The cystoscope awaits.

Death is the price we pay for life. It is non-negotiable and paid in full equally, whatever the living brought. I await my scan and cystoscopy dreading  the discomfort and unknown results equally, aware that fear or hope changes nothing. The outcome is dictated by fate's throw, but gives me pause in a hectic schedule to gather morbid thoughts like these.

Ann sought to distract me by putting the TV on. It opened with an advert for the MacMillan Nursing Fund - "support someone you love through cancer". Oh oh! Then the news item came on about the wonderful life of Radio 4 presenter Rachael Bland, who has just died at the age of 40 from breast cancer. Double oh oh! With Ann's arm in plaster, and her swollen bruised eyes, she cannot drive, so Edwin will take me to the OP for the scan and cystoscopy.

A Tsunami of Trouble

Yesterday became surreal. We took the two grandchildren to London for the day, to sample an Escape Room and a special tea on Park Lane. We arrived at St Pancras platform when Edwin got a call: “This is the Escape Room. There has been an incident. A woman has been stabbed outside the building on the Caledonian Road, and the road is cordoned off.” Sure enough, the police tape would not let us enter the scene of crime, so after a long detour we entered Caledonian Road from the other end. The police finally escorted us through the cordon to the Escape Room door with minutes to spare from our time slot. But "Revenge of the Sheep" was one of the best Escape Rooms we have done, although one of the padlocks had jammed and the controller had to come in with a massive set of bolt cutters to clip it off! and we completed it (with a little help) thanks to two very observant young girls.

Then, walking back up the Caledonian Road to the tube, Ann caught her foot and fell splayed out on the pavement. I saw her strike her head, and her glasses were scratched and very bent. But as she tried to sit, we could see her right hand swollen and distorted with the finger twisted out at an unnatural angle. I told Edwin to call us a taxi at once, and asked him to complete the day with the girls, they being instructed not to let him out of their sight, then asked the taxi driver to take us to the best A&E. He took us to UCH on Gower Street, and despite the crowd on a Saturday afternoon, they could not have given better of more prompt treatment. The Senior Nurse did the reduction and straightening under local, then plastered the whole thing with “an Edinburgh Gutter Slab”, possibly named for a technique developed to treat all the Scottish drunks who fell in gutters and fractured fingers! The repeat X-ray showed good position, and we were sent home with a referral letter for WSH. The virtual X-ray images would be sent automatically – one benefit of modern technology.

Finally, at home again, with the girls about ready for bed, Edwin came in and said my cousin Ed Marston of Paonia, Colorado, had died suddenly from complications of West Nile fever. He and his wife Betsy were wonderful people, always a joy to be with, and so full of life and vigour. Troubles certainly do come as great tsunamis, to attack and overwhelm on all fronts simultaneously.

The Cry of Prostatic Anguish

Sex is a powerful hypnotic. Pre-coitus is tension, desire, shaking, like the symptoms of any craving. Then with achievement, the whole body relaxes, and the smile of peace and pleasure descends as of a great accomplishment, and one slips away in sleep as deep as after a day of fruitful toil. The smile would remain throughout the following day, my step a little lighter, my head a little higher. It was the narcotic to which I was addicted, and yearned to return for my next fix.

Today, all is still. Nothing stirs but the frustration of unfulfilled desire, for impotence has struck. It is the great pain of age, adding mocking anguish to the already ailing body. It is not a happy prospect, unhelped by unbidden frustration for my wife also, who bears the brunt of my pain.

Next week I go to hospital for cystoscopy and a scan, so this now is the triple blow, adding to the first of prostatism and haematuria, and to the second of having knowledge of all that may be involved. For as a post-grad medical student, I spent six months on a GU ward in my surgical house job, inserting catheters and peering through the telescope attachments of cystoscopy tubes, assisting the surgeon as he cut or fried the tissue. 

Now the only morning rise is to the toilet for a 4 a.m. pee, and watch as it dribble in the pan, and hope all is voided before I pull up the pyjama pants. The frustrations of age are endless, and seem to grow with the lengthening shadows, assuaged only by writing this in the pre-dawn of another restless night.

