Sunday and I wake up late with a headache. Once up its toast for breakfast with my morning meds and paracetamol. While I wait for the paracetamol to kick in I create a Moonpig birthday card for the eldest grandson of my youngest daughter. Hopefully it will arrive on his birthday on Tuesday. With the card on its way I start the draft of todays blog. There is little for me to do today apart from riding myself of this headache and preparing for tonights world cup final. Tomorrow is a 28 day jab, B12 and bloods day so I shall prepare for those as best I can. It is a crucial set of bloods as the PSA result will determine whether or not I get to finish the chemo rechallenge or go onto the last cycle, cycle 10. If the PSA is down by a reasonable amount the logic dictates that I should go for cycle 10, if it is not then its probably best to stop, the question is “what is a reasonable amount”. On average I have decreased my PSA score by 0.86 per cycle but the dosage used in the last two cycles has been decreased. My last PSA score was 3.1. The lowest it could get if the average of 0.86 is applied over ten cycles is 1.4. I will be disappointed if my PSA score on tomorrows bloods does not dip below 3. How much is the question, I think I will be pleased if it gets anywhere near 2.5. If it does I will be inclined to go for cycle 10. I stand by my dictum of “the logic is in the arithmetic”.

Spain beat Argentina 1-0, so its night meds and off to bed.

Friday and a grim nights sleep. I get up late and get my breakfast and take my morning meds. I spend time downloading new poems for tomorrows poetry stanza and reading them through. At some point I convert my eldest daughters PhD thesis from Word to a PDF file for it to be sent off. With that done I head for the garden and finally get the new plant tubs filed with compost ready to plant on the Domeflowers that my partner has grown from seed. With the tubs filled and placed around the garden there is time to tidy away the garden before the evening meal and an evening of TV. I managed to watch all of I Jack Wright. SIx episodes of reasonable stuff which ends up with no conclusion and a bland “to be continued” banner at the end. There is obviously going to be a second series so I need not have bothered until it is out. I go to bed having set the dishwasher going and taken my night meds.

Saturday and I am up early to download my poetry stanza poems and to watch one of the new international rugby while I eat breakfast and take my morning meds. While Ireland get crushed by New Zealand I begin the draft of the blog. I decide on which poem I submit to the Stanza. It is my poetry version of Terry Pratchett’s Dark Morris.

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 it 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 blindness. 
The poetry flows
thick and opaque,
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 dead black.
This is dark poetry,
silent, undeniable 
and final. 							527 10-05-2026 

By 9:30 I am organised and look forward to The rest of the day which will include the third place world cup match between France and England in the evening. It promises to be another disappointment for England if they do not improve markedly.

The poetry stanza goes well and I enjoy my afternoon alongside other writers and poets. Once done I watch England rugby team beat Argentina before watching England football team beat France 6-4 to win third place in the world cup. I take my knight meds and go to bed looking forward to free day until the world cup final.

Thursday and a tricky nights sleep. England had lost the night before in the usual English way, too timid in the end. I had spent some time in the spare room trying to get to sleep but by morning I am back in bed and taking my vitals. My vitals show my hart rate back don to normal and my blood pressure doing okay for a 78 year old. I must get back to training on the rower again. I must be feeling better if I am even thinking about training. I eventually get up and make breakfast and take my morning meds. I check my messages and find more poems being posted for Saturdays poetry stanza. As I check my socials I have the Stones in my ears and it prompts me to scribble a quick poem based on the fact that my eldest daughter has introduced me to The WIldhearts, a punk band that is still very active. They are an uncompromising group whose lyrics preclude them from ever being played on Radio 2, or any radio I should think, however I enjoy them immensely. Here is my poem.

546
Hurray for the Wildhearts
and their driving fuck you
raucous music.
Punk in adulthood,
still raw and anti the man.
Not a Radio 2 favourite
even if they do spell
Cunt cuntze
to get their 
disc sleeve printed.
As they proclaim,
“there’s always some cunze in the way”.
Its the language of my streets,
my adolescence and probably
most of my adult life.
Its a shot in the arm
to find my thirty something
daughter is a fan
and she was happy enough
to gift it to her father.
I can feel a live gig
coming on.
Elbowing my way 
into the Mosh pit 
I might just recapture
the innocent joy 
of thinking things
can be simple
and its okay to 
point the finger 
at the nice people.
All I risk is being 
hit with a rolled up
Daily Mail. 

						546 16-07-2026

I still cannot decide on which poem to take to the poetry stanza and decide that I shall decide tomorrow. In the meantime I relax and draft the start of todays blog looking forward to the afternoon when I am having my nails done. The cross of St George and the football are definitely coming off my nails today. I still cannot go back to having my “subtle sparkles” on my nails as I’m still in chemo and likely to be so until at least August 13th.

