Tuesday and I wake up slowly, my partner is going to the gym so I get up, take my meds and paracetamol to take the edge off, and accompany her to the gym. While she does her aqua class I sit in the lounge and eat sausage and egg rolls and work on the poetry blog. I have got permission from the author of a poem to put it on my blog along with my comments. So I work away at the post and then put it up on the poetry website. The blog can be read at http://hhtp//prost8Kancerman.com . I have added the poem below as I think it is a great poem but I encourage people to watch the Mark Carney presentation on YouTube to fully appreciate the poem.

Julie Runacres
Variable geometry
An arrangement of Mark Carney’s speech at Davos, 20 Jan 2026

The sign in the window was a useful fiction
of a Western rules-based order
marked participation, forged our relations
The sign in the window was a useful fiction
gave us options—coalitions with other nations
But now is not transition, now is rupture
The sign in the window was a useful fiction
of a Western rules-based order

The sign in the window signalled compliance
—If we’re not at the table we’re on the menu
Bought us some influence, a sense of alliance
The sign in the window signalled compliance
That felt like resilience, or a form of insurance
Deep down we knew the rules don’t protect you
the sign in the window signalled compliance
—If we’re not at the table we’re on the menu

Because integration meant our subordination
We are taking our sign out of the window
Though the fortresses will be poorer, no question
Because integration meant our subordination
We need new directions, separate from hegemons
A variable geometry based on what we know
Because integration meant our subordination
We are taking our sign out of the window.

I also entered a poem into a poetry competition, something I have not don in a long time. I am not sure why I did it as my poetry is not award winning stuff but I think I just wanted to put something out there.

478
“as a valued patient”
the text says 
as it asks me 
to rate 
my last visit.
What the fuck 
does this mean?
“a valued patient”
that is dying 
but provides employment,
makes all that training 
worthwhile, student debt
tolerable and 
the caring professions 
feeling good.
“a valued patient”
Full of pharma,
giving profits
and status to industrialised
caring and potions.
“ a valued patient”
Nameless,
full of numbers,
a feedback
data generator
in order to show
the medics 
and the medicines 
work.
“as a valued patient”
Who has just been told,
fuck off and die,
you can shove 
your survey 
up your arse.
And yes I am angry 
and I am glad for it,
for it lights the fire
in my belly
that stokes 
me up 
to fight
what is beyond 
the grasp
of statistics
and questionnaires.
“as a valued patient”
you piss me off!


					478 27-11-2025

I think it was more out of frustration with my own situation in chemo at the moment. I just want to get on with it and get over with. With the poem entered I start to look at travel insurance sights and endeavour to get a quote. Its too difficult and the site freezes. Despite a couple of goes I get nowhere so I decide I will have to ring them direct tomorrow or later in the week. By the time I have done all this my partner is back and we head for home.

I have pizza for lunch and laze as the weather turns bad, I do crosswords and then I slide into the evening and episodes of Ellis. I am not feeling particularly well but I get some life admin done, like sending the letter I have written. Tomorrow is a scan day so its an early night and night meds for me.

Wednesday and the alarm gets me up early to shower and get scan ready, no zips, no metal, no jewellery. I have toast and hot water and then dial up an Uber. As I wait it starts to rain and blow cold and I am pleased to get it into the warm Uber. When I arrive at the Diagnosis Centre I hand my letter to reception who send me off to a waiting area. I have no time to read as I am called immediately and a chatty nurse puts a cannula in my right forearm ready for the scan. I am soon shown into the scan room and positioned on the sliding bench. With a few deep breaths and a flush of contrast drug I am soon done. I wait for a while to have my cannula removed and then I order another Uber. As I wait for the taxi it throws it down with hail. Again I am pleased to get into a warm car.

