Tuesday and I wake after a disturbed night. I take my vitals and check my messages and emails. My partner brings me hot water and toast before she goes off to the gym. I get up and have a shower, take my morning meds and then get ready to go to the chiropodist. I drive for the first time in a while and arrive on time. I cannot be bothered to change out of my driving shoes and walkover to the chiropodist’s clinic. My chiropodist is a chatty person who gets on with my feet quietly and professionally. This is one of my great pleasures as by the end of the session my feet are feeling superb and refreshed. At the end of the session I pay my bill and book myself for my next session the day after my birthday. Something to look forward to.

I drove home as quickly as possible, not bothering to visit the co-op and took to the sofa to rest. My partner returned from the gym and we have lunch together before she goes to see mother in hospital. I continue to rest and listen to various radio shows, read Julie Otsuka’s The Buddha in the Attic and start to draft the blog. A friend rings me and we have a chance to catch up and chat about our families. The evening holds the joy of the first Eurovision Song Contest semi final. It is an opportunity to see the acts that are so appalling they are not suitable for the actual final competition. So once the evening meal is over the family will settle down with home made marking cards and choose which criteria to judge the acts by. Last year the quality of arm pit shaving was on such criteria. I shall be interested to see what we come up with tonight.

As it turns out I did not get to see all the Eurovision song contest. There are things to be sorted and organised. Eventually I take my night meds, do the blog, put the bins out and then go to bed

Monday and I wake feeling a bit better. I take my vitals and check my messages and news feeds before getting up and making breakfast. I take my morning meds and then begin work on the next poetry collection. I spend the morning starting the various sections of the collection. I have drafts of the most crucial parts which I can now up date and prepare for sending to the publisher to do the editing and proof reading. I need to think about a cover design soon, I am aiming to have the new collection out by the end of July. So far there are just over eighty new poems to go into the collection but there are at least six or seven weeks to go before the end of the Chemo Rechallenge so there will be more poems to add to this total. My intention is to get the editors working quite quickly on this project. A name for the collection might be tricky. At the moment it is named in line with the Cancer Years series and so it will be The Cancer Years: Chemo Rechallenge. Not very sexy but does what it says on the cover. I am open to suggestions and I guess once other people start editing the content new ideas for a tittle will come up.

Of more immediate concern is getting my sunflower seedings potted up and out. They have done well in the covered boxes up till now but they need planter to go into. They are purple “Teddy Bear” sunflowers so they should be notable addition to the garden.

My evening sees me finish watching Legends and then finishing off the blog for the day. Night meds taken I go to bed aware that tomorrow I have a chiropodist appointment.

Sunday a bad day. Paracetamol, rest and contain how I am. I use what I can to do so.

527
Its a wood at night
the dark is spider cold
and blinding. 
Trees form the boundary,
and at its centre a seat.
A fallen trunk, heavy on the ground.
Its inky, threateningly moving
in slow waves around me.
There are no intruding stars,
no moonlight beams
to give hope of sight
or sight of hope.
Wrapped hard in moleskin
confined by bible binding
stillness is fixed in body
and in the space. 
This is a living coffin,
velvet  lined and waiting for 
the final submission. 
Nothing moves or intrudes,
only the sense of dense 
darkness is present.
Here I sit and recite 
dark poetry,
silent verses,
soundless words,
nothing to disturb 
the woods dark. 
The poetry flows
thick and clear,
moving like a snake 
soundlessly. 
Strain your ears,
focus on the air,
but there is no disturbance,
not a hint of sound 
or vibration. 
This is dark poetry,
spoken silently, heard profoundly
and felt in every fibre
of soul and being.
In this forest depth
is where I reside,
the place of despair
where being is mute
but everything is jet clear.
I sit and silently 
recite here 
in the silent black.
This is dark poetry,
silent, undeniable 
and final. 							527 10-05-2026 

There is football and napping and finally night meds and a retreat to bed.

Saturday. I wake after a reasonable night and check my messages and other social media stuff. My partner brings me hot water and I do my vitals, which are okay. Once my partner has left to go and see her mother in hospital I get up and make breakfast, take my meds and empty the dishwasher. I scribbled a poem before I got up and I think it reflects one of the dangers that face me in the coming months.

