Six centimetres. SIX.

I have an [expletive deleted] alien mutant invader ten centimetres up my back passage, which is already bigger than an AA battery.

And I hate it with a passion.

Trouble is, I’ve had that information for more than a week. I just didn’t read the small print on the colonoscopy report.

Which I should have done.

How do I feel about that?

Annoyed – with myself. After all, I’m a professional proofreader and copy-editor.

And forgiving – of myself. Because I think, subconsciously, I simply didn’t want to look at that report too closely. In case it took away the one thing I need most: hope.

So how do I deal with that?

I have a role model. In fact I have several, and they’re all Vikings. Take Thorvald Eiriksson, struck in the belly by an arrow after a few months of living in Vinland – otherwise known as North America. His comment? ‘This must be a good land. There’s fat on my belly.’

There’s fat on my belly, too. Rather more than I want. (Don’t expect I’ll lose any of it during surgery, but I’ve no doubt the necessary follow-ups will have a similar effect.)

Then there was the gentleman who got on the wrong end of a spear in a duel of honour.

Who responded by examining the weapon. And then using his parting breath to say ‘Making them very broad these days, aren’t they?’

Actually, size is probably not something I want to think about at the moment…

So – difficult day. Am I downhearted?

Honestly? Yes, of course I am. I’ve got what looks like a full-blown Alien Queen up my bum. I was hoping for the snarly little scamperer that came out of John Hurt’s chest.

Scary, yes. Horrifying, certainly. But let’s face it, if someone had moved a bit faster, one good whack with a king-sized spanner would have flattened it.

So. Spanners are out. Cue flamethrowers? Grenades? Pulse rifles? Dammit, those haven’t even been invented yet…