis - but 27 and also plot 30(?) the house we can reach over and touch. Ok I’m exaggerating but it looks like it:

That’s no 30 (?) just over our hedge. It’s their garage - the house is just a blank wall fr us to gaze at, with 2 windows thankfully just out of our line of vision. The builder did turn and wave! It’s a large detached property with a tiny garden. UNTIL the 5m buffer is conveniently absorbed into their garden, as is planned. Actually, that part of the plan would suit me as I think it’s a security issue to have a strip of landscaped land between the two properties, open for kids to play in or young people to gather in (not much else to do in Bramhope!) BUT I would want to be assured that the same principles are being applied all round the new development, not, as I suspect, just around our road. I bet you anything they will respect the landscaped 5 meters buffer when they build along the back of Creskeld Lane (aka Millionaires’ Row). Grrr.

So I insisted on meeting the site manager with his plan to compare to the plan I have downloaded from the Planning Department, We met. Our plans did not match, even though mine is the latest agreed Landscaping plan. He pointed out that the owners of the new properties were aware that their gardens included the 5m buffer but couldn't say whether the same rules will apply to the ‘posh’ part of Bramhope. Fair enough, they’ve not been built yet but either we are living in a Conservation Area or we are not. Then it got better. He told me that Miller Homes intends to ‘gift’ the residents of High Ridge Way the proposed buffer land and we can extend our fences so we acquire an addition 5m of land. What about the bit already within the fences of no 27? Oh, that’s not a problem. They already know it’s buffer land and we can take it from them. So, by that reasoning, we end up having to pay the costs of moving their fencing to leave them with a minuscule garden AND we lose neighbourly goodwill, just to acquire a 5m stretch of land we don’t really want, we can’t build on and which would leave us with an island of trees!

Anyway, Mr Planning Department is doing a site visit ‘over the festive period’ (one day now, as far as I can tell from our ultra-clear government guidance) thanks to my pals Billy and Barry (councillors) so watch this space. Or don't - probably wiser!

I know I’ve said it before, but if you have followed this and even tried to get your head round it, you must be a true friend! Apologies but it’s a good distraction for me.

209. Ask a simple question...

Sometimes, the ripple effect can feel like a tidal wave. The other day, I had a brainwave (ouch!): the single swollen gland in my neck (new) might be related to the single swollen eyelid (3 months?) which might be related to the deficient lymph system I now have (2 years+). So I set out to find out if that could be the case.

First I must emphasise that I wasn't worried about any aspect of this. I already, I hope, have a GP referral to ophthalmology regarding the cholesterol lumps in my eyelid and we might as well throw in the swelling at the same time. I spent the first half of my life plagued by throat infections so swollen glands are nothing new - though usually I had them on both sides. Now I have a single mini-mump which looks a bit weird.

Question: could the removal of all my lymph nodes under my left arm make my left neck and everything up from there more vulnerable to inflammation or infection? An academic question, not a worry.

Step 1, since I was determined to avoid Dr Google, was a nurse on the Breast Cancer Now Helpline. They are wonderful - very reassuring and knowledgeable. Her advice was that it would be better to ask my breast care nurse, as they would have access to my notes.

Step 2 was a breast care nurse. I rang the number about 11 on Thursday. I got a call-back at 2pm. She pondered a bit and then said she thought it would be better if I was seen. She trotted off to consult on whether I should be seen by breast care or oncology and was advised oncology. I told her I have an appointment in less than a month (prior to my next treatment - ugh) but she thought maybe it would be better to keep the two separate. By 3pm, I had an appointment with oncology at the breast clinic next day. A cancellation. Still no alarm bells.

This coincided with a minor conflagration with Miller Homes, but that’s another story.

Step 3 was finding a way to tell Dennis without him assuming I’m about to face Death. That failed miserably and, try as I have, I can’t bring him out of Severe Anxiety Mode now. Damage done.

Step 4 was convincing him that our Sainsbury’s delivery, which clashed with my appointment, meant he couldn’t come with me. Yes, I could manage on my own.

