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A decade on from dancing in the middle of a Birmingham fountain at midnight, we still hold hands in the street and I've never been ashamed to do so. And then, of course, there's our son, Patrick. And if this gets too sloppy here, then don't read any further.

Before he was born, we'd nicknamed him Sir Patrick McLean QC. He was - is - going to be a boy with a big future. On the night he arrived at St Michael's Hospital, July 4, 1993, my world was complete. Nicola and he were everything I'd ever wanted and the drive home to Farrington Gurney in our battered Volvo in the early hours of the next morning was like a dream limousine ride. But now, if I don't fight this, who'll make Nicola laugh? Who'll be the guiding light for my son who it's my job to protect, to raise, and to love for ever? Who'll get to read him the last ever Harry Potter book at bedtime? Who'll be his children's grandad? It had better be me.

It didn't take long for bureaucracy and red tape to raise their ugly heads, but when they did, they simply became an incentive. In a strange way, I felt sorry for my oncologist, a kindly, brisk and straight-talking man, who could only offer what hope he could afford.

Simply, there was no point in operating and chemotherapy itself might not be too effective but there was a clinical trial which may offer some help. The problem was, that despite the fact I would be the first local candidate to be entered, the Bath Area Health Authority would almost certainly refuse to foot the cost of the treatment, which involves a random mix of drugs pumped into the body for 48 hours every two weeks.Why? Because of the expense. Now if that wasn't a red rag to a bull, then what else could be? Let's get this straight: we all pay into a central bank with our NI contributions.

We don't have a say when whichever colour government decides to help itself to more. But when you go along to a branch of this particular bank and try to make a withdrawal, you find your cheque book is full of duds.

And it hurts even more when you sit in a doctor's surgery next to a couple of shambling, grunting, stinking drug addicts who at some time have made a conscious decision to take the narcotic that's blighting them and you know that the choice to be in your condition hasn't been made available to you.

And they get the treatment they want. If that sounds bitter, I think I have a right to be. Unethical, was my doctor's word to describe the AHA's stance, but within minutes he had confronted a senior colleague and won unofficial backing to go ahead. That was the first sign. Then two things became clear. The first was that whatever my situation, however deserving my case might be, even if I had the slimmest chance of survival, the best I could hope for was only what the doctors could offer within the remit of the health authority. That meant, effectively, I was, despite the best available care that will no doubt come my way, a write-off.

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