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Back home, I waited to see the next consultant, to discover what the battle plan was to be. I took to looking at the nightlights across the floating harbour, dancing on the black water. I could never dance.When I used to try, I looked like a drunk trying to stamp out a fire in a wastepaper basket. I used to be able to walk, mind.

When thoughts like this came flooding in, I'd gaze out into the dark and try to find my courage, which often seems to get stolen by a thief in the night.

My girlfriend Gloria's courage has been inspirational. If she cries for me, I do not see it, yet I know she does.

If she complains, I do not hear it, although I suppose she must, having to contend with my cranky, frustrated ways.

She lets me get away with nothing, of course. Once, I was bent in two, trying to tie my bootlaces and cursing with a fine fluency, between puffing and blowing. Gloria looked at me.

"Well, hurry up," she said. "I'm not tying them - you're not an invalid."

** ** **

The really tough bits have been coping with the kindness and reactions of people.

It was tough telling my 70-year-old mother that the chances I'd be leaving the party early had gone from likely to possible; the party she'd brought me to 47 years ago - this party called life.

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