Once home I bring bins in, fill bird feeders and try to do some work. My partners mother has fallen out of bed and so there is a lot going on with getting an ambulance to take her to A&E. I book my 28 day injection time at the GP surgery and negotiate a time to get my hospital bloods done. Just as I think I have things under control a crown falls out of my mouth. I ring the dentist and make an appointment for Friday, putting the errant crown in a specimen bottle and washing it with Listerine. I could have done with out this. My partner messages at gone 4 o’clock to say the ambulance has just arrived to take her mother to A&E and that her brother and she are returning home. I draft the blog. I will not be going to the theatre tonight to see Mama Mia, I am knackered, I have no energy left. The rest of the family can go, I shall rest and prepare for a trip to have my nails done tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep but but I know there are things to do this evening before I can get to bed. There will be night meds and then hopefully sleep. Despite chemo rechallenge life just marches straight on.

Monday and its a grim wake up. Some days I wake up and know its going to be a tricky day. I immediately feel I have no energy. and know I will have to plan my day and spend my energy carefully. My partner brings me a hot water and goes out to meet a friend for a walk in a local park. I rest for a while and write a quick poem to try and capture the way I am.

508
I wake shaky
and uncertain,
its post chemo
and it makes me 
feel alone.
This is a battle
in isolation,
just me and my body
with my mind 
trying to referee.
Remaining calm 
as a world passes
is exhausting.
There is so much to loose
and the grip is tenuous.
I have a “to do“ list,
more like ambitions,
the failing hopes 
of survival
and one or two 
last hurray’s.

						508  23-03-2026
						

I get up eventually and put my washing and make breakfast. My meds get taken and then I settle down on the sofa to start to write a piece for the poetry website. I plug away at this for a while until its ready to send to the poet whose poem I am writing about. I will wait for her response before I even think about posting the blog. With the blog piece on its way I turn to writing a letter. A friend sent me a dual letter a few days ago and I realised how long it had been since I wrote to her. I spend ages writing the letter needing to stop and rest at times. Eventually I get the letter written but it will have to wait till tomorrow to be posted. I turn to other tasks and order a birthday card for my sons now wife. Thankfully Moonpig can deliver to Sweden. By now its late afternoon and I am out of energy so I nap until tea time. My evening is spent watching Dune part 2 again and then I gather up my fresh washing, take my meds and head for bed hoping that I wake in better place tomorrow.

Friday, its chemo day and I am brought hot water by my partner she prepares to go to the gym for her aqua class. I decide to accompany her and dress quickly. I take my meds and then I am off to the gym lounge. My partner goes off to the pool and I sit in the lounge with a bacon roll and a Lucozade sport reading Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber. Its a 1979 book that created a stir when it was first published as it was thought by some to have been soft pornography made out of old children’s fairy tales.

I find the book is a sad comment on the nature of men and women but I think it reflects what as going on in gender politics at the time of it being written. My partner emerges from her aqua class and we drive home to prepare for the Uber trip to the Chemo. The Uber arrives and we pile in and chat as we get driven round the back streets of Leicester to the children’s A&E drop off point. Its the easiest way to get to the oncology centre by walking through the hospital, trying to park by oncology is just not possible unless you are an ambulance. So we march to the oncology unit and I hand in my “dance card” and I raid the vending machine for a bottle of water and a couple of Twix.

We are greeted by some familiar faces in the waiting area and we begin to chat. We ask about the travel insurance that people are using and discover that there is a company that does cancer travel insurance very compassionately and at reasonable prices. It is even possible to get an annual contact. After some more useful chat I get called in about half an hour after the appointment time. Its a bout par for the course. The nurse introduces herself and sets about stinking the cannula in my hand. Interestingly choosing to use a different vein to usual.

I have my now regular pre-chemo preventative meds and wait for thirty minutes to get them in to my system. I missed completely that the team had plugged my chemo bag in as it was transparent, my chemo bag is usually black or yellow to protect it from UV light, to which it is sensitive. After a while I called the nurse over to ask why my chemo was not starting as I thought I was getting saline. She showed me the label on the bag and I was of course embarrassed and had to explain my misunderstanding. Apparently different pharmacists make up the chemo and use different bags. All went well after this and in another thirty minutes I was out and on my way for a much needed pee.

