Its Tuesday the 7th of January 2025, the fifth anniversary of me and Rocket finishing my first round of Chemotherapy. I survived minus hair and as I walked out of the chemo delivery ward I gave the survivors bell a cold stare and passed it by, I knew then, as I know now that getting through those six cycles was just the start of a long, bitter and draining struggle. Plenty of people get to ring the bell and die pretty soon afterwards, this guy was not for the rituals but for the reality. I ‘m still here and I am still standing and I intend to be in five years time.

I go through my usual pre-rising routine of checking my vitals and my socials. My vitals are good and my socials inconsequential so I get up and get my training gear on. Down stairs I pause to take my morning meds and get my ear buds wedged, then its off to the garage. Its 3 degrees but I set myself up for an hours row. This is a big anniversary and deserves a big push. I set off at eleven in my sunglasses to avoid the annoying slit of sun that comes over the top of the garage door and just keep going through the inane chatter adn music of Radio 2. By the time noon comes up I’m flagging but I have got over the 11 kilometre mark and shed over 700 calories. First hour session of the year, there are many more to come.

I get out of the cold garage and record the session in my journal and for a while to rest. When I am ready I go to the kitchen to make myself the desired crumpet breakfast only to find that they had all been eaten by the rest of the household. So for me its a toasted bagel. I am eager to get to my journal I have a line in my head that came to me when I was rowing and combined itself with something a friend said about me when I last met a group of friends to eat together. It takes a while to get the ink to flow but eventually I get to something that feels right.

425

My poems are the whore house
of words.
Driven by desire 
to be seen as I sink.
Bought and paid for 
like a funereal mass.
A vanity that is all, 
can’t help myself.
These are fleeting pleasures,
more masochistic
bound up in knots
and thrashed out
to divert time
and compensate for
what’s been lost.
I’ll hang about 
on literatures street corner
showing a bit of ankle,
not brave enough 
for full on
tits and teeth,
until there are 
no more punters,
no tricks to turn.
I shall lounge
in the snug bar
of the last saloon
wrecked and waiting,
deserted by my pimp
and idly scribbling
on the back of
beer mats
and wondering if
there are benefits 
for this old 
slag.

							452 07-01-2025

Having got to the end of writing there was some poem admin to be done to get the last few in the right order. Having a shower is my next priority but once again I have to prime the shower as I get a few low pressure messages before I can get on with my shower. It takes a while to get my hair dry enough to dress and then spend 20 minutes under my partners eye sauna. Feeling quite chipper I return to the lounge with a drink and settle down to read another of the poetry collections that I was given at Christmas. This collection is by the chair of the south Leicestershire Poetry Stanza, Charles G Lauder Jr who is a Texan who moved to England in 2000. His first collection is called The Aesthetics of Breath and published in 2019 in England, so he feels like an honorary Brit. I like his poetry and has a very southern states drawl to it and that deep south politeness which is really charming.

I am happy reclining and reading the poetry when I get a call from my gas fitter who tells me that he cannot do the repairs on the gas fire as the parts are not available. His advice is to ring the manufacturers. I put aside the poetry and ring the company and get nothing but bad news, model is obsolete, spare parts, obsolete, fire obsolete, the upgrade package is obsolete and no longer available, bottom line, I’m fucked, the fire is only 13 years old, says it all about commerce. I check websites for spares but nothing useful is available, so it means replacing the gas fire we have, so in a last desperate act I email the company to ask if a new model will fit into the same space as the old Model 1. I await the response.

The evening arrives as does the evening meal. With that out of the way I once again return to the recliner and start to draft the blog. I am almost out of spoons so look to TV for relief, there is Blindspot, Silent Witness and football to choose from before I take my night meds and look towards sleep. So far I seem to be managing my 28 jab quite well, I think making the effort to row for an hour has helped.