Dizzy spells ah week 8 swells

With Gordon over looking after his Dad, they've ventured north towards Dunblane and pitlochry although whether either happens once Gordon gets behind the wheel, crazy things do develope. I remember a trip up from Galashiels once that involved some crazy manoeuvre and memory doesn't serve me well. I'll maybe ask what happened next. Either way Rosie will potentially get a visit as well as Tom and Sandra and the occupants will return safely to Edinburgh for bedtime.

I on the other hand am trying to work out why I've got these massive dizzy spells. It's 3:30pm and while I've had a Weetabix it's only the one. I was unable at 3am, 7am and 1pm and had to retreat to the bed. I think it was a lack of shakes yesterday as I foolishly thought my poached egg and roll counted as a meal along with the Weetabix and only had 3. I've had two so far and will make sure I have 5 today as my weight dropped to 14/12 again having been at 15/3 for a few days now. It's a full 2 and half stone off where I was so that alone makes me feel giddy but with Jackie recovering from her own dizzy spells it's just mad to follow on.

The other reason is one of those great knock on effects you get on the Camino Can'cerre. You solve one problem by creating another, quite simply because you get too focused on the issue of the moment. That narrow vision fixes the issue but compounds the condition. In my car the scarring on my neck was so bad by Saturday that sitting watching the football all day and not going out meant I neednt wear a shirt. Two days shirtless over the weekend meant no exercise or fresh air. That for me is a total write off. My body just shut down while my neck repaired. My balance got worse obviously as my BP slid when standing. 

I blamed the lack of food and all seemed better after a couple of shakes, or at least improving before I then went for overkill with mince and tatties followed by ice cream and another shake. Then I had a moment when I blacked out collapsed and came to almost in the same move. That was at 9pm and so I check the usual stuff, BP was fine, oxygen levels a bit low at 90 and temperature fine at 36.5. (I hadn't learned about checking the BP standing at this stage....ed)

It's a mystery but I don't feel as dizzy as I was and the head genuinely feels a bit clearer. I'll check in with the doctor tomorrow and stupid of me not to do so today.even though it did feel like it had massively improved from 9am when I had a massive dizzy turn. I think my legs gave way this evening but not quite sure why. I certainly had a lot of noise on my head but that's normal.

There's been a lot of great firsts on the Camino Can'cerre but I'm not sure that was one of them. I phoned helpline and after a few more tests at home I find myself back in my bay again on the first floor. 

On arrival I'd managed to be upright a bit longer than I'd managed at home, not least as it's the first floor and you need to get a lift.

When I did the house measurements my BP was 116/80 lying down and 88/81 standing up. I was also seeing stars during the standing phase, not comfortable at all. On admission it was 1116/70 sitting and 101/71, no seeing stars, standing so being mobile had clearly helped. That or the three pints of water or both. The nurse took the bloods while the trainee tried to find a finger that was warm enough for the oxygen meter. Eventually I learned another trick which was taken a rubber glove, fill with hot water and get the patient to hold it. The trainer nurse was delighted to get a reading and my fingers felt better for the heat. 

The nurse and trainee came back in to do the heart tracer and that's always fun. It was the trainee's first time doing it so the full training was a joy to listen to and I got to tell them how in awe I am of their profession and all the care. I just never tire of saying thank you to all these amazing professionals. I also got to learn about how to put the 12 leads on the body. Fascinating stuff and then I had to sit quiet, which again was easy as I powered down 

Then after the tracer for the heart and lying on the bed that was me. Ready to sleep and so as the one o'clock gun goes off, I'm having a snooze. I power down really easily and these days of 14 hours sleep are so refreshing to the soul.

The doc woke me at 2.30pm and said it's time to go home. The bloods showed my white cells hadn't recovered as well as expected after chemo 3 weeks ago. They'll check again on Thursday. The tracer must've been acceptable and the main issue is doing the basics, which involves getting back up to 8000 steps not 2000 or in the case of the weekend under 1000.

I've been bad after the chemo both times and while some statisticians might point to the obvious the other issue was my exercise levels fall through the floor along with my eating when I'm in hospital. I didn't mean to starve myself, but I do allow myself to be starved or dehydrated. I reckon I'll get fed soon enough so one bite of a hospital sandwich is plenty. It's those false promises I fall foul of all the time. I then leave hospital and just head to my bed. No food again and the cycle begins again.

Happily though, the cause of all this was my neck which was a real mess by Saturday and is now in fantastic condition.

I can't believe how well the Flaminal Hydro ointment has worked in under a week. The cracking that seemed to get worse all last week is now completely clear. I'd argue my necks never had it so good and soon I'll get to shave the top half of my face too.

It's Wednesday and keeping that football theme or laughing at some madness or other, I wanted to talk about new managers and another broom sweeping away the debris in the first team squad but the manager of the BBC website won the ridiculous moment of the day when they described 1p off a pint of draft beer. Those pedants will appreciate I hate bad spelling, especially when auto correct changes my type from in to on, but whoever thought Draft Beer could fly on a government backed website on budget day. Or maybe that's the fun, it's a budget BBC and who cares about spelling anyway, we've other narratives to sell. There are so many jokes to be had. When I go to Swanys tonight I'm going to ask if you get a penny off the pint if you sit by the drafty door or stand outside. I love the idea of someone opening both doors and then saying, it's a penny off a pint for everyone. I could see Chelsea getting someone minding the door just to stop the draft.

Burnt to a crisp and still peeling

No suprises here, as the week 7/8 deteriorating was well sign posted. My insides feel like the outsides look so a bit raw and sore if I eat.

All through this process I've described how lucky I've been from the early diagnosis, teeth and tonsils out and now we're nearly at Caitlin's birthday and I'm moving towards the recovery phase. 

Everything has been so well signposted that my relative level of pain has mostly just reached uncomfortable. Yes my energy is low, yes I can't eat much, yes it can sting like crazy but no it's perfectly permissible and par for the course. Early on I decided to largely swallow not cough up and so I'm only at the sink one hour a day max and often only for 5 minutes. All the professionals in the NHS and pals currently or previously provided the pain pathway and I'm so grateful I listened. This extends hugely to my diet now.

I've moved to more shakes and only my sponsor's product, Weetabix, is getting quaffed. It's also sore when I swallow but I feel it's only 3 times a day and best I have a mixed diet.

I tried avocado again and it wasn't as nippy but even heavier, slow going. Took me an hour to eat half of one. The last time I put the other half in the fridge before it made it's way to the bin. I share the same confidence this evening. I'll let the boiling water cool then get on with having an evening shake to get me through the night. I've been diluting them with over a litre of water so it's making sure I stay hydrated despite what my neck would suggest.

I do have a feeling that like Del boy, I've fallen asleep on the sun bed. The neck tan, really is a braw farmers tan. I've stopped the pain medication as I'm only suffering when I eat or yawn. If I use the tube then it's not a lot of pain and it passes when you stop doing the thing that hurts.

It reminds me of a trip to the doctor's when I explained my knee hurt when I did this. The Doc laughing inside, looked at me and suggested I stop doing "that". Excellent advice and I've applied it most of my life thereafter. It's why I walk and rarely run. I'll take a lift downstairs but rarely up them. I don't do house or office moves anymore despite my love of moving cabinets around stairwells. I've long admired the geriatric generation of my auntie Mamie and Helen, hit 60 then slow down. This idea of working and keep moving before you get hit are long gone. Retiring at 46 made so much sense even if I missed out on a bit of cash. Those days are behind me and with all the weight I've lost this summer, I feel like I could start running again, but I won't. 

As a kid I was always running, I was in a hurry to either get away or arrive. Over time I've worked out it was mostly to get away. I think when you're a loner you enjoy time on your own. Not all of us need to be psychopaths, although it probably helps. It somehow makes the time spent with others more enjoyable but also you've still got loads of time for introspection. The funny stuff is well worth navel gazing over and I've got quite a back catalogue of behaviour to keep me going long past the end of my days.

I was out for a half with George and Jimmy last night. Swanys was unusually busy for a Wednesday and it was good to get some craic and hear some stories. I really feel for George who at 75 knows his knees are unlikely to be replaced before he's 78 and at that age and operation will be a lot tougher than now. Both have got issues which like most people just get slipped into your baggage if life and so the chat is more about the journeys of the past or even just the past week. They were both in great form and unlike my Dad, there's a new, to me, story to tell. They're both a bit further on the geriatric journey than myself and so it's excellent to get another perspective. The funniest one was losing the last 3-6 months while I stood frozen still in the Camino Can'cerre headlights. I think I've not lost 6 months, rather I've ringfenced this year as my first introduction to the real world of cancer. Every person I've known whose surviving or died had their own experience and I get that now. 

