So I’m sitting on our sofa with my feet up, holding a bomb. 

I keep thinking of Peter Sellers in The Pink Panther: ‘Special delivery: a  beumb!’

My old friend Bob Scott thinks it looks like a cocktail. But then he would…

In fact it’s a slow-release chemo treatment that will gradually drain down into my PICC line over the next 46 hours. And can then be removed. And some wonderfully kind soul out there in Macmillanland has knitted it a bomb cosy.

Which actually comes in rather handy…

Consider this. I have some rather dodgy liquid feeding into my body, and attached directly to my body by a thin tube.

In the meantime I need to continue all my normal everyday activities. Cooking. Eating. Loading the dishwasher. Going to the loo. Changing my stoma bag. Sleeping.

That last one’s tricky. What do I do with the damn thing so I don’t accidentally rip it out in the night?

Answer – I lie on my back (which I already have to do, thanks to the stoma) and park the bomb, in its cosy, between my legs. (It’s not long before I find this whole scenario hilarious, and start humming the theme tune to The Third Man. I explain to Rosemary that I keep imagining it’s the Third Ball…

I’ve had this on a Thursday, so I can’t get rid of the thing until next Monday. In the meantime it’s got to be carefully manoeuvred through the sleeves of t-shirts, shirts, hoodies, sweaters and jackets. Every time. Until I get the crafty idea of tucking it into the front pocket of my hoodie, where it sits very comfortably next to my stoma bag. (And keeps giving me the impression that the bag is full to bursting…)

Roll on Monday. And – as soon as possible – sensible instruction on removing the darn thing myself. And, with Rosemary’s help, changing the dressing on my PICC line once it’s off.

Meanwhile I keep humming that zither tune…