526
Bed cannot be 
my safe space.
It’s tempting,
cosy, warm
and makes no
demands.
I could lay here,
drift, reflect and 
write.
But this siren state
will drain me
of energy and will,
wrapping me up 
and cutting me off
from the world.
Out there is where
my time needs living,
where risk and reward
bring colour to a life
hard fought for.

					526 09-05-2026

Its almost noon as I start to draft the blog knowing that I am about to watch a football match followed by some international rugby. This morning I took some prophylactic paracetamol to see if it helps me to keep going, I guess I am about to find out.

The paracetamol did indeed help. I watched a lot of rugby and football during the afternoon and spent a bit of time looking at what is flowering in the garden. Despite being slightly over grown the garden is producing a lot of colour and flowers.

My evening is filled with the final episodes of a detective drama and football highlights. I take my meds, update the blog and get myself to bed. I am hoping that tomorrow I can pull together the pots I need for my sunflowers.

Friday and I wake up and feel reasonable, but alas this is short lived. I take my vitals, which are okay, and then I check my messages, emails, and social media. The news feeds are full of the local elections, I can’t get excited, the journalists are just so over the top, every thing is hyped, its sad really. I book a Tesco slot for Sunday and throw things into the basket before finally getting out of bed. I cook myself a late breakfast and then find I am already out of energy. My partner goes out with her brother to buy a TV to take to her mother in hospital.

I try to rally and sort out some deliveries and then spend time laying on the floor clearing out debris from under my end of the sofa. Amongst the retrieved objects are a knife and a chocolate cream. It appears the Borrowers had no interest in my lost debris. I keep an eye on the election as I start to draft the blog. I am assuming that I will be watching the hundred birthday celebrations of David Attenborough. Personally I am more interested in his collection of Picasso ceramics that his family picked up when they were on holiday near Picasso’s studio.

I cook my famous one pot smoked paprika chicken and put it in the oven for tea. I rest back on the sofa until the local florist delivers the flowers I ordered for my partner earlier in the day. Shortly afterwards my partner returns home to her flowers. The evening arrives, the family eat and I watch several episodes of a European detective drama. I take my meds and go to bed, I feel exhausted, this cycle is being rough.

Thursday and I wake earlyish. I start by thinking that I am feeling okay and I have a flush of optimism. My partner brings me hot water before she goes to have her hair done. I take my vitals, which are okay and then I do all my messages, emails and news feeds. I get up and make breakfast still feeling that I might be entering the “more chipper” phase of the chemo cycle. I head for the garden to do soem of the things on my “to do ” list. I Open up the Shed and get ready to write, lighting the candles and tidying the desk top. Before I settle down to something creative I re install the washing line that had been taken down to give the garden builder badgers free reign of the garden while putting in the decking. With that in place I fill the bird and squirrel feeders. I am now knackered and need to spend time on the swing seat to recover.

I go to the writing Shed and think about writing letters but I do not have the energy so I decide in stead to make notelets and draw ink pictures in them. I manage three of these before I run out of energy. I wrote a small poem while I rested between cards. My life is a patchwork of small endeavours at the moment.

525
So here I am
in my Shed.
A week into 
Cycle 7.
Its snail pace
for me.
Do a bit,
rest a while,
try a bit more,
definitely rest.
A life full
of small words,
try, rest, bit,
stitched together
by will to live.
Its a patchwork
of little acts
held by ditches
and sewn by hand,
guided by a mind
that will not go down. 
					255 07-05-2026

Amazon deliver my new silver chain for my “Backbone” pendant that I wear. I had ripped the pendant off in the middle of the night when it felt like it was restricting my neck so I needed to replace the chain. I was struggling putting it back on when my partner returned and put it on to me. We eat lunch together before she goes off with her brother to their mother in hospital. I lock up the garden shed and the writing Shed and retreat to the warmth of the sofa in the lounge where I do the days crosswords (without Google) and then draft the days blog so far. By four o’clock I am seriously flagging and think about a nap but do not. I feel I am thirsty but cannot face drinking, everything I try tastes foul.