I couldn't hope to understand why normality is what many people with cancer crave and once you've answered the question once about it being a tough journey, there's nothing else to add. Yes, it's as tough as described now let me tell you how good the staff are and why we need to sort their career path. 

Yes, scratchy throat, feels like you've volunteered to gargle glass without considering the consequences. These people do phenomenal work and deserve all our support on providing housing for them at a time when their only way to work for near minimum wage is to live in the hinterland and commute. 

Yes, it's sore, but no more than I expected and was told about. It's certainly not as sore as joining up with two pals to rent a flat where you bed share across your shifts as it's the only way to balance the books and keep working in the NHS.

After a while you realise half the audience paid attention at the beginning and half didn't. You learn that people have strange ways of caring or showing interest. What you learn most is that wonderful expression I read in Dee's website about who can go on the Camino Can'cerre with you and who you lose along the way. It's a great metaphor for life. Don't carry those burdens all your day, you can just put those people down, cut them lose and get on.

Quite simply it's not really my responsibility to understand every needy person, so when people lean back on their chair, feel that smug glare of care,  and think about the poor unfortunates they know, it comes over loud and clear. I used to obsess over not being ignorant then I realised it doesn't bother others and I probably was a lot more ignorant than I knew.

I realise now, so  I listen and concentrate on the many that have joined me on the journey. It's so strange but it's probably a life lesson that my Auntie Mamie and Helen were trying to explain to the 9 year old me. They told me I wouldn't look back after I left Holy cross for Darnestown in Maryland and to be fair it was true. Like when I left Holyrood I have no classmates I know. Once a door closed, that was pretty much it. I moved on to the next party. In the case of Holyrood I'd failed to get a move to Bouroughmuir which resulted in me never wanting to be at holyrood never mind spell it. I was too clever for them and too stupid in my religious self flaggellation, turn the other cheek approach. I got even more stupid when I decided to make amends for all the bullying in fourth and fifth year, then I went to uni and in a final irony, ditched religion. At school, I seemed to have built a list which explains why I laughed so much at game of thrones and the Arya Stark character and her list. 

So much wasted time I laugh, I was too stupid to learn how to play football. It would be another 10 years before someone would explain I was a two footed water carrier. Growing up we just saw the goals and glory, we never saw the structure of how the glory was gained. I never understood why the limelight shone on players who read the game and picked a pass, I saw George Best dribbling.  The subtle and not so subtle ways that people found themselves in a 2 on 1 situation. It was obviously a trick you performed on the field of play, football, basketball whatever the sport, you want an easy opportunity to convert. One where the percentages rise. You give yourself a 12' putt uphill not a 6' putt downhill. Some old heads on young shoulders work this out early, some, even now, still think closer is better. You could put all the percentages in front of some people and like me at 15 they'd still argue blue in the face that closer is better. Running up the wing into a cul de sac a la a Christian Daily, ah, those were the days.

You can't help some people, they know their own minds, and as I said early on in this blog, those people who know their own minds are usually the most vocal as well as being unerringly wrong more often than most. You should never listen to them. They have an illness that forces themselves to believe they are right.

That's ok, unlike my cancer, it's not treatable. They will always be right, especially when they're wrong.

For me as I was navigating from 15 to 25 I think I had to learn that lesson, often in the hardest of ways. The learning never stopped at 25 as it's been lifelong trying my best to use the ears and mouth in proportion. My first experience in the boardroom was a real eye opener where I listened 98% of the time. The Camino Can'cerre really helps this and it's another reason why I'm so grateful for the journey. My throat certainly encourages me to listen more and let more things slide when my impulse is to be a pedant and point out some nonsense nuance or another as if anyone cares. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story and we all like a good story, my mum would say in France.

My two brekkie shakes and my 4am and 9am Weetabix saw my weight at 100kg when I arrived for my Doctor's appointment. The consultation is to check how I'm doing and I need some tape, green juice, paracetamol and a check of my mouth for thrush. I also need to know how to change my tube. If there's a technique to replacing the pouring in section. I still can't explain how I can lift a cake to my mouth and then stop after one bite and 15 minutes of chewing.

I really do power down on the energy front.

It's like the way Europe bailed out the USA with the financial crisis. I remember laughing at how even in 2008 we still hadn't worked out what globalisation meant. Quite simply our love of rules and how easy it was for our rules to be circumvented. We think we can't be conned because there are rules, but we're fools.

We didn't just bail out all of those funds in the USA, we did it joyfully. Then we said our banking industry was about to collapse and could the government step in please. We'd not long finished paying the WWII debt back and here we'd picked up a new debt from wall street, washed it through our banks and handed it via the tax system to every worked who pays PAYE, oh yes, every public sector worker, including our NHS.

I wrote about it 10 years back so won't go over the ground again but like me randomly powering down with the cancer treatment, idiots like my near neighbour who brought down the RBS, wanting to play poker with the NYC gangsters really didn't understand his capability. Worse than that, was we prided ourselves on our rules and he broke every one.

Quite simply we sent a wee boy to do a woman's job. My mum and Audrey Russell who were both in the institute of banker's until they were emptied by the banks in the 1950's for getting married and denied a pension, would've spotted it. If my auntie Maisie was about she would've seen straight through the bluff and the game would've been over. ABM amro was the great Trojan horse and deserves it place in history accordingly. They played a masterstroke as I've documented many times before. I've told the story so many times I feel I was in that room in the Netherlands when puir wee gullible Fred saw the deal being struck with Barclays on Bloomberg. 

Big deal bluffing is an art form and when you have a variety of part time con artists, magicians and gangsters wanting to party together, the best place to be is outside the ropes and a safe distance away from your cheque book. Sadly for the UK we'd become the centre just as we had been months earlier when northern rock admitted what the steal had been.

This is where everyone is culpable. We knew when the bubble blew in October 2007, I knew in August 2006 and yet it still took the UK industry another period of time to finally admit the game was up. What were the regulators, bank of England, non executive board directors, government doing, waiting on their Nannies, oh of course they were. This was a bad poo on the steps leading to the bathroom. It had come out before I was ready. I know the feeling and as a 12 year old that's fair. As a 61 year old, I had to deal with it last week. I had to say don't come in here, I've an issue and it needs more than one tissue. What ages were these bankers, the auditors who signed off, "nothing here Guv," as they traipsed by a box under an arrow signed "toxic debt" aka pretend debt, not really debt, dinnae fret debt, just money we haven't written off yet, debt. Was it UBS who quietly declared £5bn or was it £50bn bad debt provision. I can't remember but they did declare it like it was a manageable amount.

I had a great song I sang through most of 2008/9 using the word debt, and

Dinnae fret, it's just debt or 

dinnae fret Fred, with debt and dead making an appearance.

I'd never met 

A man with Mair debt

His eyes barely wet

We're checking his pockets yet

His boss' absconded I'll bet

Or hiding in retirement 

Puir wee Fred 

It's messing wi his head

He got his way

Almost every day

Until the RBS Wiz dead.

I can't remember them all, they were terrible, the rhythm of the rhyme was higgledy-piggledy and while the sentiment was fair I'd never get close to the sex pistols "Bodies" or "God save the queen", but I did chuckle and cackle as I sang my way along the road.

I remember the Ryder cup at Valhalla in 2008 and we had Nick Faldo captain of Europe. It was as if the banking crisis had invaded golf. It was all about Nick and we took a pasting from the USA. The European team asked if the French had words for deja vu.

Exporting losses onto some "sucker" is the first rule of business for some people. If they in good faith bought something that proved bad, they should sell it to someone who looks sad and tell them it's a bargain. Buyer beware, first rule of the market. You can't blame the snake oil salespeople from NYC for re-packaging it all up into (don't check page 237) bundles of joy. What's that joke about one bad apple, oh unlucky pal, everyone else got a bargain. 

"Who's gonna give me a £1 for what's in this box?"

I've been to ingliston Sunday market and bought a moulinex cheese grater for £1 at the age of 12. I have however as an adult walked away from a £2m deal, a £140m deal and other such deals when I've smelt the air. When I've poked the surface and found this water doesn't make ripples. When I've spotted the con. Just because you always want to act in good faith doesn't mean others should. Yes they could and you'd hope laws would oblige them, but they don't. Financial crime rarely carries a sentence because nobody pursues it, unless it's a charity and if the public find out.