My partner and I Ubered home and as it was getting late we opted for a fish and chip tea, World Indoor Athletics followed by some TV drama stuff until it was time to take my meds and go to bed. I can could feel my stomach beginning to react to all the drugs it had received and so I delayed actually gong to bed until it felt a bit more settled.

Saturday I wake up with all my post chemo symptoms but I have enough about me to message my son in Stockholm who is getting married today to his partner. Their children, my grandchildren, will be attending the wedding of their parents. Its a usual thing in the family. My father and his siblings attended their parents wedding, my children attended mine, my other grandchildren will attend their parents wedding in due course. Clearly there is a family trait in there somewhere. I make breakfast, take my meds and and start to prepare for the Poetry Stanza zoom meeting in the afternoon. There are a couple of late poems to download and read through. I watch the mid day televised football match and then I sit down to the computer in the office and log on to the poetry stanza.

We agree that if we do not stop for a break we should be able to get through all the poems in two hours and so we set off. It goes well, there are good poems this month, there always are, but this months seemed to flow well. My non cancerous poem was received well and I had useful feedback so that I can make a couple of tweaks to make the reading easier. I read the final poem, which I really wanted to do as it was a poem that had stuck with me as soon a I read it With the stanza over I returned to the sofa and watched sport keeping an eye on my messages to tell me that all had gone well at my sons wedding. In no time at all I had pictures of the happy couple.

My evening was spent watching athletics and then episodes of a new drama series. The chemo drugs were still playing fast and loose with my gut so I stayed up late and waited for things to settle before finally gong to bed. It gave me a chance to finish the Bloody Chamber and to start my re-read of the Wasp Factory.

Sunday and I wake relatively early to find my partner reading as usual before getting up. I make her a cup of tea having opened up the garden raised boxes and emptied Daisy the dishwasher. We decide to have breakfast out and get ready for a drive to he nearest good garden centre restaurant. I take my morning meds and drive to the garden centre. There I have the Lady Gardeners breakfast and a ginger beer. My partner and I chat and get up to speed with plans and thoughts. I am impressed by the bloke on the next table who is downing breakfast with orange juice and prosecco. My chemo has kicked in and the only taste I have in my mouth is one of flannel and a hint of ginger. On our way out we buy more packs of bedding plants as there are still empty pots and space in the beds to be filled until the home sown plants are ready to go out after the last frosts. Once home its time to catch up with the blog drafting and soem of the things I have on my “to do” list. One of those is to seek permission from the author of the poem that I am so taken by to put it on my poetry website with soem comments by me. I shall then lapse into watching the football league cup final between Manchester City and Arsenal. I am feeling quite good at the moment and it is helped by the fact that I do not have to face my 28 day jab this Monday but have a full weeks respite before I need to face that again. I am still feeling fatigued and need to rest but I am feeling hopeful, after all my latest oncology review report says I am dealing with the chemo rechallenge “remarkably well”. I’ll take that for now. Eventually Tesco deliver my order later than expected leaving me to take my night meds and going off to bed to start another week.

Wednesday and it oncology review day. My partner brings me a hot water and then goes off to see her mother with her brother. A friend rings me on her birthday and we chat and talk about gifts and celebrations for the day. It was good to hear her in such good form. I get up and make breakfast and take my morning meds. The oncologist could ring any time between 11:30 and 2:30pm so I have to find an activity to keep me occupied while I wait. As I scroll through my news stream, which is mostly adverts and old news rehashed in the most sensational way I come across the BIBA, Best Indie Book Awards. I suspect it is an American money making scam but I am feeling devil may care and go to the website. I enter The Cancer Years Anthology: Man to Man in two categories at $65 a throw. The awards are announced in the Autumn, I do not for one moment think I am going to get anything but I really do not care. With my distraction done I read more of Oranges aren’t the only fruit. My partner returns but still no oncology call. Suddenly the phone rings and the oncology registrar is talking to me.