My evening is going to be quiet, there is football to watch, books to read and numerous episodes of various dramas to be watched. All I need to do is eat, take my meds and sleep until I have enough energy to train again. I thought today might be that day but it was not to be, perhaps tomorrow.

Wednesday and I thought I was doing okay until I woke up at about 9:30. I seem to have slipped back to sleep after waking up at a reasonable time. My partner brings me hot water to start my day with and then after a chat she goes to see her mother in hospital with her brother. They are keen to get there early and miss the morning physio group. I sympathise with this, the last thing I would want to be doing is a load of chair bound exercises alongside the residents of a rehab ward. I check my socials, emails and messages and then look to see if there is a decent football match in TV tonight. There is! After all the internet nonsense I take my vitals to find that my blood pressure is reassuringly normal but my heart rate is elevated. I need to have a word with my heart to see what it thinks its up to. It may just be the response to being poisoned of course. In a flush of energy I shower, which is always a good lift and an instant gratification for having the foresight to install a grab handle over the bath.

I have a very late breakfast and take my meds before sitting down and casting up my journal for the next month. Every day I record what goes in and out of my body and the exercise it does. Its an adapted version of a training diary really but modified to reflect my condition. It enables me to keep track of what effects the various medications are doing to me. Of course in the current situation its all about the chemo therapy. It is my attempt to keep some sort of empirical data that I can use to inform me of how I am coping. Of course the biggest indicator is my PSA level but I only get this once a cycle (every 21 days) so the additional data is useful to keep me focussed and to explain why I might be feeling or functioning in a particular way. It is reassuring that my weekly weight entry on a Sunday morning shows that my weight is stable. I am of course over weight, the steroids partly responsible for this of course, but I am not about to diet when its a struggle to find food that I actually want at the moment.

My partner returns from her hospital visit and we, along with our eldest daughter, go to the local garden centre for lunch. I went for chilli con carne but it arrived with out the “con carne”. Before returning home I bought passata and French bed so that I could make eggs in purgatory later. Once home I rest and the spend ages trying to get access to my website. I spend hours trying al to no avail. In the end I give in and set about cooking eggs in purgatory. For a first go it turns out okay except I was a bit heavy handed with the chilli flakes. The evening is spent watching more A Taste for Murder and gleaning the featured Italian recipes. I of course keep an eye on the football, it turns out Arsenal will be playing PSG in the final later on in the month. I take my meds and go to bed. I am hoping that from tomorrow I start to recover.

Tuesday and I wake early as the garden builder badgers are due to come and finish the new swing seat deck today. Although I am awake my body is not willing to make the effort so I end up lazing and being brought hot water by my partner. I check my usual message and news feeds before ringing IKEA and cancelling the over large bookcase that I ordered yesterday. With that sorted I get up and make myself breakfast as the builder badgers keep on screwing the top decking into place. It is that time of the month when I have to refill my drugs dosettes. The routine serves me well but the chemo is making such a mess of my nails that getting the pills out of the packaging is becoming a pain. It takes me a while but I get the job done. I move on to finish yesterdays blog draft and search around for the eggs in purgatory recipe I saw on TV last night to include in yesterdays blog. My partner goes to aqua class at the gym and I start on todays draft of the blog.

The garden builder badgers set to work on finishing the swing seat deck. By lunchtime they have completed the work and replaced the swing seat on its new deck. I’m really pleased with the way it has turned out and now look forward to using it.

My afternoon is spent resting while my eldest daughter does her PhD viva via Teams in the back room. It seems to go on for a long time. The outcome is that there are some minor corrections and changes to be made but it all seems to have gone well. My partner returns from visiting her mother in hospital with her brother and we eat tea before she goes off with my eldest daughter to see Jethro Tull at the local concert hall. I hunker down to watch a European football match and end my evening with the inevitable night meds and wander up to bed hoping for a sound sleep. I am tired and desperate to get out tomorrow, I need some fresh air and a change, perhaps even a chilli at the local garden centre.