Brexit – the view from Hundon

In Hundon, Brexit just might not be happening. For us, travel to Europe is travel to foreign parts, whether or no we’re in the EU. France will remain across the channel; Germany the home of Steins and Frankfurters; Spain a land of package tours; and Italy will still be celebrated for creating pasta and pizza. For us, politicians are seen in the news, not in the village hall, and no debates were aired in our village. We see no immigrants, and export-import is a cover for James Bond. Prices go up or down on the whim of distant Sheiks, while cars are mostly what the local garage has available when the old one fails its test.

So what will happen after 2019? Passports will still be required to cross the English Sea; the queue at Schiphol will not shorten; the security checks not lessen; the wait for luggage as long as before. Perhaps the duty-free outlets will reopen at Callais and boats will sail full of day trippers flooding the on-board shop. All will be settled in the distant rules of London and Brussels. We shall have a new Prime Minister and cabinet, but in Hundon all will continue unchanged with the same dogs being walked and the same faces in the pub and the shop. The garden will need tending, the hedge cutting, the dustbins emptying and the cars cleaning, and in Hundon, Brexit will seem irrelevant.

Then why remain I so angry with the process? So wound up that I gnash my teeth at the childlike attempt at negotiation our government demonstrates? Perhaps because a better job could be done by any one of the Apprentice contestants, including those that leave in the first programmes. It is demeaning to see the total concession to every demand the EU makes. The rules should have been argued at the commencement: parallel talks, or no talks. Not all this rubbish about agreeing to everyone of their demands before they will move to Phase II. What negotiation is this? Ahhh – I feel my blood pressure rising again. I’d better sign off and sit down before I boil.

Men of the world, unite behind women!

From this time forward, nothing can be the same. The wind of sexual mores has veered sharply, and we mere men must turn to sail with it, or perish upon the rocks of inappropriate behaviour. With the pronouncement from a chief of police that “consent must be obtained before kissing beneath the mistletoe, or risk being charged with rape”, to the accusation against a minister of sexual harassment for touching a woman’s knee at a dinner party, we must henceforth change the framework of our relationships. It is time to start again.

The thrust of developing sexual relationships must be handed to women. They must set the tone and the pace, and we must follow. From now on, all flirtation must be left to women; they must lead by look, glance, gift or touch, and we must accept or reject as we choose. It is demeaning for men to ask women to sign statements of consent; it should be for women to issue legal permits, specifying exactly how far they wish the man to proceed, with clear stop signs agreed in advance.

We must walk with averted gaze and modest glance, least we be accused of a look too prolongued at cleavage. Knowing looks between men must be avoided, and vocal appreciation, as wows and whistles, are definitely taboo. In crowded places, we must bunch up tight to avoid unsolicited brushes. The wisest place for hands is in the air, above the head, where they may be seen at all times, for groping is the worst crime.

Admiration for a woman’s scent or dress must be silent, with the face impassive; for if one’s gaze is truly averted, we should not be tempted by such adornments, for compliments must not be given. Although we must admire women only for their abilities and achievements, praise must be sparing least it be misconstrued as patronising.

Women have been told they must be more like men to succeed: ambitious, thrusting, unafraid to voice loudly their views in meetings or to be heard above the crowd. No! I say, it is we who must be more like women; we men should refrain from loud interrupting talk; we must be modest in our views; we should defer demurely to women’s suggestions. The aim of board rooms for fifty percent of women is too modest; they should be promoted automatically, to every position of value. There should be glass ceilings no longer, but rather ceilings of steel that keep men down, to redress the balance of history.

The strengths of men should be used where they belong. Men should do the menial jobs, the hard cleaning, the brick-laying, the portering and fetching. Perhaps if sufficiently well-scrubbed, men may make the tea.

Therefore, men of the world, I call upon you all to unite behind our women. Give them the positions of power, and let us support them as they choose, from their own ranks, new women of strength and character to lead us to a new utopia of peace and harmony in the world.

Strip the boat

Ann and Edwin have gone to Glasgow for the w/e to meet Ann's newly discovered cousins. I should have gone, but was too slow deciding and missed the chance, so I went to see the new Spiderman instead with Matthew. They went to an underground vegan restaurant last night, recommended by Edwin's friend. I ate at the local steakhouse.

