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I did not write this piece to rant or rave or sound off. I wrote it partly to record my amazement at the new open medical methods of doctor/patient honesty.

There is no more of the old-style, brusque Dr Cameron type barking of "You'll be having your leg off in the morning, Mrs Smith - but never mind. We'll soon have you hopping back down to Tesco's for your man's tea!"

"But doctor, I was only admitted with a sprained wrist!"

"Ach, doctor knows best, Mrs Smith, doctor knows best!"

And they still do - but at least they talk to you about it more openly. I wrote to try to offer just a crumb of comfort or a speck of solace to anyone who finds themselves in this dark, hard place. I wrote it to try to inform and even entertain.

And I wrote it because I am a journalist and this is what I do.

Journalism is an ephemeral trick.

Even the finest stuff will keep the fish and chips warm next lunchtime (EU regulations permitting) and wrap the cinders by nightfall.

By then life itself is ephemeral.

And when I look at it, the next six months of chemotherapy and what comes after, I'm aware I might be looking at the premature cinders of my life.

But they are not ready for wrapping. Not bloody likely. Not bloody yet.

Do you have a story about the regional press? Ring 0116 227 3122/3121, or
e-mail pastill@nep.co.uk