What surprised me most about fearless Fred was that such a charlatan should think he was the only dodgy geezer in town. Apart from the legacy, and the fact our jails are too full, it is one of the funniest corporate jokes that bounces around even now in how not to do business. The difference between theory and practice.

Lost even further back in that history and evidenced by the great film the big short, is those realtors in Florida (and across the USA) all got paid with money ultimately paid by the European taxpayer.

All the NYC houses that packaged the debt so beautifully, those who designed the bows, the brochures, organising lunches that our idiots filled their boots with under Tony Blair's watchful eye, yes it was all going so well too. His pact with baby Bush ensuring we take our share of the USA pain. Capital can flow freely until it's all swallowed up by the baby.

As it hit 5:33 it's time to go back to bed and sing that lullaby dinnae fret, aboot ra debt, no yet, no no, no yet.

I've been very sleepy for a few days now and so enjoying little exercise and mostly sleep. 

The football has been a welcome distraction and so Sunday afternoon sees the game poised at 2-2.

Time to publish 

Treatment over and so Week 7 begins

It's a sleepy "notso fatso" that woke this morning. Sunday saw lots of storms so I was unlikely at 2am to wander down to the car for Weetabix. I went back to sleep, I woke at 7 and after an hour of gargling and rinsing I finally finished clearing the throat. Most people chuckle that it's worse than when I smoked. Those who witnessed me on the smoking balcony of 10 George Street remember it took an hour and five roll ups before I was finally ready to stop spitting. Quite disgusting with hindsight but at 40 I didn't have many years left in me to be fair. 

When Paul Simon and I, oops, I missed a comma and it looks like I'm name dropping.  Paul P,  Simon and I gave up smoking in 2005. I could hardly breathe anyway so I figured I didn't really have many months left as a smoker so I might as well try smoker in remission.

Back to this morning and 8am saw me finally do my teeth again. I've had so much gagging that every time I thought I could get the mouth guards in I was stopped in my tracks. I know how important it is as the radiation destroys the bone so I was delighted to get a good hour with them in. By 9, I thought it safe to go to the car for the Weetabix and by 9.30 I could take them out and go back to sleep. The Weetabix would wait until 12.30. I finally got myself out of bed and fed two lots of shakes down the tube and a Weetabix down the throat. My head was hurting now and I guess it was hunger as I went to bed at 8pm last night, so two paracetamol sorted it. The throat pain has continued to suprise me. Part of me wants to intervene once it's unbearable, but not before it is. Today's issue, if there was one, is the level of pain is well below what I had with constipation, so I figure I'll just let it go. When you yawn or do the mouth Olympics it's excruciating but literally only for that moment. It settles almost immediately unlike the mental turmoil a shank at golf might create. As a result we've been saving the painkillers for through the night. 

After putting 2 shakes through I settled into watching the football and eating some Mr Kipling cakes. They're quite benign so not too much singing from the palate. I'll have another 2 shakes for dinner along with some chicken, beetroot and tatties. I've been eating a small piece of the chicken for an hour now, so it's a pointless exercise thinking I could eat a proper plate. 

I've had 3 very short walks today and during one of them I was delighted I had my nappy on. The truth is I felt I needed the toilet so I went back to the house and sat down. What I didn't appreciate was my limited control from the interventions was still non existent. Phew, I laughed as I got myself a new pair. They advised I keep taking the Laxido but I'm thinking I can maybe scale it back a wee bit. Most blog watchers will probably back that but it was Jackie who confirmed it. Well her nose did, but that's another story.

So now it 9pm and I'm finally putting my chicken dinner in the pending tray. I think one more tiny carrot will see my solids for the day done. It does kick the throat off so probably best I had Weetabix now and start the shakes.

Bed by 10 after two shakes is probably stupid. You gave made the feeding mechanical, by using the tube, but indigestion or should I say digestive support is still required. You don't just lie down like you've had a Christmas meal. I walked up and down the hall being too lazy to just go outside and do once around the building. I've got physio exercises that I do walking on tip toes and also on heels. Funny how being 15kg lighter can make those exercises seem redundant. I'm due to try a run soon and this should be very funny. The last time I was doing my couch to 5k I got to 80m-100m running in under 30 seconds. I know this because I can walk it in 30 seconds and I'm sure it was a PB. I enjoy walking past joggers but I could never run past any, I'm so much slower running. Carrying 14 stone 12 and not 17 stone plus will however change the gig. When I walk the Camino my bag normally takes me over 18 stone, the thought that it takes me to over 15 stone is mesmirising. That's me back to jogging again. It's all very well to say I've arrived at my Latin weight of notso fatso, but I literally have. Fat Al is on all my golf balls, how will I identify now. This abstinence from drink during the preparation phase and then the treatment stages has undoubtedly been a success from the weight perspective. I've no inclination to try wine although I'm sure curiosity will capture me in the next few weeks. 

I keep looking at all these unexpected dividends from weight loss to eczema with all the others in between. When you hear of others cancers you really do feel a fraud alongside them but there is a mindset that changes you with a diagnosis. I think if I had one tip for everyone it would be to try and introduce a cancer check into your Christmas present list. Prevention ain't easy so early diagnosis is your best friend. So many people naturally want to assume the worst but not find out. You are doing your Doc a favour, and all the professionals if you could just get checked out once a year. 

I'm certainly no expert but whether it be blood tests or checking for lumps, being a bit more aware of unusual fatigue, just a bit more self aware as opposed to self obsessed. I'm expert on one thing, myself, and my frailties were clearly capable of being an obstacle to treatment. I think without the cacophony in the car on the way to Crail that sunny day in May, I may well have waited another few days. Even if I only waited another two weeks, it would've been so unfair on those trying to treat me. 

Like with smoking, post cancer treatment will be an interesting evolution of Fat Al. I was reminded when I was reading issue #18 of Deadbeat, that 41 years ago on Friday I woke up. I was 20 and I wasn't at uni anymore. Everyone else was but I'd finished, a bit empty handed as it would turn out, but I was finished. No more grant, no more flatmates no more course work just some resits to do in 4th year, everyone else's 4th year as I'd done an ordinary. I didn't handle this reinventing well at all. In my 3td year I'd taken a handful of subjects described as easy to get me over the line but even an easy subject requires you to go to a class or read a book. I did neither as we had put out 15 issues of deadbeat during that academic year. Normally WoodMac would fill my hopper but they had nothing for me. Mum's picnic basket would appear and fill the void but that October, I was 20 and back drinking on my own in the Avon. I raised a pint to myself as part of my new calorie rich diet.

I'd evolved before without knowing it. I arrived in the USA age 9 and really smart. I beat the teacher at chess, poked fun at how stupid my classmates were, how they knew nothing about their country and just kept reciting that disgusting morning mantra. My Mum had to explain I was Scottish which is why I wouldn't pledge allegiance to their flag, despite knowing why there were stars and stripes. Even as I write it obvious if a shooter came into Darnestown elementary school I'd be the #1 smug target for their pleasure. I could feel the class and the teach singing "start over there". Guns, were big back then and the hunting shooting fishing fraternity was quite an ugly bunch,  it was 1972 and I only had my own self obsession to worry about and the inadequacy of the education being promulgated. One of my class would eventually work in the white house. His name was chuck, and I'm sure he was good at his job, but just saying, he wasn't as a 9 year old. The best of the rest, nah, not even that. I can't remember which administration he worked for but Chuck did make me chuckle. He had a lovely smile and that's always gone a long way. Scots just don't have the same teeth.

My dentist in Quince Orchard could confirm that. As a diplomatic kid, my dental bills were free, or as Dr Yamaichi used to tell me, he was free to fill all my baby teeth and be suitably reimbursed. Lucky him. Smart place to have a practice, it's the USA, wooh, wooh!! Who knew there was gold in that gob of mine🤣. After two years I'd had 97 fillings, route canals and the rest. I was 11 and I had a mouthful of stuff, and it wasn't gold. That had long since left the building. It perhaps explains why my teeth are fairly low on my list of priorities at the moment.