Of course, Dennis’s reaction undermined my whole calm approach. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to me that any of this could be connected to cancer. Not till the breast care nurse said they thought I needed to be seen by oncology and I wondered how on earth I could explain it safely to D. Even then, I brushed it aside, tucked it neatly back in its box and continued with my All Is Well approach. Then I had to reason with all D’s Yes Buts and found myself reacting physically (no more constipation!) if not fretting mentally.

Yesterday, I had an appointment. I expected a bit of prodding and a blood test. What I didn't expect was what is to follow. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s an amazingly thorough approach which I should be grateful for but right now I’m cross and a bit upset. It feels like cracking a boiled egg with a sledgehammer. 

1. THREE phlebotomists were required to extract two measly phials of blood. Amazingly, I don’t even have a bruise, only four tiny indications of needle attacks. Good job I’m not scared of needles.

2. I have to wait for an appointment for an ultrasound of my neck. “How long have you had this node?” It was almost accusing so I felt like replying “All my life” but I meekly said “About 5 days.”

3. Dr U (yes, my lovely Dr U, dressed in scrubs (!!) and vanishing for 5 minutes because of “a problem upstairs.” I told him I remembered that only too well) ringing straight through to the Eye Clinic to get me seen immediately. They didn't answer, so he dashed off a letter there and then, requesting an expedited appointment. WHY?

4. I have to wait for an appointment for an MRI of the occipital orbit (eye?). That I have googled and it takes 30 minutes and uses contrast dye so it will require a dose of the blessed lorazepam. I don’t know how I’ll get there as I can’t drive with lorazepam, I can’t ask friends (social distancing and no bubbles, even though I’ve been in such isolation, apart from this hospital visit, so I must be a safe bet) and I am reluctant to use the taxi service. In fact Matt said not to use public transport in his CEV letter. That leaves hospital transport which could mean staying all day waiting for a lift home - and isn’t that public transport only with more vigilant hygiene?

Of course I didn’t ask any questions, apart from one when he said something that sounded really scary but wasn’t. Dr U did say that, with my level of risk, everything must be followed up but I didn’t think to ask if he was concerned. I want to consider this as completely routine. I just wish my intestines believed the same. So no, I’m not worrying about metastasis but I do know it’s still a risk. I am reassured by the thoroughness of the response but I’m not grateful for the protracted waiting for the all-clear, which will take me well past Christmas. It takes me back to 2018 as I sat and wallowed in self-pity and fear as my first chemo loomed on Christmas Eve. I’m not being callous about myself - I was wallowing and there was a hefty dose of self-pity there - BUT the fear was real and justified for me and I feel sad about that.

So, watch this space... and the story of the 5 metre Buffer Zone ;)

PS. I had to chuckle. Dr U was trying to work out why I looked so different from when he last saw me (17 months ago - I got handed over to Dr D, much to my disgust). I pointed out I was carrying close to three extra stones in weight but he hesitated and then said no, it was that he’d never seen me with so much hair. Dr Tactful? Anyway, he said that I was looking very well. So, no worries :) 

208. Waaaah: Woman with a Tantrum?

I've hesitated to write this but I keep reminding myself, my blog is for me first and foremost. So let me start with a warning and you can opt out.

It started yesterday with a visit to Oncology Rehabilitation to see my favourite physio, D, who I last saw in February. By the time we got there, I was jiggered. Maybe radiotherapy did affect my puff after all. Maybe, the grounded me thinks, it’s simply lack of exercise. Fortunately we had a long wait so I was back to normal by the time D called me in. Normal? For some reason, I felt quite anxious, even nauseous.

We got off to a great start, with D introducing herself in her jolly way, as if we’d never met. But maybe that was a good thing because she took a broader remit than before and went through all the exercises I’ve been given over the phone, assessed what I needed from each and adapted the exercises and showed me ‘short cuts’ and aids for when I find them too painful, as an alternative to not doing them. She also assessed the arm I hurt when I fell in the early summer which has never really healed. She diagnosed referred pain from an injury to the socket. Exercises for that now!

