SINCE writing the last column the days have gone by in a series of highs and lows...sometimes within hours.

The highest, the news that chemo is substantially reducing the tumours – the low that is has metastasized to the vertebrae but the chemo was hitting that too.

The doctors weren’t too worried. Oh, good for them – leave that for me, fellas, in the early hours.

This time the chemo has left me sick, red eyed and full of pain; back pain which now takes on a whole new meaning instead of ‘simple’ pain caused by too much lying or sitting.

Meanwhile, my life is being dismantled around me as plans are made for my removal to London and I accept that Las Molieres, my French life and César are gone forever.

I will not see them again although with planning I could. No, it would be too heart-breaking, particularly César. I cannot do it.

Instead the search is on for an understanding knowledgeable home but I can barely bring myself to read the replies to my Instagram posting.

But read them and decide I must, for I owe this to my friend and companion.

I find I cannot talk about him without the tears falling freely but I no longer feel a fool with my uncontrolled emotions.

Even the thought of my furniture, my books, my rugs, my paintings going into storage brings on the sniffles. My life reduced to a warehouse for some future date for Pierce to awaken. I try to think of precious ‘things’ I could take to place around me in the rented apartment in which I will end up, close to the good cancer hospital, Pierce and, yes, the hospice. But if I can’t have all then I want none.

I only want my dog.

Only want the comfort of stroking his silky fur as he lies beside me, head on my knee, deep breathing his contentment after a day roaming in and out of the house. And this I cannot have, so just pack my suitcases with all that’s lying there, lock the doors, bolt the shutters and only look back at that life in photographs.

I day-dream of miracles but reduction I know only buys extra time and no-one can say how much and it wouldn’t be enough to save César.

I console myself with the thought that his feelings for me are not as mine for him. He may remember me wherever he goes but I’ll be a faint memory, a fleeting thought of a woman yelling to him in the night to ‘get the hell in here now,’ and perhaps of a laugh and the chink of wine glasses.

I hope they are for I do not wish him to grieve as I do now. For grieving it truly is, however melodramatic that sounds.

The memories of the parties will be long gone, as indeed they were for some time, and I remind myself that the last few French years were no longer the joy of the beginning.

And I remind myself of the finally admitted loneliness that cannot be quenched by the patina of antique pieces, the run of much-loved books in their custom shelving, the recollection of buying that painting, that rug...

The irony is I never wanted to own anything; vowing as a young girl I would not let possessions weigh me down, keep me trapped in bricks and mortar.

All I needed were two suitcases and…a dog. Life would be complete.

At what point did I change and start buying my caves, filling them with ‘things’? At what point I wonder, did I become acquisitive, turning away from my simple philosophy?

Was it as the wages rose and surplus cash demanded proof of its existence – for others as much as oneself?

It no doubt was and I can’t despise that materialistic side for the products have given me so much pleasure.

But in the end, as I always somehow knew when I disdained them, they end up at the dispersal of others, just a few deemed worthy to retain.

Past times and good times cannot be felt in these relics by others who know not of their history or provenance. They’re looked at with a cold eye…and the horseman passes by.

We have our treasures to root ourselves I’ve come to believe for we know, without lingering on it, that our time here is short and we need to make the point we were here, that we mattered.

But rooting oneself is a painful thing, which I’ve always known and fled from, even though weighed down by those books.

For a time always comes to be uprooted and tugging away those bonds causes only hurt and too much introspection.

The past is done but we cannot let it go easily.

I have no choice now but to let mine go. It is not going gently but I must, whatever the cost.

And that means my maddening boy; the last of all my dogs who’ve left me rather than I them.

So, farewell my lovely. Upwards and onwards for us both.