Normally the call lasts about 30 seconds if I am lucky but this registrar is positively chatty. He asks about my fatigue and how I am coping and we have a conversation. He tells me that my bloods are good and the drop in my PSA is good. He also notes that my kidney function is improving (there goes my excuse to have a glass of red wine), which seems to please him. He gives me the go ahead to go to cycle 5 on Friday. When I tell him that I have a CT scan on the 25th of March he suggests a face to face meeting for the next review, I eagerly agree and note that this will be a mid point review. The phone call ends and I come away feeling that I have been listened to and not played “how long can I keep the oncologist on the line”.

It is a lovely sunny day and warm so my partner is in the garden opening the raised beds and pottering around trying to cut the lawn edges. The trimmers are old and blunt so the activity does not last long. I join her in the garden and get the old Flymo out of the storage shed. Its not been out for years, not since we got a garden chap in to do the lawns. I plug it in and get nothing, only one thing for it and that is to take it apart and give it some care. I gather up tools from the garage and set about getting the “hood” off the machine. I eventually manage this and then clean the motor and oil all the bearings and the main shaft connected to the blade. I put is all back together again and try it once more. It works and when I test it on a small piece of lawn is cuts admirably. There is no stopping me now, I get the garden waste wheelie bin and start to mow the lawns. The smell of new mown grass is lovely and I keep going till I need to sit for a moment to rest. My partner comes and takes over the mowing while I do the grass box emptying and together we complete mowing both the front and back grassy areas. Its a job well done and makes the garden look so much better. Over the next couple of days the lawns will dry out a bit and regain their even green look. The mower goes back into the storage shed and I tidy up my tools and the other odds and ends that I needed to move to get the mower working.

With everything away it is time to retreat to the sofa and cool off and look forward to tea. There is an early evening football match in which Newcastle get thoroughly thrashed 7-2. My partner and I watch the penultimate episode of series 11 of The Brokenwood Mysteries and then I watch Liverpool win their European match. I take my night meds and set the dishwasher going before going to bed feeling tired but pleased to have got the jump on the garden.

Thursday arrives and it is still sunny. My partner brings me a hot water, which I manage to spill and so get up quicker than I had anticipated. I make breakfast and take my meds. Todays meds include the additional pre chemo steroids that are supposed to help protect me. I get them down me and then I clear away the rest of the tools I used to mend the mower yesterday. The garage where the tools are kept and which is also a gym is in a very untidy state so it takes a while to get some order back into it. Finally I am satisfied and suggest to my partner that we go to the garden centre to get new edging shears.

The garden centre is too much of a temptation so we soon have a trolley full of plants as well as a new pair of edge trimmers. There is time for a raspberry milkshake and a pee before we load up Elsie (the car) and drive home. With the plants stowed I head for the sofa and start to draft the blog for the last couple of days. I also download another poem for Saturdays poetry stanza. Todays poem really catches my verbal eye and reminds me strongly of a Gill Scott Heron track called “The revolution will not be televised”, a 1970 track. Its a great track so I share it with you.

e

The poem by a fellow member of the poetry Stanza reminded me of the Gill Scott Heron tack but it was inspired by a Speech by Mark Carney the Canadian Prime Minister. Its a masterful summary of power as it is today and the option for the middle power nations. It contains the brilliant line: “If we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu.” Its 16 minutes long but it is well worth the effort. I wish I could share the poem that came from it but it belongs to someone else. The video starts in French but very briefly, what follows is well worth the wait. Sit down with a coffee and a red wine and enjoy someone telling it how it is currently.

My partner goes out to lunch and I write the blog, drink Red Bull and measure up the area in the garden where the swing seat is. I have taken of its winter cover and now plan to have a deck put in for the swing seat to stand on properly. A friend calls on her way to do Easter shopping in her lunch time, apparently she found chocolate in the back of the pantry that dated back to last Easter, I am amazed, how did that happen in a household with small people in it? I return to contacting a man about a deck. In the afternoon I sit on the swing seat and read thinking that tonight I shall watch the last available Brokenwood Mystery. A new search for a drama series will soon be under way. There will be night meds and pre-emptive steroids before sleep tonight. Tomorrow is chemo rechallenge day, double day time steroids and the Uber to and from the hospital. Its not my favourite day but Cycle five takes me half way through the rechallenge. I’m still here, vertical and above ground and intend to be for a while yet.

