Category Archives: Health

Health, Writing

Six Years, Six Months On

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The more I write these status updates, the more and the less ridiculous it gets. More ridiculous because they amount to “I’m still here” messages sent out to the very small audience of people who read this blog and are not in regular contact with me, and there’s only so many times you can do that without feeling at least a little self conscious. I suppose I can manage one more time, at least: still here, still writing. At the very least, I’ve managed to post a few other times over the last 13 months, so that this hopefully doesn’t come across as an entirely self-absorbed exercise.

It’s less ridiculous, of course, because I’ve now hit six and a half years. When I was diagnosed with lung cancer, way back in December 2019, the doctors were, reasonably enough, not keen on talking about survivability, but everything I read suggested that I’d be lucky to reach 50 (I’d just turned 44 a couple of months before). Well, I turned 50 nine months ago, and so far my semi-whimsical strategy of sticking around long enough for medical science to figure out how to cure me is working surprisingly well. Stick around a few more years and it might prove even more successful. In the meantime, Lorlatinib serves me well, as it has for the last three years-plus.

As for happenings over the past 13 months, while the medical side of things has remained blissfully routine (given my regime of regular scans and doctor’s visits, uneventful is hardly accurate), there have been a few changes. Work, for one thing. Halfway through 2025, I took voluntary redundancy from what had been at the start a dream job in the games industry. It was absolutely an experience worth doing, and I’m not ruling out working in games again, but for the moment that seems a dream on hold: the games industry is in turmoil, spinning through a series of massive layoffs, and there’s a huge field of people with more experience than me looking for the same kinds of jobs I would be up for. Still, I’ve managed to get myself employed again, and in the current climate, I’m happy enough to be so.

In terms of travel, I had planned to take another long trip around my 50th birthday in September 2025, but being unemployed at the time (I let my redundancy package bankroll me for a few months), I decided that would be a bit extravagant. So I stuck closer to home for the most part, though I did venture to the Baltic nations in March 2026, touring from Finland south through Estonia and Latvia to Lithuania. Ticking off a few more countries on my European list and enjoying more rail travel in the hopes of longer trips to come. Up next is Bulgaria (visiting my cousin there) and the southern Balkans (ticking off a few more blank boxes) this September. Hopefully without any untoward political events intruding—some of the countries I’d most like to visit seem to be either currently or permanently embroiled in the kind of troubles that lead governments to advise avoiding them.

I do get sent abroad for work sometimes, which isn’t something I’ve run across too often in the past. Writers are not commonly required to be on the spot for content retrieval. No complaints though. I’m even hoping to get out for a run or two on my next trip. As mentioned here recently, I’ve gotten back into running, and I do feel like it’s slowly getting easier, though it’s not getting any easier to persuade myself on any given evening or morning to put on the shoes and go out into the fresh air. If the life of a hermit is one that has a perilous appeal for me, then hermits are not people who venture out from their caves (or huts, or poles) readily. I am making a serious effort not to let my social circles dwindle into nothing, but motivation, as so often, is the issue.

That question of motivation has been much on my mind lately. How do people persuade themselves to do the things they do, to make it from one day to the next in the face of a world that can vary from discouraging to actively hostile? What impetus do I use to get myself up from my chair to go for a run, or to sit down and write these words? I’m not getting paid for either, which wipes out a large chunk of the ambient motivation floating around the modern world, and while running may be good for my health and writing good for my mental health, those are pretty slender reeds to rest most of an evening on. Especially when a side effect of my medication is that I tend to sweat a lot when I’m hot or exert myself, and this evening counted for both, meaning that I was stuck in a towelling robe for an hour after my run, gently dripping into the fabric.

Having dropped that edifying image into your brain, let me pursue this thread. It would be cheaper for me to stay home, to do only enough exercise needed to keep healthy, to eat as frugally as possible. Avoid the stress of meeting new people and potentially suffering embarrassment (introvert here, most definitely). A hermit’s life, in other words. An uncomplicated life; so why do I feel the urge to mix that up? To socialise where possible, to travel now and then, to buy books I’ll only read once and games I probably won’t finish? To hook myself into the information services of the world (news, social media, podcasts, etc.) simply to learn a bit more about subjects that interest me and subjects I might not have thought about except by following a thread that started somewhere distantly connected.

All those activities are ones that bring me pleasure, in various forms. Does pursuing pleasure make me selfish? Probably a little. Is it a bad thing? Epicurus would disagree. Taking care of your own happiness is an important part of creating a life worth living. Which isn’t to say that others’ happiness should be neglected. When young, we look to our parents and try to make them happy too, a desire that never really fades away. When older, we might think of the happiness of our children and the social circle we build up, in addition to our own. There’s god too, for some, or whatever groups we sign up to. The point being that our own happiness is always involved in the happiness of others, or ought to be. If we end up serving someone else’s drives at a cost to our own happiness, that’s far from healthy.

So my main motivation in dragging myself off the couch and into the day (or night, as the case may be), is to make my life better, through indulging my own desires and engaging with the society I’ve chosen, as well as seeking out sheer novelty and education. Pleasure is a spark to make us move, and Epicurus knew that a life engaged in pleasures both simple and simple to obtain was one of the best to be had.

