Hunting the lump that goes bump in the night.

I returned to the West Suffolk dermatologist this afternoon for my melanoma check-up. He is an abrupt, unempathetic Egyptian who usually just asks how things are, and is always satisfied if the answer is "fine", without wasting too much time checking anything in detail. Today, I mentioned that I thought a lymph gland might be a bit swollen below my jaw, and was uncomfortable at night. He poked it for a moment before saying there didn't seem much there. I added that I'd seen the oncologist at Addenbrookes on Monday, and I thought he might have written about it, so he checked through my record and found the letter.

Until then, he hadn't realised I'd had another cancer treated since I saw him last. Looking a bit abashed, he felt a little more thoroughly, then decided to refer me for further scans on my head and neck, to 'make sure', so at least something is happening, and I'm hopeful that I'll get reassurance.

On the news, all is Brexit. Against seemingly everyone on the cabinet and in parliament being opposed to her, she doggedly holds her course with persistent calmness and patience. She is beginning to win the sympathy vote for her plight, even from hardened labourites, and even from the public who think she has sold us a ribbon-wrapped turd. Yet those opposing her are too custard coloured to oust her, let alone offer any alternative with more than a pig's chance in an abattoir of getting it through Brussels.