My run of ill luck continues with the turning of the year. I drove into the carpark at the Swan for an outdoors drink in the sun with Matthew and the dogs, so we could take them for a long walk round the hills behind Clare, but scraped the door on a metal girder at the narrow entrance! So typical of events at the moment.

Last w/e Matthew helped me move the boat from Ely to St Ives, for sale with Jones' Boatyard. It overheated on the journey, with the alarm screaming as I woke to race into the cockpit and stop the engine. There was much weed in the river after the heat of the week, but  filter wasn't blocked, which puzzled me. Fortunately we were on the slow moving, narrow Old West River, and could drift into some reeds. Matthew seized the chance to prepare lunch - a lovely dish of cheese on toast, while I lifted the flooring and worked over the engine. After lunch, she started again with a silent buzzer. The prop was wrapped in long weeds, and the boat would hardly move or turn with the engine straining, but a quick burst astern released them. I think the overheating too was due to a single lily pad leaf blocking the water intake.

Today we went back to remove the bits from the boat. The boatyard said it would need a power wash and stripping of everything on board. They had piled them up in a shed, and I couldn't believe the height of the stuff. The blankets made sense - everyone wants new bedding. But the cutlery and crockery? The kettle and pans? The vacuum cleaner? Even the  coiled flat water hose and the book of charts for the river systems? The new owners will have to buy everything! But I'm sure the chandlery will willingly supply it all.

We took a long walk across the meadows to the old 15th C. bridge at St Ives, with its remarkable chapel half way across that doubled as a customs house. St Ives was strong round-head territory, and Cromwell ordered the far spans to be pulled down and replaced by a drawbridge, to defend against the potential Royalist threat. They have been rebuilt now, but in a very different style from the pointed medieval arches. The Dolphin Hotel by the river had sullen unhelpful staff. They had a carvery on, but would not serve outside where we sat with the dogs. Across the ancient bridge, we found The White Hart. What a contrast - a friendly welcoming woman behind the bar, who directed us to a table in the window, and brought the dogs water. A brilliant menu too, with a huge beef roast for Matthew and a delicious mushroom stroganoff for me. I think this reflects the attitude of the management, and is a lesson for every business. It does not take much to make people happy at work: flexible hours, sensitivity to requirements for time off; an appreciative word, and one is willing to put in a little more effort; to support the business with innovative ideas; to work a little longer where needed; and to share a smile with the clients. Another place may not pay less, but will treat the staff less considerately. They resent the time there and work slower and inefficiently; the chef may care less about food preparation and hygiene; a scowl replaces friendliness, and custom falls away.

I tried to persuade Matthew to go to La Boheme with me tonight, but he declined, as opera is not his thing, so he stayed back to feed the dogs and watch them for an hour.

Today I felt a small but firm nodule in my neck. Even these slight things seem threatening now, whereas before I would have dismissed it as secondary to the inflamed wounds. A diagnosis of malignant melanoma leaves the future suspended; uncertain though fate is when young, it now is chaos personified. The random movement of a single cell may fix my end. At least La Boheme was good, but sad not to share it with Ann.

Removal of the stitches

Back to Addenbrooke's for dressings off and stitches out. Not pleasant, as hair had tangled with the blood, with dressings adherent. The ear is uncomfortable now. Still quite numb, but odd feelings returning with a dull ache like toothache, a strange pulling where the skin is stretched, and occasional sharp spikes like a wasp sting. It's still weeping, but at least I can have a shower now, and we have a brand new bathroom to enjoy it in. 

I will spare the feelings of any squeamish reader by not printing a photo of the ear. I am not too self conscious of it, except for its twinges, but I feel a deep loss even for this little bit, that makes me humble before the far greater loss for women who loose a breast. It is a little death, nothing in itself, but I get periods when I'm aware that my body now has an alien invader, that will seize the slightest chance to spread and grow. The threat of radio- or chemo-therapy hang upon my future like a black cobweb, waiting to snare me and drag me under. I can live but day by day, and make each remaining one precious.