Even with the that prompt, I've still sat down and concentrated on feeding not teeth cleaning. Tube is happy and another bottle has been fed. I then put a pastry in the oven and before I knew it, was back asleep. I was dreaming about all those life changing moments, especially those where I made choices I never knew I was making. We call it sleepwalking and there is no doubt, I'm a champion of sleepwalking both in my youth and adult life. When we were doing issue #18, I think I thought I could still pull off the whole Deadbeat label, venue and fanzine. I saw a pathway which I was sleepwalking towards but it required capital. Where I had no clue, was I was rigid about keeping 10p as the price when early 80's hyper inflation suggested it should increase every year. If you're main cost is paper and you have to start sourcing it with a van at the back door of a warehouse, it's probably not a reliable business model.

After the flood was a popular expression my dad used. I reckon that's what this is, another flood. My hearing and eating will be impacted but I'll have a pulse. Those floods in the past summed up my sporting success. Going to school in Maryland in 1972 saw me one of the best footballers so when I arrived back in Edinburgh I got picked for Edinburgh schools, at basketball. Absolutely gutted I was, to find I was not a footballer anymore. Teachers really enjoy boxing you into a corner and by first year at Holyrood where basketball was a thing there was no turning back. The closest I'd get to a football field would be Easter Road until Borehamwood came knock 15 years later.

While in Maryland my favourite Auntie Mamie died. I used to cycle over for my tea once or twice a week to see Mamie and Helen. I'd play cards with them. They were 60 I was 8. I'd meander through the Grange using different streets to see which let me get fastest going downhill bearing gift of plaster of Paris ashtrays. I was inconsolable when Mamie died and when I came back I went to visit Helen who shared the house in Blackford Avenue with her but it wasn't the same. I was now 11 and Helen was always a bit more severe than Mamie who indulged me all day long with sweets and my absolute favourite mince. She always joked she'd take the recipe to the grave and it was a family joke as neither of them could boil an egg. It was tinned mince but it had been heated with love. I would send them letters, as Roddy Frame famously sung, while we were in the USA but sadly they never visited.

I pass their house almost every day and wonder how two primary teachers could ever hope to afford the £400k required nowadays. They belonged to an era when there was this thing called the professional classes. Those with degrees got to be teachers or doctors and but a house. Those who served apprenticeships got to rent them. Obviously they could buy them but it wasn't obligatory.

Just like issue #19 after the various floods of my youth I find the way time distorts both the length of time and the links great fodder for fun. I retired at 46 because I knew I couldn't work once I gave up smoking. I tried for 3 years but I wasn't interested. I declined a seat on the board because as Iggy sang I was chairman of the bored. My distain for taking free money encouraged me to leave a wee bit too quickly. I could do with £10k a month for one month at 2009 prices, just for a wee poke at myself. How would I spend it now? Certainly not £1000 on staff in my city centre hideaways.

At the time of issue #19 I still had to get a pass in 2nd year economics. My tutor was brilliant but he kept saying please don't tell us what you should have done in honours just give us these answers. Finally I conceded ground and just answered what they wanted, but I'm glad I'm free now to comment.

I wrote a while back about QE, the banks bail out and the catastrophic effects of leaving people in charge of the banks with the aim of making profit while suggesting they support businesses. If you're a modern banking your job is to destabilise your victim and move them to a higher rate as soon as possible. Start with a debt then leverage it. I know that sounds cynical but it's the easiest way to meet targets. Sell the highest margin product first, isn't that on the cover of the sales manual?

Sod businesses that we have loans with, let's sell these loans to sharks who will close the business and use the QE cash to generate profit.

Without hesitation they supported every buy to let mortgage. What's not to like. A higher premium with an asset secured. Within 5 years the property market would be distorted and within 20 years (16 and counting) we'd have a property boom which ensures few can join the ladder.

When Labour were mocked for their renationalise agenda a few elections ago I noticed nothing was said about renationalising council houses. They were worth 15 times as much. Not really a vote winner either when that horse had long  bolted.

What did seem strange at the time of QE was that council house building wasn't to the fore. Again if governments wanted to bail banks out with caveats they should've been able to work out what they should be. They were either stupid, negligent or complicit. I suspect if you put 3 cabinet members in a room I could name their strength.

The time to have invested was at the moment of every shape. If not then as soon after the fall of the government who encouraged it. I bang on about the NHS and how every hospital should come with housing. It seems a glaringly obvious proposition to encourage people to join an industry and get on the property ladder.

There is no will for this as we've long since moved to the L'aissez faire approach. For those in their 30's who bought and are now sitting with a stable mortgage as opposed to soaring rents, I take my hat off to you. For those who couldn't because parents couldn't or wouldn't help, I feel your pain. Some parents naturally think they've done well but they'll need it for later and everyone has to find their own path. Others realise, without worrying, they won a watch and are now sitting on an asset they could never have dreamt would be worth more than their pension. Sadly, your home, your house, the property, is now a pension and that's most of the UK. Those who don't have one will not be encouraged to stay in this country for very obvious reasons.

Unlike Mr Kipling, the landscape over the next 15-20 years is exceedingly tough not tasty as taxation will hit hard against home disposal and the inevitable slide towards care. Government would tax the deck chairs on the Titanic so don't think that your ISA or home is any less likely.

If they move against 2nd homes I can see that fine. If they choose to have a one off moratorium to free up some of those homes, I could see that too, but MPs and second homes is probably too close to the bone. It's their extra pension too you know, one which nobody really cares too much about.

My Mum and Dad bought a house in 1988 in France with the proceeds from a flat in Gala that had been bought for my brother going to college there. I think it cost £12k and was sold for £18k. The main trick my Dad played on himself was taking it over 5 years so it was like a savings plan. He probably wishes he did it in St Andrews when Tom was there and I followed. Certainly my golfing pals would've wished it. It's a well trodden path and the only change to the story I bang on about is the population who go to University. Even if only 10% of parents buy property for their kids, assuming you have 10,000 students that's 1000 properties. A real market distortion. In 1979 you have 2000 students and 200 properties it's an issue but managed.

I've talked in the past about the Armageddon housing crash that I thought was coming in 2026 but I'm reconsidering that thought. I think the worst of the high interest rates has passed us now and the demand for property has not been satiated in the slightest.

I did a similar u- turn when I called the stock market Armageddon crash in August 2006. The 0% low start loans were now moving to full fare and at that stage there were 200,000 defaults. The timing of the loans being written and moving to full interest meant they would rise exponentially for a year. By Christmas it would be millions and soon tens of millions. Houses built on sand, it was all transparent. I stopped putting money in the pension and told Jackie there'd be a crash so just spend and buy all the bargains. 2007 ended and no crash, so I gave up my stance and put my money back in the market. These banks were taking £50bn bad debt hits as if it was small beer. Lying, cheating, defrauding dancing bastards.

How much gold left the building during 2007 when everyone knew. If I knew then surely people in the organisation with qualified assessors could work it out. How many gold plated pensions were written during 2007. Check the list of share options exercised and cashed. Shares transferred to family members and quietly disposed of. By the time of the banking crisis April 2008, the treasure had already left the building and all that was left were a few wretched slimy individuals still trying to find the key for the wine cellar. Had they been taught better, they would've checked the delivery details on the docket, direct to the chairman's house and his private entertainment collection. Part of his 2007 retirement celebrations. Let me guess, how many cabinet politicians attended that one.

I digress, it's wednesday morning and Jackie's labyrinthitis is still scary but a bit better. Like me, week 7 and week 8 are her last two weeks hopefully of this vertigo inducing condition. At least we have one who can cook and one who can eat.

I managed a Weetabix again and will have another 4 shakes today. Everything I try to eat I just power down after one mouthful. I'll be on the naughty step when I see the doc as my 15/3 is here to stay and that means I'm 99kg 

I've gone down to the garage to dig out my clothes from when I was 20, that'll be issue #18. I think that's the last time my waist was so small. I don't have belts that go that tight which means I have belts with 8 inches of holes in them and I need 10 inches. By virtue of the maths in me it means my normal post Christmas weight is the last notch in my belt and I'm several inches less now. That's got to be a win, not least for my lungs when I start doing my couch to 5k next month.

When I was out walking yesterday I was struck by how many fellow strugglers sitting on walls for a rest there are. You don't see them when you stride by but like the 1980's drunks in the grass market I'm now in that community so I say hello to the frail fraternity who knows I'm only chatting as I need a rest from walking.

Time is money, and well spent, enriching.

Enjoy your day, I know I will.

Living with cures while Cancer parties in the fast lane

Camino Can'cerre takes me to so many places, it's fast and loose way of developing is my latest curio. 