With my nails done and the decorations removed I wait for my partner in the gym lounge and idea away the time by doing the Tesco order. Once my partner arrives we return home where I sit on the patio while my partner snoozes on the swing seat. By the time we are both ready to eat no one wants to cook so we order in a take away and eat out on the patio. The rest of the evening is spent on the patio chatting, planning and watching the bats zip about. Time flies by and at 11pm I clear away, take my meds and get myself to bed. I am conscious that its three days to my next set of bloods which will determine whether I get to do Cycle 10 of the chemo rechallenge. It is also three days to my regular 28 day injection so the beginning of next week is a crucial time.

Wednesday and I wake up slowly and to the hot water my partner brings me along with some toast. She soon depart to the gym taking with her the compost we bought yesterday as I was not quick enough to unload it. I take my vitals that seem to be okay and then get myself up to take my morning meds. The garden guy is coming today so I make up a list of things that need doing in the garden and print it off for when he arrives. I start to draft todays blog in anticipation of tonight’s world cup semi final between England and Argentina. Its going to be either a night of joy as we beat the Argies or one of deep disgruntlement as England bottle it. Argentina are a beatable team but it would be typical of England to whimp out and play like timid mice. My pre match preparation will consist of making sure I have enough chilled drinks in the fridge to see the match through and sufficient snacks to keep my energy levels up.

With the poetry stanza coming up I check to see who has sent poems out and to download them into a folder for the day. So far there are only two poems but I suspect people are holding off till later in the week. I’m doing the same thing as I’m not sure whether it should be a cancer poem or another type of poem. I shall spend time in the Shed to think about it and perhaps write something as the day begins to warm up.

What actually happened was I spent time potting up some more plants and making a list of garden jobs for the garden guy who rocked up late afternoon. I completed the days crosswords and then drifted idly towards the England v Argentina match. England lost a game they were wining due to the manager making the wrong substitutions. That’s German manages for you. I watch the final episodes the of The Light in the Hall, take my meds and go to bed. Its disappointing that England lost but hey ho that’s the England team for you.

Monday and I wake drowsy and it takes me a while to come round. By about lunch time I am ready for a trip to the garden centre to indulge in a bacon roll and a decaf coffee. Of course my partner and I wander round the plant section and plunder the end of season bargains. As we leave with our eight new plant we find the “free to a good home” trolley stacked with Dahlias. So we load up a tray and take those home as well. Its straight into the garden and some serious rescuing of the Dahlias. A complete deadhead and soaking. I prepare three small troughs with fresh compost and then my partner plants the Dahlias in the fresh troughs planters. When all is in order I put them out in the front garden, a new layer of flowers. Now its about waiting and seeing if they recover and throw more buds.

The effort has been considerable so the reward is a salad eaten on the patio and followed by the days crosswords. There I sit happily till the evening freeze turns chill before I retreat to the lounge and TV. As an adventure we watch a “Welsh noire” drama. Its a concept I had not thought about before but on reflection it makes sense. All that changing into Welsh when you walk into a shop, clearly the buggers can’t say it to your face so they are obviously up to “noire” if you ask me. As it turns out it is slow and bigoted and not very likely but I’m sure there will be a woke twist to it. Clearly the already convicted child traumatised loner did not kill the missing person, its just a matter of how long the writers drag the story out and what twist they think they can find. Strangely and probably stereotypically I’ve not spotted a single sheep in this rural tale of despair and revenge. I go to bed having taken my meds and reflecting upon an email I received from an old work colleague from my days at the Retreat York.

Tuesday and I am awake quite early, very predictable as today is a dentist day. No time for vitals or idle chit chat I get into the shower and then experience the shower cutting out with low water pressure. I improvise and tease the shower back to life long enough to get rinsed. So at a quarter to ten I am walking to the dentists having taken my days meds. My dentist is lovely and understands the issue around me being in the middle of a chemotherapy cycle. She does a quick check and says there is nothing to do other than monitor what we have been monitoring for months now. My gums could be better so she suggests that I go back to using my electric toothbrush and see how it goes. I’m up for this as the baby toothbrushes do not give me the same clean feel. I pay my fee on the way out and head for the chemist to collect my latest prescription.

Once home I fill my drugs dosettes for the next two weeks. I leave the chemo steroids out as I do not know if I am going to make cycle ten. I am listening to the Stones new album when my eldest daughter asks me if I have listened to The Wildhearts CD she bought me at one of their gigs. I said I would find it and give it a go. My partner returns from the gym and we go to our local garden centre for a bacon roll and a decaf coffee. While we eat we select our grandsons birthday presents and do the appropriate organising. There are no plants we want but as we leave we pick up three more bags of compost as we still have pots to fill.