Tuesday comes around and its a sunny St Patricks day. My partner brings me hot water and a round of buttered toast before I get up and shower. By the time I have got myself together and taken my morning meds its time to drive my partner to the gym for her morning aqua class. I settle down on a sofa and read Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson.

I have read about the first fifty pages and laughed a lot, which I take as a good sign. Whether or not I was supposed to laugh quite as much I am not sure but I think from the tone of the book I rather think I was supposed to. Interrupted only by a bacon roll and a Lucozade sport I read for the full juration of the aqua class and subsequent shower at which point my partner and my eldest daughter appeared ready to be driven home.

Once home I made myself lunch and sat down to read a letter from a friend. In fact it was two letters. I read my letters slowly and to the taste of peppermint creams, a current favourite. It would appear that I am not the only one that is having a difficult time and I was sad to read that my friend has gone into hospital for a procedure. As the weather is sunny I change into shorts and set about finding homes for all the books and toys that my grandsons used over the weekend. I even put new batteries into the book that plays tunes to the sing along pages. With the decks cleared until next time I head for the garden and refill the bird feeders. My garden flock get through a considerable amount of seed but more voraciously through the fat balls impregnated with seeds. I retreat to the lounge to and check my emails to see if anyone has put forward poems for this weeks Stanza meeting. There are two or three poems that I move to my Stanza folder before sending mine off. I decide to go with a none cancer one, I am not in the mood to be sharing that stuff at the moment so I choose something more neutral.

507
Feet on cold lino
nose against the frost free
little space scrapped 
on the window in my room.
There is a smog
pierced dimly by gas light
and the clip clop of
the Sunlight laundry horse.
Its pig swill day,
the bucket is out
and I want to see
who collects it today.
The trees, still with
see me in the dark
white war rings,
loom indistinctly.
Today some sixty five 
years on in progress
I watch an electric cart
pick up my plastic bin
full of food scraps,
not for swine
but to feed my thirst
for electricity.

			507 11-03-2026

With my days admin out of the way I draft the blog as the sun sets and the heat goes out of the day, time to put the heating back on for the evening. There is tea and then more Brokenwood Mysteries, possibly a quick look at the football, but I am not very interested as all the English clubs are struggling and look like missing out on anything European this season. There will be night meds and then sleep but not before I have checked that I have everything ready for tomorrows oncology review. It will be by phone and I am guessing it will be another thirty second wonder when I will be told my PSA is down and I am good to go for Friday, when I will start cycle 5, the half way point.

Monday and I wake up aware that I can hear a small person chatting away downstairs. My youngest daughter and her family are still here and doing the early morning getting up routine. My partner brings me a hot water and I get ready for the day. The family breakfasts together and the youngest grandson gets picked up and hugged a lot as the family get ready to drive home. The elder boy is full of beans and helps to organise things to go into the car. Eventually its time to wave the family goodbye as they zoom off in there car. My partner and I star to tidy up and return the house to normal. There are several challenges like how to fold up the temporary cot and getting the sofa bed to fold away neatly. My eldest daughter returns from work and expertly wrestles the play gym back into its cover. Eventually and a toasted tea cake later the house is clear and much of the stuff is away.

My poetry collection from the Koestler Awards arrives and I avidly read it. There is some good stuff in the collection, I wish I could share some but copyright would have me. There are one or two gems in the collection but also a lot of the rhyming stuff that many beginner poets think they have to do. Some of it gets by, some of it is clumsy. Having read the collection and revisited one or two of the poems I complete the blog piece on Prison Poetry that I am writing for the poetry website. I finally get it all drafted and then post it at prost8kancerman.com. With that done I start to draft todays ordinary blog while I wait for Tesco to deliver. Tonight my partner will be doing her singing lesson and my eldest daughter will be at art class so I will have a chink of time to myself. Usually there is a football match to watch but not tonight, even tough my team is playing. So I might just indulge in a mindlessly violent film, its a while since I have done that. I might also plan a day out, I am toying with the idea of returning to a big second hand book farm that is close by.