Cancers Like to party in the body and it's not really an organised party. The wee bastards just party at any open doors. They slide through all the spaces they can. The unwanted guest at new year as much as the welcome addition. 

i feel my mask needs to go on Camino now. Maybe get autographs like I did with my ball and collect all the different cancers people have endured. I'm not sure how to celebrate but I think a Guinness is overdue. 

My head is still full of the many cancers, dancing the dangerously toxic dandy does around our bodies. I feel I have so much learning and not enough time.

Simon's dad had oesophageal cancer and the late diagnosis was probably the worst aspect. A recent test I was hearing about related to a wee sponge you swallow which is like a sweetie on a string. 

In your stomach the outer edges dissolve and you just drag the sponge back out of your stomach up the throat and it collects all the cells it needs along the way.

A simple and ingenious way to collect data in a fairly easy way. Early diagnosis is so important and this could be a bridge to the future 

More and more of the tricks in the oncologists armoury relate to getting an early diagnosis to deal with and I applaud them all 

I do wonder however who will go into medicine soon. We have bought all the properties like it was monopoly board and now nobody coming through can buy unless they are on over £50k, possibly even £100k joint. Children won't be thinking that way when they decide they want to be an oncologist but careers advice may change.

Careers advice, there's a subject, does it even exist. In my day nobody knew at my school what it was and you were either going to uni, going abroad or getting a job.

Not everyone had the luxury of a schoolboy job at WoodMac. Without doubt this was the best advice I ever got. You had a guaranteed fallback at WoodMac.

Many people nowadays trying to traipse through these post school movements will doubtless see travel as more valuable. We love in a global world where taxation has lost its battle with wealth. I don't see 20 year olds wanting to campaign to restore a failing system. I see them getting on and living.

I think our generation pursued their halcyon days until they were in their 50's and 60's, I think today's lot are different. Distracted for sure by the overpowering social menace of media but also the new normal is created hourly.and is frequently unique to each. Try getting those cats along to a rally.

I'm a wee bit suffering now as the various scars go to work. The throat is really too scratchy for words and I'm sad to say my creams haven't prevented completely the skin cracking on the outside too. I'll keep my fingers crossed but yes it's going to be a long two weeks as the body continues deteriorating to kill off the wee party goers.

I had a boiled egg today. Funny how much pride I still take in that skill my mum taught me 40 years ago. Back then when Deadbeat was in it's prime my mum randomly opened a sandwich shop called the Picnic Basket opposite the pear tree pub. It's still open today so it's well worth a visit if you need some food and you don't fancy the mosque curry. I'm not sure if they still do date and apple or chicken/avocado but in the 80's these were quite revolutionary for the sandwich bars of south Edinburgh. Avocado was more often associated with bathroom suites, dates were old fashioned and Apple was a seed in someone's eye. 

My egg opening technique still makes me chuckle. It looks like I've not broken the shell, but it's all in tap, then the rolling. The spoon slides the egg out and there's no shell to worry about as it's all intact. We used to do about 30 a day so we naturally got reasonable at it. A skill someone reading this will doubles think, useless, but I like it and every time it's done in one move I smile and nod to my mum. Good tip, I think as I chuckle mindlessly. 

My energy levels are largely because although I can eat, I find it tough. We had a curry last night and after one forkful I lay down and was sleeping for 6 hours. I thought I'd be back up in 15 mins but I was just bushed. The Guinness doubtless helped no end too. One pint was enough and should counter any incoming constipation. I'm going to need a solution for the pain as the interior has blistered and cracked all the way down the throat. It's only going to get worse and talking now really is sore. Luckily I can just post the blog and anyone who wants to know how it's going can check it out and equally those who'd rather not know too much can happily skip the worst. I like that, as a concept it works for me. Ultimately it's just about getting through the next two weeks and hour at a time.

I went outside today and walked around the block. I'm trying to max out at 2000 steps so I don't need much in the way of calories.

I used the tube to put a couple of bottles in and also drank 1-2. It's such a shame when you try and eat a meal. It's such a small child's portion I have it seems pointless even to start, never mind fail to finish. It is, as they say, what it is so whatever gets you through the day is good.

I've been touched by a number of people during this journey and I can't thank them enough, although I have tried. They're the quiet ones who have kept me going, oh and some of the loud ones with marvellous distractions have been superb too. From those just making wry comments regarding the blog to the huge enrichment all people I've met. It's also the support that Jackie's receiving too. It's not easy with her being so ill too but her network has been great.

To be fair with the tinnitus now at ridiculous levels I can't hear, I'm toiling to eat, my skin perishes at will, and I figure it's a good time for a pity party. I'm thinking one pint put me to sleep for a few hours so 2 could give me a 14 hour respite. Yep, Guinness Sunday lunch sounds on the cards.

A week of balanced days and survival nights - week 6 - Saturday to Thursday

I feel normality returning. My throat doesn't, my body doesn't, but spirits are rising again. This week I have my commute to the western for my daily consultation for radiotherapy. It's a four hour day, I'm 61, that's a pretty good work pattern.

I leave the house at 1 returning at 5 after an ice cream at cafe Gallo. It seems so long ago since I bought that record player at the charity shop next door.

Before I leave and after I return I have all the chores like eating, exercises and meditation, oh and medication too.

It's probably mediation I need at this point.

It's 2am and it's Weetabix time. Even this is proving exhausting. I've not read the label again and am today a tablet or two short of a picnic this week. Yesterday my two at morning and lunch was supposed to be just morning, like today, then taper off with one each morning. 

Too tired to care, never mind read or eat a tablet. Constipation can get in the way as you increase the shakes and suddenly you're in a new meltdown. This is why I've written about how brutal the end processes are. You are mentally and physically broken now.

Notwithstanding all that I managed to get the mouth guards in with the toothpaste and by 4.20am they'd had a couple of halves of football and another tick in a box for 90 minutes.

With 6am approaching it's another opportunity to visit the loo, put some more burn cream on and get another 2 hours sleep before getting up for breakfast and the golf.

It's funny how it can shift from being behind schedule to a couple of positives putting us on front of the curve. Usually nothing more complex than a carbohydrate or two hundred. Like the hiccups timing is everything. They can have a surge while my prostate is active or they can surge while I'm trying to sleep. Anyway whoever studied waves and wave theory knows the nonsense Im currently Havering about.

When I holed the putt for a par at the first I realised why I was here. I missed the birdie at the 2nd but the ball had landed a yard from the hole so any disappointment was tinged with joy.

I'll ignore the next two as I should but hit a driver to 15' at the next par 3 and got a birdie. 

Who cares about the rest he laughed as he got back in the buggy. It's a tough old slog but a four at 11 is always a treasure and a par @18 is one to savour. Happy days and I'll sleep for real tonight.

I keep wondering why people expect Caitlins generation to pay for our mess. They're in their 30's and why should they stay to pick up the tab that we clearly chose to run up through our lives. I'm delighted with my cancer care but what have I left them in terms of investment and infrastructure in the care industry. Not enough, I would hazard a guess. We've sold everything that wasn't bolted down and put on hawk with long term investors our hospitals.

Nothing like a round of golf to gain some perspective. Well that and the demise of Alex Salmond who died yesterday and was of his generation. Only a few years before me at St Andrews and yet such a different time. The end of noble entitled politics and the rise of the new type.ive always had a fond image of him as he took the baton on for the commonwealth games in a merry old way. Was it Kuala Lumpur, not sure but he looked jolly. He's been long regarded as a master of Westminster but the irony will always leave us wondering how much he enjoyed playing the game and how much he wanted it to come to an end. When his time had been and gone as an actual leader of a country, some saw his immediate folly was to want to get back into the Westminster comedy show with other luminaries like Boris and the racist. Somehow he couldn't see Brexit coming or willed this beast upon us as a useful device to call for another indy ref. Some people may know, some will say that is politics, I think it's like closing the library in the evening all week so there's more of a backlash. I don't know but he's got a place for putting the independence case and that was good. He had a place for saying we would join the euro at the first step create a republic and ditch the monarchy, he didn't. If politics meant that we split the room so easily then we shouldn't be independent. If we had a cause of getting behind our entrepreneurial skill and our abject rejection of poverty then I'd vote for it. We can, should and one day will do better but for the time being we are just moving the deci chairs as usual.

It's easy to look wistfully across the Irish sea. However, the question I always ask myself is how much has your country been drained by the charlatans as they exist before during and after any power struggle. Gorbachev was one minute being praised and the next responsible for the disasters that befell the collapse of the Soviet Union, when two tribes went to war. The ologarks have a way of sneaking by and not every paedophilic prince is ever caught, tried and condemned.