Bank holiday Monday and I wake quite early as my partner goes to the gym for an early morning aqua class having brought me a hot water. I do my usual taking of the vitals, checking messages and e-mails and jotting a short poem. Eventually I get up, not feeling as chipper as I wanted to be but make myself muesli and take my morning meds.

524
Each morning
I wake a ball
of clay.
Each sunrise
I remould myself
for the day.
Each new dawn
a new shape
to hold the world at bay.
A new me
out of the old
to find a way,
metamorphosis 
day by day
just to stay 
in the fray.

					524 04-05-2026

Its not an elegant poem, I was just struggling to express the feeling of the effort each day to get myself motivated to get going. Each day feels like I have to do the same thing but in a different way, so its like reinventing myself for the day to get through the day. Some days I mould something better than other days. Once having had breakfast I start on a draft of the blog and then return to researching bookcases, however I am hoping to visit a garden centre as the sunflower seedlings are nagging at the back of my mind as they need planting out in something that will show them off. New pots, new planters will do the job I think. I might even get a bacon roll or chilli, depending on where I go.

As it turned out the day turned to rat shit and I did not get out or do anything other than stare into space, watch TV and finally go to bed with my meds. My achievement of the day was to watch A Taste of Murder and learn the recipe for “eggs in purgatory”. Nigella Lawson recipe below, but she excludes the usual half or quarter of a sweet white onion so add it in if you like onion at the start with the garlic. She also uses chopped tomatoes but I think passata is better. I’ve added these to the ingredients list.

Ingredients

Serves: 1

MetricU.S.

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1/2 a small white onion
• 1 small clove garlic (peeled)
• ¼ teaspoon dried chilli flakes
• 1 x 400 grams can chopped tomatoes or passata
• ½ teaspoon Maldon sea salt flakes (or to taste)
• 1 large egg (or 2 eggs if needed)
• 2 teaspoons grated Parmesan (or more as needed) – see Additional Information below
• 1 splash of chilli oil (optional to serve)
• 2 slices white bread (or other bread of your choice to serve)

Method

1. Pour the olive oil into a frying pan, then grate in (or mince and add) the garlic, scatter in the chilli flakes and put the pan over a medium heat, stirring, for 1 minute.
2. Tip in the tomatoes, stir in the salt, and let it come to a bubble. It’s got to be hot enough to poach an egg in.
3. Crack in the egg (or eggs), sprinkle the Parmesan over it, leaving some of the yellow yolk still exposed, and partially cover with a lid. Let it bubble for 5 minutes, by which time the white should be set and the yolk still runny, but keep an eye on it.
4. Remove from the heat and serve — if so wished — sprinkled with a little more Parmesan and some chilli oil, and some bread to dunk in.

Your welcome

Sunday and I wake up late feeling the full force of the chemo. Its not unusual but always a pain in the grillocks. So I take my time doing my vitals and checking my messages and social media. Eventually I get up and get into my relaxing blanket and get myself hot water and my morning meds. Fancying something different for breakfast that is easy to do I open up a new box of muesli. I settle down on the sofa and type up the poem that I scribbled in bed this morning.

523
This pen, this ink
write darkly,
not by my hand
but in a me I hide.
That part of me 
scared and letting
the chemo do 
its worst
on a body
that cannot resist.
A tearful me,
depressed and desperate
who wonders if anyone 
notices.
No option but to fight
and see this me
through poetry.
This pen, this ink
is my mirror.
My portrait in the attic
where I can 
keep sight
of this cancerous
reality.

					523 03-05-2026

With the poem typed up I turn my attention to researching book cases. I’m going to pull all my poetry books into one place in the office so I need some new big bookcases that will take them all. I find a couple of possibilities and note them. The ordering and building can take place when I feel better. I move on to watching the world snooker championship. Tesco deliver the weekly food order, which gets squirreled away. This takes me through to the early evening and tea. I have entered the “inability to taste” stage of post chemo toxicity. I am at the flannel stage, diet coke tastes foul. I slide into the evening keeping an eye on the snooker and the football scores while finishing off the blog draft. It will inevitably end up with my taking my night meds and getting to bed as soon as I can. Hopefully tomorrow the post chemo will ease a bit.