Back home I put the The Wildhearts on and listen to them as I draft the blog. They are a direct and to the point punk band and I like them. Noisy rude and profane, my cup of tea, they are anti establishment and probably speak for a lot of people. Alienation is the name of the game and I think it speaks to a lot of people right now.

I ease into the evening and head towards the first world cup semi final between France and Spain. I also start to trawl through my latest poems in order to choose one for the poetry stanza meeting next Saturday. Its a Zoom meeting so I am hopeful of making this one having missed the two previous ones. I have a poem in mind but I am minded that it may not go down well with the real poets of the Stanza. As a diversion I take a photo of the yellow Lilies that have come into bloom. Another lovely surprise from the garden.

I move into the evening football and ultimately my night meds but I find myself reflecting on my time at the Retreat in York and wondering how we managed to lose such a powerful and historic place.

Sunday and I wake up already knowing that it will be Argentina that England face in the semi final of the world cup on Wednesday. I am slow to get up but when I do I take my meds and have a couple of yoghurts as breakfast. my partner has gone of to retrieve her others wheelchair and deliver it to the care home. I take the opportunity to dig out my old CD player in order to play the birthday CDs that I have yet to play.

Its a long time since I actually sat and listened to a CD so this is a real treat. It also means I can play the CDs at a loud volume and get the real feel of the music. My first indulgence is the Stones new CD, Foreign Tongues. I love it, its so “Stones” and the whole CD is packed with great tracks. Its back to their blues roots and sharp observations of the world. The lyrics to some of the songs are barbed and clearly aimed across to America. All tracks are written by Jager and Richards except an Amy Winehouse song and an old Chuck Berry classic.

Having listened to the Stones I move onto The Vandoliers album Life Behind Bars. They are an American country rock band who my eldest daughter has been to see on tour here in England. The lead singer is a trans woman from Texas, which can’t be easy. The music is very much of its type, it a good album but not outstanding. The cover design is quite good.

Having enjoyed my listening so far I turn to my third album, a new one from the Cure, who I used to like. Tracks from Boys Don’t Cry like Fire in Cairo were fun and very Cure. This new album, Songs of a Lost World is very different. At first I thought I had a dud disc as there appeared to be no lyrics but eventually the words came in. Fir example is took six and a half minutes to get to the song words on the last track of the album. This was a pattern through the whole album. Its mostly the Cure being self indulgent and trying to “make meaningful music”. Its a terribly desperate album. It feels like others have done this sort of thing better.

So my musical morning comes to an end when my partner returns from visiting her mother, We have lunch and then sit for a while on the garden swing seat and plan more for the garden. With a new plan we go to the garden centre where we fortuitously find exactly the square pots we wanted. We add some additional food and I sneak jelly beans into the basket before we return home. Once home I settle down to draft the blog and discover that the men’s Wimbledon final is just starting at 4:30. Two big servers beating each other up, so everything goes on service and will no doubt go to tie breakers.

So it’s tennis and then food into the evening as my eldest daughter makes her way back from a party excursion to Norwich. The serious business of finding a new drama series to watch. The evening passes and I finish my night with night meds washed down with raspberry lemonade. Tomorrow is a day to spend in the garden and to write something.

Friday arrives and finds me having slept little in the heat. I get up for breakfast and meds as my partner goes to the gym. During the morning I ge a message confirming my car service booking but I also get the proposed cost, a whopping £527 My immediate response was “Fuck off”. I ring the franchise and tell them to shove their service, I’m not paying £500 to have an oil filter changed and new oil plus a visual inspection on a 74 plate car with 2400 miles on the clock. Its a liberty and typical of this trader. I’ve had experience of them before when they tried to charge £300 for a stuck seat belt and one they damaged at an MOT. I fixed the problems with a can of WD40 and the car passed its MOT at our local garage. Sandicliffe in Loughborough are just opportunist fly boys whose service centre cannot be trusted. So I shall be booking my car in with my regular local garage.

When my partner returned from the gym we went to the local garden centre for a drink and something to eat. With my lunch done we go and seek out some square planters to establish the Eacheana (Coneflowers) for the summer and get ready to plant out bigger plants in the Spring of next year. We also pick up more compost. Once home I hide from the sun and watch some of the Wimbledon tennis.

The day progresses until the evening when the family eat and wait for todays world cup quarter final between Spain and Belgium at 8 o’clock. Spain win 2-1and with that I take my meds and go to bed. Its still very warm and in the small hours I decamp to the spare room and discover that I am most comfortable wrapped in a cotton kimono. I finally manage to sleep.