My recovery was going well but ran into  the post chemo crisis again. This time bowel tightness, food frailty and flat on the back. From golf optimism to 24 hours later.

I'm in the Western and trying to get it sorted.  In just 3 days I've lost a stone and it was all going so well. Golfing on Sunday was great but alas I forgot to have a morsel after and that meant tea was too late and bowels never broke more than wind.

Suddenly you're two days later, the mask doesn't fit and your radiotherapy is interrupted for padding.

It's mental, it's easy to do and yes I'm on my second insert. Hopefully by 3pm I'll have an open bowel again but I need fuel fast. It's just been flat lining since Sunday.

It's those micro moments that are so hard to explain. Binary choices you get wrong.

Giving yourself over to survival is perhaps the hardest thing. You have only one job and that is let the treatment do its work.

That means your bowels are no longer your own and smells are someone else's problem  

Exhaustion is part of the deal and don't pretend you can even leave the front door. 10 steps could cover your days now.  

The treatment is paramount and allowing it to do what it needs to while you pick up the pieces is an essential learning 

Certain trauma grinds me down like the sore throat and ulcers. It prevents eating is sore but not disastrous. I can go without painkillers if need be as I have for 5 days now. Closing my bowel off is another story. That shuts me down like a culled bison. I can't function knowing if I put more food in it's only going to get to the blockage faster. I can't eat, no energy and I cant do the pain of trying and failing. So when the heavens opened on Tuesday at 8.07am I couldn't describe the relief. When a second pack of 12 golf balls came flying out at 10.22 there was a palpable sense of Christmas. All my Christmases and more had just arrived. Others who have endured constipation with ease will wonder what my problem was, I think like the Can'cerre Camino every problem is unique. You find out more about your little psyches than you could ever imagine. Blockages are clearly one of my kryptonite cases.

As I tip toe around the house with my nappy on I'm reminded at any moment I now have no control. This is the current predicament but it's certainly more joyous and as I say no painkillers are going near me. Codeine paracetamol is probably what shifted the balance or the tiny bit of morphine. Neither will pass my lips again and the throat can scream at the Weetabix instead.

Today is Thursday and it's #29. Tomorrow is my last so I better get myself settled and ready to depart.

With all the interventions I'm clearly not to be coughing for a while or far from a toilet. Luckily there are dad nappies available now, and I'll be buying a pack of pampers for myself. This is no time to get precious about style.

They advise you double up on the Laxido to ensure you don't get caught again but at the moment it seems a bit overplayed. I've had suppositories aenama and Ghostbusters up there so I'm not exactly getting bunged up, but I won't risk it either. I told them codeine paracetamol is no longer, like morphine going to find it's way into my pain management. Pain can be pain for the time being. It's wearisome but it's something that sits more comfortably.

I've got to move to a low energy hi carb so will be gradually increasing to 5 bottles of feed. My Weetabix is about the only solid I'm having along with Jackie's soup, so from now on I'm going virtual carbs. It's been pretty ghastly and I don't enjoy it. I completely powered down overnight in the albergue western. I had no idea if I was getting out and cared even less. Every fart meant a trip to the toilet and after many trips through the night, another sleepless one. When you lose sleep at 61 there's a lot more disorientation takes place and weird things happen in the head. I'm grateful to be home now with a fully caught up sleep regime.

The two weeks after treatment will be fun, indeed.

is Chemo like Speed?

The biggest thing I initially seem to get from the chemo is the energy burst before the fatigue I fully expect at the weekend. Well, it is only Tuesday evening.

Last time my optimism soared and I wasn't sure if it was the chemo or the flushes. On one level I was happy that knowing how bad some people found the chemo it wasn't so intense for me. The fact I only received one dose alongside the radiotherapy at weeks one and five largely explains it. I'm getting a nibble compared to what many people get which is 'a full main menu table for 8, with extra garlic bread'.

It still doesn't get me away from this hyper reaction to writing songs and also the backdrop to the songs. It's also 2.20am and having had a Weetabix at 1.15am I'm still waiting for the mania to subside.

I had a song called, "This will never be", it's genesis was in the post 1979 election, the SDP and me sitting on the SRC in 1981 when the university management said they were suggesting closing the library 2 twice a week. I enquired closing or reducing the hours by 8 seeking the nonsense clarification of the agenda item. "Ah yes, just the evenings 6-10pm, but it's just the start."

We debated this at the meeting and I didn't appreciate how many people, not just had a party line, but followed it to. I'm not sure if I was singing about them, the SDP, Labour and the Tories or just me again observing my own befuddlement. After 4 hours of debate in the union dining hall where I had asked how many used it and was greeted with "lots",  but that's not the principle. I then suggested we bite their hand off at 2 evenings and ask for no more closures for three years until September 1984. I was studying economics and it wasn't a great suprise that cash was tightening so cooperate in good faith, minimise it, don't fight it, battles can wait. New academic years always seemed less confrontational than midway through when students are starting to think about the library as the exams draw closer. I found myself completely out of on a limb. The university came back and said we'll close it 4 nights then. This led to ridiculous protests after we'd been consulted it felt like we had let the students down. I went to the library in the evening a lot over the course of that period. It was empty. It was a huge building with heating bills to match. I was disgusted with politics in my first real debate. How could these student politicians so overplay a hand they didn't hold. Poker from Vegas wasn't on the TV yet I guess. I thought them a bunch of privileged entitled fools, I didn't realise I was the fool. They could all afford to buy the books. I couldn't take the meetings seriously after that. 

When I had looked at the chessboard and seen how the pieces could move I arrived at a conclusion which I would back. If I couldn't see it, then I'd not back anything but just keep listening until the pieces fell into place for me. So largely I was very slow on the uptake but this one just seemed so obvious. Afterwards in comments from constituents I would hear everything from "but we're the elite, we need to be able to choose when we learn", "We're the future of this country, we need to be looked after"  and "we need access provided to all the tools we might need", through to "they should just close it 7 nights a week. Most students are either working or partying in the evening. They've already taken any books out during the day. They could spend the money on so many other things." Ah yes, my favourite, opportunity costs. They need only have expanded bursary provision for needy students by 10% of what they saved and they'd have got 7 evenings closed. They only waited a short period anyway. This deal lasted as long as my song. The lyrics of which I need to type again to remind me what 18 years old wrote in 1981.

I see you sitting there surround by confusion

All because you can't find a simple solution 

I look to my left and now I'm looking to my right

Oh the problem is so simple but you'll never see the light....

Because

This will never be...woahh oh oh oh

This will never be.....

Oh why can't you just see

This imperfect world will always be

Yes I'm watching you

As you run out time

With every tick of the clock

With every chime

And these cheesy sentiments roll on for ever in a classic 2:55 life support single that "will never be."

Ok time for bed again but I do think I made these tiny pieces of learning, then broadcast them over my life. Listening to the reactions of people to the library closures taught me a lot. I always finished my conversation with ...."and how often do you use it and what times..." To which most answered never. My constituents were a hall of residence on the edge of town. Not likely to lug a book far not wait too long to get home in the evenings. Demographics dictate behaviour not just opening hours.

"Sometimes if I'm in the quad I'll pop in but the books you want are always out so unless you run out the lecture after the Prof has suggested it you're wasting your time."

Many other observations, including my own walking around the library, left me thinking we were given this fantastic facility but nobody used it. The town library or even any public library was 10 times busier. We had a huge 4 story library, it looked like our shipyards, strelworks and mines would in due course. The end of another age.

"We're the future of this country. Our generation needs to be nurtured."

I suppose we were arrogant teenagers away from home but if you ask me it sounds like my only response should've been, you entitled prat. Instead he's my friend to this day. He was led to believe he was in the top couple of percent of society, had come through and English private school system which taught him what he learned. University was where he learnt what he was taught. For him that hopefully included the library although I don't think he ventured in much, he knew it should be an option. I sang back it's the kidney machines that pay for rockets and guns, paraphrasing the sinking of the belgrano, the Falklands and the library closures and no more Bilbo baggins. You could do that with songs, especially Paul Weller and some of those rat a tat tat lyrics.

I would funnily enough start to use the library but that was just to try and teach myself about everyone else's subjects.

After bleaching the sink I found myself in bed at 3am and put the golf podcast on that fixes my sleep. It worked. I woke at 7 to the same scratchy bleedy throat and time for my next Weetabix.

