I'm now into the second full week of my treatment, and I'm starting to feel it, with days where I feel completely washed out and quite sick. I knew to expect this – nausea is the main side-effect of Temozolomide, my particular flavour of chemo, and although it is controlled with anti-emetics I was moved to milder ones after day five, so I anticipated a certain queasiness – but I hadn't anticipated such an impact. The nausea has been mild, but it ruins my concentration and leaves me oddly devoid of ideas. And that is buggering up my day, to be frank.
Two wee boys meet up on Boxing Day.
"So, what did you get, then?"
"I got Monopoly, and a book token, and an orange."
"Oh, right. I got a bike, and an Xbox, and an iPad, and a TV, and a blue-ray player, and…"
"Gosh. Wish I had cancer."
It seems that all you need to do to become the centre of attention at Christmas is to contract a life-threatening medical condition. If I'd realised, I'd have done this years ago.
I realise that at the moment my profession sits somewhere between kitten-blinding and child vivisection in the popularity stakes, and that people currently doubt the integrity and even the skill in what at least some journalists do. But there are skills involved, and I have been very pleased to have them over the last few days.
I've got a hole in my head, I'm wearing a fetching pair of Moll Flanders toeless stockings, and I have a drain up my knob. But I feel pretty good, all things considered.
Obviously, I've had quite a lot of morphine today, which might have something to do with that. And which might also, incidentally, mean I'm writing utter nonsense, or at least more so than usual. But I've just been told I can charge ahead and just use my phone, which means wi-fi for the Android tablet, which means an update here. Hot off the hospital bed.
Ok, that's alienated any readers who didn't grow up watching UK children's TV in the 70s and 80s, not to mention those with taste and discretion.
But it looks like I've got a bit of record breaking to do myself, as it turns out.
The lumpy bit they took out of my head last week is called a glioblastoma. Better out than in, rather like Simon Cowell and a life-raft (thanks to Jo Brand on QI for that one), but not a good thing to have had in my skull in the first place.