Party

I am...overwhelmed.  I just wanted to say thankyou to everyone.  So much time and effort went into yesterday, and I hope everyone that came enjoyed it as much as I did.  Thanks to those that travelled (not least from Canada and Switzerland), organised, checked and rechecked, made playlists, bought photos,sorted out photographers, made and gave to collections, booked items from the bucket list, booked children's entertainment, looked after children....the list goes on.

On the subject of photos, I think I made a bit of a rod for my own back - I didn't realise how many embarassing photos of me there are out there.  Hoist by my own petard. 

Arete

I once heard of an interesting way to make a quick decision.  If you can't decide between two things, they say you should toss a coin.  Not because the coin will give you the right answer, but because as it's in the air, you'll realise which way you're hoping it will land.

The other day, I was wracking my brains trying to think of my favourite ever place, ever.  Which is kind of silly really, I was clearly over thinking it.  Like with the coin, you should instinctively know these things.  And of course I did, but was subconsciously discounting it as not being, well, good enough.  How daft is that?  Like I was looking down on myself.

Anyway, just off the coast of Weymouth, lies the isle of Portland, connected to the mainland by Chesil Beach, beloved of geography teachers, as a classic, and huge, example of longshore drift.

Portland itself has a bleak kind of rugged beauty, and is a very well known area for sport climbing (sport, as opposed to 'traditional', climbing is where people have been up the routes with big drills, and inserted metal bolts you clip into as you go up).  I have been to Portland many times, and spent many a happy day especially in the Blacknor South area, scrambling between the low graded (easier), imaginatively named areas. Lunar Park, Triple Slabs, Diamond Boulders, but in particular the Fallen Slab.

Feet from the sea, there is nothing there apart from, well, great big rocks.  The arete itself makes you feel particularly exposed, but the exhilarating setting means you - and absolutely everyone else - climb it every time you come to Portland.  To be halfway up that route is to be without a doubt at my favourite spot in the world.  You are climbing right on the edge of a rock face, thinking carefully about clipping the next bolt with the sea birds crying and if you're lucky spray on your ankles.  

Once, probably after the 15th time or so I climbed it, as I eased back to the ground I realised why I liked climbing, and this particular route so much - because when you're up there, particularly when you're leading and therefore don't have a rope above you, only below, you are so focused, you don't think about anything else - not work, not the mortgage, nothing.  It's meditation, psychotherapy and healthy introspection all rolled into one.  Tony Soprano didn't need all that time with the shrink - he just needed a weekend with Climbing Dave and me on Portland. 

Contact

Everyone, but everyone, is in contact right now.  It's lovely.  As I said before, as far as I'm concerned it's a huge compliment, and hearing how long lost friends are getting on is just the nicest thing.  If it takes me a while to get back to you, please don't be offended.  Take someone who isn't naturally particularly sociable, then suddenly reintroduce all, and I pretty much mean all, their mates from the last 20 years.  You get the idea.

Don't let it stop you though.

Pseudothingy

We saw Dr G last week, before chemotherapy itself.  He said we will have the fourth session of chemotherapy (which took place on Wednesday) and then there would a CT scan, then a rethink.

He says, it's difficult to tell what's going on - hopefully this CT will give us more of an idea.  It's possible that what we saw before was Pseudoprogression.  If you understand correctly this means there is scarring, caused by a good reaction to treatment, which also looks like progression of one or more tumours.  So, pseudoprogression looks bad...but is good.  It seems that even oncology consultants don't have all the answers, and at times are making a best guess based on all the evidence available.

As ever, the chemotherapy floors you, leaves you tired, nauseous, listless, on another plane.  It is possible, even likely, you won't get Cisplatin again.  Thank ****.  Then, this morning, the CT scan.  No breakfast and warm iodine before 9am.  Urgh.  The nurse is so nice to you, it stops you in your tracks.  Nothing, but nothing, penetrates like the kindness of strangers.

Chemo 1.4

Here we go again.

Allotment

Quite a few people have said, why trotter?

Well.

When Justin and I were travelling in India, we bumped into two English girls called Kate and Annabel, who were a) both very nice and b) (and this will become relevant) both quite short.  We got chatting, as you do, realised we were all going to Agra (to see the Taj Mahal) and decided to travel around together for a while.

They were great travelling companions, just generally lots of fun.  At some point, we swapped addresses, they went West to the beach, and we went North to the Himalayas.  I know who got the better of that deal, but we wanted, bless us, "an experience".  We kept in touch and for quite a long time, I used to go and visit Kate at her University, and Kate and Annabel used to come and see Justin and me.  

Around about this time, I guess 1993/94, the student rag Viz ('The magazine that's better than nothing') was in it's heyday, and Gav, Andy and I, clearly having nothing better to do, would sit around, probably on bean bags, guffawing happily away at the adventures of Mr Logic, or Morris Stokes:Paranormal Grocer.  One day, naturally just after Kate and Annabel had been to visit, one of the strips was called "Scotty Trotter and his Tottie Allotment" about a bloke who - of course! - grew short ladies in his back garden. Without even looking up from his copy of the magazine, Andy said, so Scotty Trotter, when's your tottie allotment coming back?

And, of all the things to stick, that one did.  I became Trotter. I suppose I should be grateful.  It could have been The Vibrating Bum Faced Goats that week, or Bertie Blunt (look it up - actually don't. Really, don't).

Milestone

As the blog approaches 10,000 hits - no more than 80% of which can be me, surely - I just wanted to say - thanks for reading.  When I started it, I had no idea what I was going to write or whether anyone would want to read it - let's face it, the subject matter is pretty depressing.

I am enjoying - if that's the right word - writing it, although to paraphrase Kath, obviously wish that I didn't have to.  To use an obvious word, it's very cathartic, and at the same time very strange, broadcasting your thoughts to the world with often little knowledge of who is reading - although many of you refer to passages of the blog when you email me.

On a separate matter, it's medical week again.  Pre-chemo tomorrow, chemo wednesday.  I have been feeling pretty fluey the last few days, which may or may not be due to the drug Zoledronate (or "The Evil Zoltar" as Rupert calls it) I was given last time.  Here's hoping it all goes ahead without a hitch.