A year or so after surgery I’m now on a five-year surveillance programme. I had a CT scan a few weeks ago, and a blood test to look for tumour markers. Yesterday I had a colonoscopy, which was altogether less uncomfortable than previous essays in the medium: of course, I could lie on my back for this one, and the man with the long eye had less far to go. None of the above revealed signs of recurrence, but I’m still on probation for another four years. Cautious optimism in order.
We’ve hardly seen the sun this month: the anticyclonic gloom has set in good and proper: dreich, damp and chilly. Still, there’s the odd bit of colour left in the garden, and Ben has (a) cleared out the bed under the garnet acer and red cornus, and (b) brought us a couple of midwinter fire cornus plants: we just need to find room for them. I just hope the hellebores survive his radical treatment! Pale pink penstemon cuttings rooted well, so we have passed on a few to Mary down the road: she admired the parent plant when we had our Macmillan coffee morning back in September. [Proceeds now stand at £1422, by the way!]
As for politics, we’re both pretty depressed. It wouldn’t worry us too much if the mayhem could be confined to the Land of the Free, but if the orange one (a) hangs Ukraine out to dry and (b) emasculates NATO, the soi-disant successor to Peter the Great will be emboldened to chance his arm in the Baltic States, Poland, Moldova and goodness knows where else. Once again, one is grateful to be ancient and childless.
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