I read my way into the evening finishing H is for Hawk by Helen McDonald before sharing tea and moving onto a film. The film was terrible and I was glad when my partner joined me from an abandoned singing lesson and we moved onto a Brokenwood Mystery. Being tired after the busy weekend I take my night meds and get myself to bed. I have a day to ready myself for my oncology review on Wednesday.

Saturday and I am up trying my best to help prepare for the arrival of my youngest daughter and her family, including the two youngest grandsons. They arrive mid morningish and the house is instantly full of child and baby paraphernalia. There is a quick lunch and there are visits to the shop and much playing. The eldest boy is full of beans and is constantly on the move. Its a delight to see him so lively and thriving. The youngest is sleepy baby but in those times of wakefulness he is smiley and very interested in what is going on around him.

It is the last weekend of the six nations rugby competition and there are still three countries that could win it. So in between playing, reading and cavorting I watch some rugby. As Ireland beat Wales, narrowly it becomes clear that the final match of the day between England and France will be a deciding game. No one gives England a chance given their performances so far. As it turns out England plays well but looses the game by two point. The French win the game and the championship with the last kick of the game.

The evening is part rugby and part Brokenwood Mysteries as I could not resist buying series 11. Everyone goes off to bed early and I linger to take my night meds and then finally go off to bed knowing I need to be up early in the morning as it is not only Mothers day but the day we are off to the zoo.

Sunday and I awake early and get myself ready for an early start to visit the local zoo. By 9:30 we have all piled into cars and are on our way. My partner has worked all the techno magic to get the visit sorted so when we arrive we sail through the entry. We head for the animals lead by the elder of the boys in his desire to see monkeys. The zoo is revamping a lot of its enclosures with the result that the monkeys are more difficult to find. After seeing the zebras, the rhino, giraffes and meercats we finally get to see an ape, gorillas to be exact.

Other apes proved to be a little more elusive, the Utang for example was clearly trying not to be seen.

We walked around until the cold and thirst overcame us and then we headed for the café at the entrance. The youngest was ready for a bottle and we all needed a rest. The café had a glass side which looked out over the snow leopards enclosure and to my surprise the leopard came to drink from its pool directly opposite where we were siting. Magnificent creature, but confines to a small enclosure.

After drinks and visits to the facilities we make our way back to the cars and head for home and something to eat. The eldest boy is happy as he has a new cuddly monkey to play with. Pretty soon people are either playing or napping and the house is full of children noises. I take the opportunity to start to draft the blog. After tea time there are birthday presents for my youngest daughter once the grandchildren are bathed, fed and safely settled down for the night. After an episode of Brokenwood Mysteries everyone but me goes to bed and I am left to watch Mock the Week, finish the Tesco order, take my night meds, set the dishwasher going and finish the blog. Then its off to bed.

Thursday and I wake to a cloudy and grey day after a reasonable nights sleep. With breakfast and meds out of the way I am ready for when the electrician arrives to fit new kitchen lights. He arrives dead on time and beavers away for just over half an hour and then announces that he is all done. The new LED light are replacing old bulb halogen lights. The new ones run straight off the mains and are much brighter. I am really pleased with the outcome. I pay the electrician in cash because as he says “cash is always good.”

With the departure of the electrician I settle down to start to write a blog piece for the poetry web site. It is about prison poetry and focuses on some recent poetry that I have been reading. One of my sources materials is Charles Bronson’s 1999 book of drawings and poetry. It was difficult to obtain as nowhere seemed to have copies and many said it was unavailable. I eventually found a single copy and brought it at an inflated price. During the morning the Bronson book turns up and I set to and read it from beginning to end. It is an interesting experience, and adds an important element to what I am writing.