The label on my tablets is superb. I screwed these up in week one when I took one twice a day instead of two. This time round they've told me how many and what time of day. I took them lunch and dinner, they said they play havoc with sleep so it's morning and lunch. I explained my prostate already does that added to the drinking 4 pints of water during the night.

I was reminded of Jim MacKinnon's Dad when the tidying of my sock led me to the boxer short drawer. This wonderful folly that we bought 30 years ago stands lonely, like a triangle looking for some upside down ones to sit alongside, with drawer opening upside down, to make them right way up, it's a shape that appealed so much but it's a folly. The drawers depth so deep but the height so thin. 

I went to rolling things when packing for the Camino one year and that's when evoked the story about Pete McKinnon's son Jim telling me about his Dad, ironing and dishcloths. This beautiful arc into the world of dementia has many parallels for me from studying psychology to witnessing wonderful and beautiful behavioural change in others.

First I must tell a brief story of me returning from St Andrews for a drunken night in Edinburgh. Pete and Kitty were over from Michigan's finest university where Pete was a professor. They had met mum and dad in1962, remaining friends since. Pete was Glaswegian so came over to visit his mum, but to the story.

Mum said to me before I went out you're in the front room as I've put Pete and Kitty in your room. I went out got drunk, came out the toilet, got into bed and a big hairy arm rubbed my chest and booked in my ear, "Alan, I think your in the wrong room?!"

To paraphrase Ray Davies, "well I looked at him and he looked at me" and I said, thank the stars it's you and not your wife... Kitty"

In the morning I'd clearly forgotten all about it and Pete enquired how I slept. I said like a baby, I always do. "Tuesday a few on?", yes I always do, "find your bed alright?" 

'Aha, I see where your going with this, oops yes, sorry I forgot about that, better get to work'. Off I saddled wondering how I'd found myself in bed with them and yes, I would be naked and no don't think any more.

It's a lovely thought that we should then be rejoined in the world of folding, rolling and ironing. To be fair, since I stopped drinking the Alzheimer's has slowed up. I had a wee spell pre COVID where I was testing the relationship between my mental decline and alcoholic Alzheimer's. It clearly was too much time on my hands and I foolishly took on the job of captain at the golf club. That became a 24/7 obsession to square a circle that was no longer a square. We had become asset rich but revenue poor. The honest endeavours only 15 years earlier had seen us borrow a £1m on best expectations of annual revenue. They were never matched and once one council after another deviated then ripped up the 2002-2004-2029 business case we were a failing business on all levels. 

Without going into too much detail out core member revenue was due in the original business case, to be £1000-£1200 p.a in 2017, was under £700 as the subscriptions had been frozen for 9 years.

There had been no money for rises so the green keeper team operated old decrepit machinery on salary's that had been double the minimum wage in 2009 but by 2018 had to increase or be forced up by the minimum wage.

The demographic had completely changed around Golf from my generation as a golfer and the city of Edinburgh like the UK club golfing world, was asleep at the wheel. The Lothian Golf association had a dwindling number of members at over half if not three quarters of the clubs and had turned Golf into a discount sport. Golf had hit the end of the baby boomers and the start of globalisation. House prices in the city and commuting has encouraged magnificent courses on the edge of town to be considered in Edinburgh because the Lothians was Edinburgh.

The collapse of cash saw many courses declined and the best approach was to get a new team in to replace the team that you had successfully undermined since the banking crisis.

Had it not been for 0% - 0.75% interest rates many more clubs would have gone under but as it was a few good clubs disappeared for ever.

With so much negativity there was still reasons to be cheerful. There were lots of changing dynamics in the industry and Edinburgh being home of the financial world meant we had a huge incoming population from other cities. The trick was to let them join. 

I was busy trying to find out why we didn't have members knocking down our door as we have the premier location and as I ran all my models on membership I'd receive email and phone enquiries all evening until 10pm asking about membership. I'd quite often have new members by 9pm.

I quickly revamped the form for enquiry to grab 6 small bits of information and before we knew it we had 100 new members who had moved to Edinburgh for a variety of reasons by the beginning of June it was closing in on 150, from Aberdeenshire, Ayrshire, returning from London, moving back into the southside family grown up now, many great reasons but largely migration or old members returning. There was also what I called the gym membership members. We had an under 31 scheme which meant a 24 year old paid roughly half price. They joined during the masters in April full of good intentions and a year later when you asked again for the subscription they said they never played, so left.

It was sadly the case on the revolving door as many members moved house and with no joining fee, moved to a new and often better for them club on the burgeoning Golf Course Road East. From Prestonpans to Dunbar the new developments were giving young families a 4 bedroom house for a two bedroom Edinburgh flat, schools, doctors and fresh air, what's not to like. Add in a few ailments, members untimely deaths and we had as many joining as we did leaving if we only brought 100 in. We needed the 150. 

The greatest thing I realised as well was the future of golf clubs relied on the over 55+s. They had the disposable income and were increasingly likely to stay for 20+ years having finally settled. I'd always been a fan of a broad base but the young needs to have a passion for golf, the older need the finances. It was quite simple economics and so we moved to encourage more older members and also country members who wanted a course in the Scotland and the capital had one in the centre.

The long game was simple. If we brought in 10 partners of members at £800 a year it was likely to be worth £80,000 over 10 years. If we brought in 80 under 31s we would need more people on the office, more discs and cards, we would get £32000 that year but costs would be higher. Processing 80 new members not 10 meant we pay in processing time, as well as all the other fixes costs but most importantly there are 80 free spaces on a Saturday or Sunday morning when these people want to golf. You can squeeze 10 new members in paying full fare but not 80 on a discount. The kids worked out the booking system or worked out it didn't add up as the weren't playing.

Our turnover statistics post 2005 (last year of the entrance fee) were appalling. We had taken in large numbers during some years where we had membership drives but after only 3-6 years there were only 7 left from that cohort of 70. 

At 16 members still active who joined in 2005, it was the start performer in our CLASS OF PGC. I look around the clubhouse and starting sheets and am proud to see that so many of the 2017 & 2018 cohort are still members. We tried harder through assimilation but the attrition was probably still 80% over 7 years. I'd love to run those numbers today.

My point, as I started off it was Pete, me and fold towels. I was so invested in my captain's role that I wasn't able to drink until my shift ended which often meant it was 10pm on the way home. This novelty didn't last forever only until I went on Camino after doing 6 weeks, 7 days a week and morning until night. We ate every day in the clubhouse and it cost me a fortune. I never grudged a penny while we moved in the right direction but it was slow.

My memory or as I classed them, Al's Alzheimer's issues were definitely less frequently noticed and when I did the test it was a definite no from the docs. I just knew I wasn't rainman anymore. The memory that automatically recorded every shot on the course from 1977 to 2017, was no longer there.

When I met up with Jim on one of his transatlantic trips to see his Glasgow Granny, he was doing a masters in Glasgow in the 80's when we'd routinely take in a few pints in either city or even Powderhall and the magnificent dog track, I digress, this was around 2017 and we discussed the behaviour change in his dad and this huge contentment in ironing and folding dishcloths. I said I likened dementia to a beautiful Buddhist calm. I always felt I couldn't turn the noise down and I remembered John Frame telling me if you wanted to control a cow you put it in a big field. I liked that and I liked dementia for the calming effects it had. Yes, we all hear about the noisy sufferers they make more stories than quiet contentment. I played cards with my mum for 15-20 years. She was contented, no doubt about it. She never threw a hand and never needed a card picked, she could choose a suit and always had a trump card left. I knew it was ingrained in her from a long time ago but it was amazing to witness how ingrained. In years to come we'll discover what drives the brain function ls that survive the collosal collapse when the atrophy of the brain commences. We know our learning is pretty much switched off by yourself at an early age. We have to invent triggers to train and learn new things in our 20's and by the time we're in our 30's we have our regime and won't be shifted. There is something in some people that ensures the enquiring mind does develop. I'm not sure if changes to circumstances are big or little drivers, but I know my golf swing improved for having the feeding tube inserted. I had to just hit it 150 yards straight. This meant no laborious lunges and a much more relaxed posture. I'd been advised by our pro Scott, quite a few times, in many different ways, no he knows, just tell Al he has a feeding tube.

I told Davie how to get out of bunkers once. Imagine Ben your 7 year old son is catching the ball at the top of the bunker. Wow, that slowed it down and the strike was pure, he nearly holed it. That season was the best I saw Davie out of bunkers. Cost me a fortune every time we played.