Then she looked at my left arm and the problems I have with my scar and absence of breast muscle, which can make movement/exercise very painful. I’m doing the massage right (well done). I ought to be able to stretch further (exercise avoidance), and although I have some swelling, it’s not sufficient to indicate lymphodoema (thank god for that). Then she parked me in front of a mirror and I saw my full scar for the first time. That’s TWO years of not knowing exactly what’s going on. It hasn’t been avoidance, more practicalities: we don’t have a mirror like this. I look down on my scar, I see part of it in the bathroom mirror, but I’ve never seen the full route. Now I was intrigued to see how far it swept under my arm, to notice that it IS a clean sweep, not the tangle that I prod and massage. I’ve only felt it, not studied it, and it feels shorter than it is. I was also shocked to see how deep into my ribs it goes. No wonder those ribs feel so sore.

Then I burst out laughing. It wasn't quite what she’d expected. Maybe she expected tears? However, I suddenly thought about the idea of having a reconstruction. If I’d opted for one (I don’t think I had the option at the time because the margins were so tight but, 2 years on, I probably could now), if I’d had one in 2018, it would have been a 34B and I’m sitting there with this solitary boob looking like nothing I’ve ever seen on my body, weighing in at a generous 36D. I’d have had a severe boob imbalance! 

So why the wail? I asked her opinion about the pain in my joints and muscles and she said I needed to regard it as permanent, something that might improve with exercise but, in her experience, I’m not likely to end up pain-free after all this time.

So I am terribly upset, made all the harder because I don’t want Dennis to know how upset I am. He’s ‘shocked’ but accepts it and, when I said about how I didn't want him to be waiting on me hand and foot for ever, he said he didn’t mind. I suggested we get a cleaner. Nope. Mind you, he didn’t say anything when I suggested we get a gardener. A glimmer of hope.

When I started this blog, I was optimistic in calling it “It’s only a disease.” But I did really believe that. I still do. However, upon reflection, with the value of hindsight, in retrospect, whatever: I’ve refused to adopt the cliché of ‘the cancer journey’ but it is a long, winding road with pot-holes and giant boulders to navigate round, It’s littered with side roads, some of which sweep round to rejoin; some are exits to something better, some are booby-trapped (no pun intended), some are dead ends. I assumed the road would lead back to good health. I would compromise and settle for OK health. But if this is the best I can hope for, it’s pretty shitty and not at all what I expected. I AM grateful I’m cancer-free and I know this is a blow I’ll recover from. I know too that I could be ill with a lifelong condition like rheumatoid arthritis or MS and I’m not, so things definitely could be worse and for that I’m grateful. I just feel really, really pissed off that the cancer treatments have done this to me. I’ve not read about it anywhere. Mind you, I’ve only read some leaflets - I have several books about breast cancer but I’ve never felt like reading them.

It’s a Hydra and I’m no Heracles.

And I want to yell “IT’S NOT FAIR.”

207. And so it continues....

Now I have high cholesterol and, for the first time in my life, high blood pressure, though that has to be monitored because it may have been a blip. Unfortunately, I can’t see the nurse for blood pressure (Covid restrictions) so I have to buy my own machine. I refuse to turn into a BP fanatic but I know me - if I get a machine, I’ll be reading it every day ‘just in case’.

My medication pile has grown, with the additional statin now which I “have to regard as lifelong.” I tried statins BBC (before breast cancer) and stopped them because they caused muscle pain. How ironic that I can happily take statins now because I have so much muscle pain, I don’t notice a bit of extra. I am not a great fan of this ageing process. I can’t keep on laying everything at cancer treatment’s door. But what next? I may have the answer in that the GP wants me to check in in 6 weeks time for a cholesterol test to ensure levels have dropped, a blood pressure check and... a check for diabetes. I guess we’ll be adding that to the list. Oh, and the doctor suggested a referral to the Opthalmic Clinic for my eye and the Lipid Clinic to check my genetic predisposition for heart disease. I declined. I have two referrals I’m still waiting on. I will continue to squint with a cholesterol-swollen eyelid:

 

            

Accidental selfie!