I have lunch before my partner goes out and I spend my afternoon reading and writing. I am still reading H for Hawk and becoming involved in what the outcome will be in the relationship between the falconer, the Goshawk and the the Falconers grieving for her father. By early evening I need to stop and watch a football match, eat tea and then while away my evening watching series 10 of The Brokenwood Mysteries. Before long its time for night meds and bed. Tomorrow is a bloods day, which means I get a PSA score. Down is the only way I want my PSA score to go.

Friday, bloods day and I wake up feeling off but get up to have breakfast and try to contribute to the organising that is need to prepare for the visit of the youngest grandchildren. My partner goes to do some shopping and I take the opportunity to catch up drafting the blog. At lunch time I wander down to the GP surgery, accompanied part of the way by my partner. When I get to the GP surgery the nurse calls me in and then takes twice as much blood as usual, apparently its time to check my cholesterol! I point out that I have more pressing issues than cholesterol but to no avail.

I meet my partner on the journey home as she returns from the village shop. There is a brief lunch and then the afternoon us spent getting the house ready for the weekend visit by our youngest daughter and her family. Slowly things come together, mostly due to my partners efforts. Eventually there is no more to be done, there is time to read and then tea is eaten. The evening sees the the end of series ten of The Brokenwood Mysteries and Death in Paradise. I return to the blog as I let TV give me wallpaper while I wait for my blood result to come through. At 11:45 my bloods come through and my PSA is down 2.2 to 6.2. This is a real result. All the pain of this cycle is now worth it. It justifies my original decision to go for the Chemo Rechallenge.

Wednesday and I wake early for me and listen to music while my partner gets ready to visit her mother. She brings me hot water and then leaves. I reflect for a bit and become aware that the new food swill collection is taking place. Our nice new plastic food waste bin is being emptied and will eventually be fed into a digester to produce something that can be used to make electricity. It prompts memories and a poem.

507
Feet on cold lino
nose against the frost free
little space scrapped 
on the window in my room.
There is a smog
pierced dimly by gas light
and the clip clop of
the Sunlight laundry horse.
Its pig swill day,
the bucket is out
and I want to see
who collects it today.
The trees, still with
see me in the dark
white war rings,
loom indistinctly.
Today some sixty five 
years on in progress
I watch an electric cart
pick up my plastic bin
full of food scraps,
not for swine
but to feed my thirst
for electricity.

			507 11-03-2026

I get up and dressed, down my morning meds and then head for the village pub, picking up a paper on the way. I settle into a table and order coffee and a full English breakfast minus mushrooms and start the crosswords. I am aware that I am anticipating the arrival of the prison poetry books that I have ordered and remember how old clients in prison often found poetry as an outlet for their feelings as they emerged during therapy. Much of it was like adolescent first attempts and was at times painful but often people found very powerful forms of poetry to express their needs. Once found it seemed poetry became part of them. My thoughts prompted me to put down another poem.

506
Prison poetry,
the real stuff
not the personal
trapped inside struggles,
has an edge.
The taste of metal
in the mouth
and the surprise
of a stabbing.
Raw and passionate
held in arms
that ache in the night
for the lack of comfort.
The loss of intimacy
and  being human
suddenly the only 
bedfellow.
In a world of
muscular armour
suddenly words
become important
to hold what cannot
be shown. 
					506 11-03-2026

With breakfast over, crosswords done I slowly walk home and sit on the sofa drafting the blog and catching my breath, while sipping ginger beer. My partner returns and I carry on with my days to do list. I do not think I will make it to the garage to wash my car so focus on the rest of my list. I can afford to dawdle, I’m not n a rush. My partner is dining out for a late lunch so this afternoon is free for me to read and write. On checking my emails I find the new edition of the Visionary has arrived.

