Since Christmas I’ve been sending off these columns with the anxious thought that perhaps I’m overdoing the dying bit and the truth is that I have a long way to go. Suppose I’m still here on Lammas Day, for example? I worry that some people might feel short changed. Moreover I worry that some might be already tiring of a columnist banging on interminably about his terminal cancer. A month or two of cancer shtick before falling decently silent – ideal. Six months? Well, OK. But a year?
Thanks to global capitalism, choosing a night pot is like deciding on a make of saloon car
For this reason I am pleased to report the passing of another milestone on my private Menin road. The bone and lung pain have lately increased to the point where I need to lie still. No more nipping up and down four flights of steep stairs to the lavatory, for a start, if I can help it.
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