Apparently there’s a landmark mast in the distance. But I’ve no idea what is is...

                So here is proof that I really am trying. We went to Surprise View on Otley Chevin, from where you can see over Wharfedale, as far as York in one direction and Lancashire in another. That of course is on a very clear day and with spectacular eyesight. Parking was a tight squeeze. If I’d been wearing my other parka, I doubt I could have got out of the car without clonking the car next to me! Then it was a nice flat walk, a few steps and a gentle slope to the view. It was a glorious day but so cold, I really thought one of the reservoirs below was iced over. Turned out it was birds.

 

A bit of outlying Otley, a reservoir and a lot of Yorkshire grass

The place was surprisingly busy. I guess everyone was trying to get their outdoor exercise - the odd jogger, quite a few pockets of young men who didn’t look as though they had an purpose (maybe they are furloughed and bored) and of course the perennial senior citizens. Since the paths are uneven, strewn with boulders, puddles and odd patches of grass, we weren’t able to walk far. My feet couldn’t manage it and I couldn’t have walked the short distance I did without relying on Dennis for balance. But what a lovely change from exercising indoors (that is not going well, so I’ll keep quiet on that).

What else? I got fed up and cut myself a fringe. Being so grey/white, you can’t tell how uneven it is but it covers my receding hairline rather well and I no longer have to keep flicking my hair out of my face. It’s great news that the hairdresser’s and the gym/pool can reopen next week but I’m not sure I’ll feel confident about dashing off to either immediately. It’s like the last lockdown. Spend all that time without contact with the world and basic immunity must be down to minimal. I’ll build up exposure to colds and coughs gently, I think. Good god, what’s happened to me?? HOWEVER, I have booked myself in for reflexology and reiki in 10 days time. Bliss.

Meantime, I continue to be utterly depressed whenever I look out of a window or go to the side of the house. I feel like I’m being gradually squashed by these enormous houses. Honest, they were just little rectangles on the plan and that was alarming enough but the reality... I need an emoji or two here! Anyway, this is as far as they’ve got:

Add caption

I'd love to add captions but my blogger.com has gone potty and all I can see is the coding. Basically, one is the house just the other side of the fence - our kitchen window looks directly onto our hideous hedge and their blank wall. The other is the lower part of that side of the garden. What a lot of houses - and how ugly. The Yorkshire Housing houses are all painted white and grey to blend with the village. We get this!

206. This is how it should be

Today I got some fresh air and (sun)light on my face as I walked with Dennis to post a letter. I actually plonked myself down in the bus shelter while he posted the letter as I didn’t trust myself to cross the busy (arterial) road quickly enough but it’s a start. This time last year, we picked up conkers. This year, I wouldn’t be able to scoop that far down!! What has gone wrong?

I suspect a significant factor has been the lockdowns. For almost 5 months, I was under instructions not to leave my home. But I didn’t try hard enough to maintain a reasonable amount of walking round the outside of the house, let alone exercise. Everything was just so painful. And now of course I’m paying the price, with swellings in places I didn’t know could swell. Gone are my skinny but shapely legs. Bring on the support stockings! Though not yet please. Maybe I can exercise away these unsightly lumps?

Quite how I managed the walk is in some ways a mystery unless you believe in the efficacy of EFT. At 11, I plonked myself in front of the ipad feeling exhausted, and zoomed into an EFT session. For once, we all had several factors in common, including long-term pain, fatigue and frustration, so each of the rounds of EFT we did was directly relevant to me. At 12, I came out feeling energised and a bit more optimistic. Just from a bit of tapping? I then did some of my physio exercises which I haven’t been able to face for a couple of days so, at last, I can fill in my online form with a few ticks. These progress charts have no room for excuses or reasons so my record looks shameful.

That just leaves my hand exercises - I was doing so well with my green squares and now the chart is marred by a beige one because I forgot to finish them and I’m too honest to cheat, even for the aesthetic effect.

Look how close I am to the end of the programme (top line). I’d like to say the time has flown by but it hasn’t. And then what? The pain level is as high as it was but my hands are definitely getting a bit stronger. Now when I grasp something, I just say ouch. Before, I dropped it!