Wow! I feel like I was in Laredo doing Oktoberfest! 

My body couldn't do 30km a day

It couldn't tuck one of those bad boys away

Even Boquerones on a tiny tray

When all I eat is shredded hay

Seem a step too far....today

Yes I properly got mugged by the chemotherapy. Then the radio therapy completely dried up my throat and it was agony. This day was always coming so was the morphine sleep was the only answer and now it's six thirty in the morning and I feel a bit better. 

The chemotherapy is so toxic they have to give you 10 times the IP fluid to flush out of you which means you put a stone on and half of that stone left the building and I am back down to 16 stone. 

The hard part for me is that you cannot gauge how much you are retaining so you try to eat but they comfort from the fact you are still heavy. By Saturday morning I'll know I got my calculations wrong when my weight says I am 15/4 or 15/2.

The important thing is to keep a mixture going in and try and ensure you take 2000-3000 calories. In my case it's a shake with Weetabix at least twice a day and if Jackie has made a pot of soup I need half of it drunk each day. If you don't the system shuts down. The gears clunky, the engine stalls, and the petrol however small can't get to the engine because the pipes are all clogged. That goldf swing, forget it, you'll be lucky enough to have the energy to hold onto a Tarzan swing.

Yesterday after sleeping through radiotherapy and my flush, I walked down to Stockbridge got on the bus and was like a wee old drunk in the corner.

Hiccups, ironically my old gossip column here at Deadbeat, would reliably reverberate every 17 seconds for about 6 seconds then leave me alone, for about 17 seconds.....Camino Can'cerre is so like the Camino Norte. 

We drink different things, have different Vista's but the sleeps are very comparable.

Comfortable has many of the same letters as comparable but trust me they are different. If you have a different native tongue then please don't confuse them, although if you have any Latin about you it's probably easy to translate anyway. I'm not linguist but I know a few good ones. If we strip away the Com, and the able, we are left with eather fort or par.

This seems down my street. A fort suggests strength, safety security, and when playing a musical instrument it's definitely strong in my head. 

Par on the other hand is golfing nuance I've grown up with, which has slipped into the health game with above and below par meaning how well you might feel. Ironically below par is good on a golf course but just normal after chemo. You can't really leave the western and say I felt like I just went birdie, eagle, eagle, birdie and I'm 6 below par. It might be how you feel but it's not how a golfer would instantly feel your pain. These are words I never heard Walid mention leaving the western or the golf course. My favourite memories of Walid include #7 & #8, both at the 5th hole. Somebody shouted "Fire" so I took a look then ducked while Walid folded himself under me. The ball smacked me in the ribs and he said that was close. I laughed as I said well it wasn't getting through me was it. 

He then proceeded to the 5th tee, pegged it up, wiggle waggle, waggle wiggle, swish, swish all the food parts of a 23 handicappers swing. The rehearsal, the practice swing, the moment when you know, the club knows and the ball knows what happens next. Today's the pro day so you get to play "beat the pro". Another swish, then an exchange of £20 for a chance to double your money if you hit the green.

Another swish, another waggle, bum sticks out further, is this the back swing, oh yes it is, is this the real swing, it looks like the practice swing and look at the ball. It's flying, it's in the air, looks at the finish he's standing, admiring, he's laughing it's on the green. Gavin Cook is crying, that was £20 in the bank only 17 seconds ago. What a memory to have. The laughing never stopped for the rest of the day. Every normal wiggle, waggle, swish, bum out resulted in a top, a slice, a chunk and they were the good ones. Great company always relished, and we sank a few putts and pints too. That night I was constantly reminded we could've won it if I hadn't 4 putted the 16th. In my defence I had nearly driven the green and walked off with a 5. The others got 6's and it was my fault. Ha ha, those jokes still have me biting.

2011 was a pivotal year for me and largely because of Walid. His journey had me walking over to the western to see him and also the famous time harry and I went to his house I mentioned early in the blog. I met Walid much later than most of his pals and his death had a profound effect on me as I looked at his children and I looked at Caitlin. I looked in the mirror and all of those around me. I had still thought I'd go back to work but when we took that picture of Walid on the Camino to Santiago in 2011 it was a moment that really meant something. Here was a guy who packed a lot of living into his life and brought a lot of joy. I think he probably knew about mortality too and when I was waiting on my diagnosis I had no interest in sharing the process. There are only two letters that change the word TREATABLE, but they are the cruelest with cancer. If I had received the UN TREATABLE diagnosis then so be it and I would've been very grateful that I/we chose not to go back to work in 2011. As it was I drew huge comfort from knowing with treatment it was a reasonable expectation that I'd make a full recovery.

What I never expected was Jackie's brother Graham and John Melon to receive untreatable diagnosis and follow a sad and well trodden path to the hospice and family farewells. As 2013 drew to a close my head has finally escaped the workspace and found a world out there where people really do live and die. We attended more funerals, played more golf and took more holidays.

So we did a bit of living and had more holidays where we weren't rushing home for work. We saw more of Spain than "the pellegrino puts pissed head on pillow then walks out of town for another year", version. Jackie and I had a great trip where we stayed in the Paradores in Santo Domingo de la Calzada and saw where the chicken is kept in the Cathedral keep. Another time in Burgos we bought a wonderful wooden sword and shield for the nephew to guard his family home.

There were more family holidays, a thing I'd always grabbed a week of or just missed so the NYC spending money could be doubled. Let's face it, me eating and drinking in NYC it's a waste when i have so many better cheaper options. Jackie and Caitlin loved it. Like everyone they have their NYC like tourists do. We see it in Edinburgh all the time, me in particular as I go through the centre daily. Our MOMA, their MOMA, different but still not Gernika. Jackie's birthday in Madrid was another classic. Although the suite for 3 nights was more than a tad ostentatious by my standards. We saw Bilbao at its best and I'm well over 30 trips to Santander and Burgos now. Jackie has her favourite restaurants. It feels like there is life after work.

What I've loved about the Camino is how many doors it's opened to walking in general. Our car has done10,000 miles since COVID finished. That means we do 3000 a year. We moved here nearly 10 years ago and that's when I got rid of the 2nd car. It only did 600 miles a year and cost £1 a mile at the time all in. Petrol, tax, insurance and MOT.

Like most things with me, externally the grey car looked a bit of a mess. It had yard long weeds growing out of the doors after a month in the golf course car park in 2013. By 2014 when we were moving here, it became my garage, or overspill space.  When we moved to the flat I tried to hire a garage just for additional space so the car had a few boxes, tapes, records, fanzines,  guitars I wanted to keep for no great reason. Then someone broke a window and that was that. There was a demo from the Shamen that might have been worth a few bob, a few other things but most people wanting that stuff wouldn't be breaking into a car on blackford avenue and I had no cash to offer. Instead I returned from Arran to see the door open on the car and the boxes on the pavement. I wondered if it had just happened or was earlier in the week. The weather provided the super sleuthing as it was wet and apparently, the rain stopped 2 days ago. I lumped it back into the car and decided today was a good day to stop hoarding childhood treasures. A day I regret every day, ha ha.

Well there's some good nonsense getting me through the day 

Just as I start happily to head down hiccup way.

A glass of water, cup of tea or any liquid potion

Does set my chemo tummy, turning into motion 

Just like a frail old washing machine that never seems to spin

The dead cat bounce reappears when you try to get back in 

Enough, it's now Saturday morning and I'm exhausted from the process. I've had my Thursday and Friday flushes and I've not interest in eating or even force feeding. I managed to get two cups of soup down me but the mouth is so irritating now even peaches and prunes are no longer benign. I think the frustration is you can't taste anything but you do get the nippy pain of the cracked palate, throat and tongue. Seems a bit unfair really and certainly a disincentive to eating.

The shakes can counteract the lack of food to a degree but then you have to manage the laxative. All of which was small beer as two proper patients exchanged their stories in ward 1. 

One was having major side affects from their treatment and the other one responded. All matter of fact, both just wanting to squeeze another Christmas out and hoping the treatment would do that. You can't really say much to that, just applaud, which I didn't.

I chewed on something like the thoughts. Their family and friends, the journey and just their doing all you can do which is get on with it. Let every day have a bit more meaning, bring a kinder focus to your existence. Don't let the world bombard you with what you should or shouldn't do, you know what you should or shouldn't do by this age and trust your intuition. It's unlikely to change so you might as well give yourself a break.

It's Saturday morning and I'm going to give myself a break. Time for sleep again, it's passed 6:30am.