I am of course not a proper Minister just an internet one although I was awarded a doctorate of divinity, I have the certificate to prove it and in theory could conduct services in the USA and possibly in the UK. Away way in this edition of the Visionary was an article on the way US soldiers are being told by commanding officers that the Iran war is fulfilling an ancient religious prophecy and that it is causing issues in the armed forces. It also reported on a father who was convicted of murder when his 14 year old sin committed a school shooting. The Visionary is a fascinating insight to American politics and issues. Again in this issue it reports that Florida is about to pass a law that says churches can use armed members of the congregation as security without them needing to be licenced like other security workers, or trained. It means that the churches avoid paying for their security. The comment thread is fascinating. One church notes it uses a congregation member who is an ex serviceman and that his service is counted as his tithe to the church. Anyway included in the Visionary is a link to a video of a famous evangelical preacher from the Cornerstone church giving a sermon on Epic Fury and how it is part of a biblical prophecy. It is truly terrifying watching the performance and the depth of bigotry, intolerance and levels of cognitive distortions that are present. All served up to a huge live audience and a streamed internet audience. The ushers of course passed amongst the audience at the end when the congregation was singing God Bless America collecting for the Cornerstone Church. It is difficult to comprehend that so many buy this kind of message but once over that hurdle its easy to see why America is where it is. It is a nation at ideological war with itself so its no wonder that its court are continually full of litigation about rights, constitution and freedoms. It was an interesting, if disturbing, watch. The basic message was, if you are in the shit, pray.

By late afternoon my body is telling me that my gut is not well and I resort to being quiet and sipping Lucozade and drafting the blog. I sink back to reading and waiting for tonight’s European football and also more Brokenwood Mysteries. I have now invested in season 10 and I know that there is only one more series to go. It could be a crisis but I expect there will be something else, although I will miss the Russian pathologist Gina Kadinsky whose happy place is the morgue. I shall aim for an early night to see how my gut responds and then tomorrow the electrician arrives to put in new kitchen lights above the sink and work surface. I am hoping some of the poetry I have ordered will arrive and I can make a start on the piece for the poetry blog.

Tuesday and I wake to a departing household, physiotherapist and gym. I make a plain breakfast, take my morning meds and watch the BBC news channel. Its all Iran. I pop my washing into the machine and then I set about filling my drug dosettes for the next two weeks, which means it covers the start of my next chemo cycle, cycle 5, (the half way point). I have to pay careful attention as I have to eke out the daily steroids to get me to the next cycle when I will get more. The dosettes get filled and I recheck them at least twice so I know I have everything in the right order. By lunchtime I am fully organised, washing done and away, drugs sorted, and my mind wanders to amuse itself.

It is a while since I have blogged on the poetry website, http://prost8kancerman.com. So I begin to think about what might to the site. I notice in a news feed that a serving prisoner has an art exhibition in London. The name is familiar so I have a look at the article and find the person in question has at some point published poetry. I go on an internet hunt for the volume but find that everywhere says the book is unavailable. After a long search I find a copy, over priced, but I indulge myself, so with luck I shall be able to write the blog I want to about prison poets and/or poetry. Its is a mini project that will keep my mind ticking over and produce some sort of out put. My partner returns from the gym and whisks me away to the garden centre where I can indulge in a sausage sandwich and a real coffee. Of course with mothers day looming it was a good opportunity for my partner to buy a suitable floral bucket to take to her mothers when she next visits. Back home I catch up with the blog and plan my evening. There is a lot of European football on TV tonight but there is a limit to how much I can watch before I get bored, so I am guessing there will be more Brokenwood Mysteries to watch. My “to do” list is growing and one of the jobs is to take the petrol station and clean the car using the super “do everything” car cleaning bay, so tomorrow when my partner is visiting her mother I shall head for the array of pressure washers and give Elsie ( the car ) a good cleaning. Elsie has been with me now for 7 months and has now just over 2000 miles on her clock from where she started at 95. She is siting on the drive with a full tank waiting for us to take her on a journey, so once I can get the chemo rechallenge out of the way by mid July we shall be off somewhere.