I also have to do my breast/arm exercises which I keep forgetting to do. I think people who know me will recognise that this is all characteristic avoidance and aversion to the idea of physical exercise. This has to change if I’m not to age prematurely. However, I’ve already finished series 4 of The Crown. Unfortunately, this multitasker can no longer do more than one thing at a time. Netflix won. 

As regards The Crown, I wasn’t impressed. Too much of Thatcher and that annoying Princess of Wales, let alone reminders of what must be the most hideous period in women’s fashion. And I went along with it!! Verdict: a bit dull. Queen’s Gambit was more exciting and that’s about chess, which has always been beyond me.

205. Just for a nice change

 

We snuggled up on the sofa and watched a live gig last night. Unfortunately we had to watch it on Den’s laptop as my Chromecast doesn’t support laptops any more and we’ve never thought to invest in something more up to date. So that goes the same way as my iPod Shuffle which was soooo good.  I hate this built-in obsolescence. My Apple Pencil is on its way out - its battery is inaccessible and has a limited life. Good job I don’t use it much.

Anyway, back to the gig: The Smoke Fairies, whom we first saw a decade or more ago, warming up the audience for my my beloved Bryan. I just turned to Den and said “You like this, don’t you.” He nodded and he has every track they’ve released (and more, but don’t tell anyone). He also received a collection of Smoke Fairies special stuff, including very personal things like shells in a tin, which Trina arranged for his 70th birthday in 2018. I can’t repeat his reaction in writing (he also got stuff from several of his heroes like the Green Pajamas, Cliff Bennett, Randy Newman, so it was a bit overwhelming for him lol). 

We’ve seen them as the main act at the Brudenell Centre (when Den started collecting Bear’s Den, their supporting act, who I must say are rather good) and I think we had tickets but had to miss another gig, maybe when I was ill? Watching on an 18-inch screen was a bit strange but perfect harmonies and excellent guitar playing just need good sound in the end and factor in the absence of crowd noise - it was great. I felt sorry for them with no audience to feed off but I don’t remember their patter ever being anything but awkward.

I’ve just finished my first book in a month. Normally I’d have read 8 to 10 books but recently I just look, sigh and leave it. The book was Dear Fatty, Dawn French’s autobiography written when she hit 50. It’s a series of letters addressed to various people in her life, Fatty being Jennifer Saunders, her late father, her mum, brother, daughter, various friends... At first I disliked it, it was so unrelentingly Dawn French in her comedy persona and I wanted to slap her. As I couldn’t attend book group - I was booked for Part 2 of The Haven’s Dealing With Change and Transition - there was no pressure to finish it but I picked it up yesterday and read 3/4 in one go. On balance, it was quite readable and therefore enjoyable and she did make me laugh a few times. It was sad though to realise the things that have happened since, like her divorce, Rik Mayall’s accident and, later, his death; Jennifer Saunders’ breast cancer, all of which would have influenced the whole tone of the book I think. Not that she could write a PS. That would be another book entirely. 

Lying next to me is my next read: the 26th (?) Jack Reacher novel. No one said my reading was intellectual lol. It’s young bro, Anthony, who has had to change his name to Child so he can carry on the franchise now Lee Child has retired. I think they wrote this together. I’m not sure I approve. I’d rather Lee Child had sent Jack out in a blaze of glory but I believe there’s a TV deal with Netflix or Amazon Prime so he has to keep the stories coming. I just hope the casting is more within his control. The idea of diminutive Tom Cruise flattening a team of six private security guards, armed and immovable, with just a few choice moves with elbows, feet and knees is risible. May Anthony write as smoothly as Lee. Fingers crossed.        

Just this moment got a hospital physio appointment (but I may not be allowed to go as I’m CEV -hospital policy, sigh). I was about to say I didn’t need it till I realised it was D, my excellent oncology physio who I have confidence could look at the whole of me and sort me out. Fingers crossed again.

I say fingers crossed. I can’t physically achieve the move right now lol