Saturday finds me emerging sleepily and finding that there is already rugby on the TV, which I watch on my phone. I get up for breakfast and watch rugby, hiding from the intense heat. The patio tiles that I have ordered to use as pot stands arrive. I spend some time barrowing the compost that was bought yesterday to the back garden and setting things up to do some potting up later in the day. The lily’s have burst into flower and look magnificent.

The afternoon is spent potting up plants and relocating pots onto the patio. Its exhausting activity as is the clearing up and getting everything back in the store. It’s a late tea and then some TV before watching England squeeze past Norway to win a semi final place against Argentina next Wednesday. I take my night meds and go to bed very tired.

Thursday and I wake up after a crap nights sleep. I eventually get up and retreat to the recliner to rest. My partner brings me toast and a hot water. I’m stuck for the day with overwhelming fatigue and do nothing apart from some light garden watering, paying my car tax, booking the car in for a service, booking my 28 day injection at the GP and booking my hospital bloods for that same day as my jab. I also write a brief poem and update bits of the the new poetry collection blurb.

545
Words are my only weapon
as I run cycle nine.
My body inert
as it freezes 
under the drugs thumb.
A hollow shell 
that rings
when the world 
knocks. 
Rest is everything,
everything is rest
as I wait for recovery
and the reassurance 
that the poison 
is killing the cancer.
My blood is the spy
that reveals my state
and points me forward. 
Somewhere the words 
are primed 
and ready to 
be fired.

			545	09-07-2026		

As for the rest I nibble food, sip drinks and wait for the evening quarter final football match between France and Morocco. At the end of the game the Tesco order for tomorrow will get completed, my meds taken and I will try to get a night sleep. The heat wave continues, which makes getting to the garden centre to finish off the things that need doing an up hill task. It doesn’t help the fatigue either.

Tuesday rolls around and I take a shower and get myself some breakfast along with my meds. Its a quiet morning until about lunchtime when the boiler service guy arrives. He is very quick and efficient and he is soon handing me the gas boiler certificate. He drives off and I then go to the chiropodist. Having parked up in the Co-op car park I walked over to the chiropodist, which knackers me. I have miscalculated how fatigued I am from the chemo and arrive out of breath and needing to rest for a bit before my feet can get started. Once under way I can enjoy the experience through to the final creaming of my feet. My feet feel great. I rebook, pay and then walk very slowly back to the car. I drive home and slump into a heap.

There is a football match to watch, Argentina scrape by Egypt and Switzerland beat Columbia on penalties. There is time for an episode of Shades of Blue. I unpack a big big birthday parcel from a friend ad take a photo of me with my presents. Such fun.

Eventually I go to bed having taken my night meds, set the dishwasher going and putting out the food recycle bin and waste bin.

Wednesday and I wake up in the spare room. I get given a hot water and then get up to move my car so that my partner can go to the gym. I make a substantial late breakfast and then go to the writing shed in the garden. I have placed my new friend (phenology head) and my moon picture in the writing space. I intend to spend some more time there writing more material.

I sped the afternoon lazing on the garden swing seat until the heat drives me indoors to the cool of the fan. I watch Author Fery win at Wimbledon and move on into the evening. There is no football so at last I get to watch Shades of Blue to its conclusion. Such an American redemption ending that somehow leaves the corrupt police team in tact and the heroes of the piece. Americans are so twisted in their moral dilemmas. Cleary bent cops with good intentions are better than straight police. My partner and I take a time out to water the garden. At the end of the night I take my meds, draft the blog and go to bed.

England win at 4 o’clock in the morning beating Mexico 3-2 with ten men, its my 78th birthday so its a birthday that starts very well. Needless to say I am knackered as I crawl to bed at 4:30 to the sound of the dawn chorus and the sky getting light. I surface about nine o’clock and I am treated to birthday hot water and toast in bed. I have several Happy Birthday messages to reply to as I gradually get myself together. Eventually I get up to my post and a delivery of T shirts. I take my morning meds and get organised for the days heavy slothing and cake eating that waits ahead of me. I intend to do nothing but indulge my inner sloth and revel in the fact that I am alive, vertical and feeL loved and cared about. I also celebrate that I can still create by writing, read and have a garden to tend. As Cicero said what more can a man need or want.

I intend no more for this days blog. I shall meander through this day leisurely until the evening football match between Portugal and Spain and then go to bed a year older and pleased to be so, I have a lot in front of me including a new poetry collection and some leisure time away. There is if course finishing Cycle 9 and doing Cycle 10 to brining this rechallenge to an end. Reach this and then I can rest for a while and recover for the last of summer and, what I am sure is going to be, an Indian autumn.