Which is, to take this meander to its point, one of the main reasons I remain suspicious of the current hype around “AI”. (It goes in quotation marks because while it may be artificial, it’s in no way intelligent.) Its boosters are engaged in a full-throated effort to persuade us that the various iterations of “AI” are capable of doing all sorts of things for us. Not the tedious and repetitive tasks that we’ve always been promised would one day be handed over to robotic assistants, but the creative and problem-solving tasks that make up a large part of both work and non-work life. Travel planning, e-mail composition, prototyping, etc. The idea seems to be that we should let the “AI” companies provide a rough draft of our tasks and relegate ourselves to tidying up the draft’s rough edges.

To which, two responses: first, I have no interest in further training a plagiarism machine already replete with stolen information. Second, the act of creation, whether of a work of art or a solution to a problem, is part of the experience. It’s how we express ourselves and how we learn. If I felt that “AI” was a good solution to all the ills of the world, I’d have little impetus to leave my couch, much less my apartment. The underlying technology is interesting enough, and I expect it will find its niche eventually, though it looks set to do a huge amount of damage to the economy in the process. Until then, it remains a hydra that needs to be decapitated regularly (and we need to learn how to cauterise the stumps).

As long as I’m still around, I want to keep experiencing new things, and to keep exercising this brain of mine both creatively and technically. Having been required to use “AI” via work, I don’t find much in the way of experience or expression in tweaking the parameters of a mimicry machine or smoothing the rough edges of its output, which never quite seems to get things just right. I don’t know what that implies for my long-term employment prospects, but if it’s not that good, then maybe it’s time to re-train.

So there you have it. Not only an assurance of my continued existence, but a quick peek into the issues tickling my brainstem at the moment. The odd thing is that despite (or maybe because of?) the intrusion of “AI” into every part of our lives, I’ve been more creative recently than I have in a while. Maintaining enough focus to make something more than scribbled notes of these ideas can be a bit tricky, given some of the mild side effects of my cancer medication, but I might get over that hump too. Something to look forward to over the next 13 months.

Health, Personal

The Heart (and Lungs) of a Runner

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I’m about six weeks into getting back to running. This has come as something of a surprise to me. Ever since my lungs took it into their heads to try killing me, running has been a distant dream. Occasionally I’d try, but either the constant gasping or the sudden muscle spasms tended to ruin the experience, and I gave up pretty quickly. Not this time though.

To put things into perspective, I used to enjoy running a lot. Cycling and swimming too, but running was something I could do at the drop of a hat, and I was good enough at it to keep on trying to do a little better. An hour and 33 minutes for the half marathon on my 43rd birthday being a high point that will stick with me. Partially because it felt for a long time that it would be my last one.

I first found it hard to run a few months later, in early 2019. Reaching for breaths that used to come easily. Fast forward to December and I learned the reason why, putting an end to running, potentially for good. As the drugs did their work, I felt better and tried now and then to run, even short little bursts, but it never stuck. Part of the reason for that was certainly fear: I knew I would never run the way I had done, but what if I couldn’t run at all? What if I learned for certain it was gone forever?

I can’t point to anything in particular that made me start again in April this year. Which is to say that there were a multitude of small things: dissatisfactions, desires, discomforts. Realising that I had better things to do with my life than lock part of it away because I was afraid of what I might see when I faced it head on. I didn’t have to try too hard, or run too far. Not at first anyway.

I tried to be as gentle as I could. Jogged as slow as I could bear to, walked when I needed to, went no further than 3km that first time out. Even so, I was gasping the whole way, my legs feeling like water. It was nothing like I remembered, yet the route was still the same. Down to the park, along the river, around the pond. And as bad as running felt, I felt good having run. (As a writer, it’s a familiar contradiction.)

The usual two-day aches and pains aside, nothing seemed broken. So I went out again. Tried to go a little further, started putting entries back in my Runkeeper log. Maybe I felt a little better, though I was still gasping and no faster. Next time, a little further still.

That’s been the story of the past month and a bit. Pushing on a little further, until I was under the bridge and into the next part of the park, around another pond. Building up until I reached 5km. Still haven’t managed a run without at least one walk, but I’ve come close. And I’m being patient. There are moments, a few kilometres into each run, where it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not like something I’m doing because I need to do something. Like the faintest ghost of how it used to feel.

Maybe that’s all it will ever be. Maybe I’ll manage no more than 5km runs for the rest of my span, or maybe I’ll stretch it a little further yet. Maybe to the end of the park, or up the hill to the canal. From there, I could turn home, or I could turn into the west and keep on running.

I suppose I’ll see when I get there.

Health, Travel

Four Years, Four Months On

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Spiral patterns in the paving stones of Barcelona. Feet author’s own.

The first philosophical thought I remember having (we were living in the old house, so I would have been ten or a little under) had to do with solipsism. It suddenly occurred to me that though I was aware of my own thoughts and feelings, I had no access to the thoughts and feelings of others. How could I prove that they were the same as I was, had the same interiority? (Ten-year-old me wouldn’t have used that word, of course.) What if I was the only person like this?

I wouldn’t have used these words to express the feeling, of course, and as I wasn’t equipped to resolve this particular solipsistic worry, I don’t think I dwelt on it for long. The fact is that none of us can prove that others feel or think in the same way that we do. We can infer it by observing them, but that’s as far as that goes. This missing link affects how we view humanity and why we create art. I’ll get to the art later, but let’s talk about humanity first.

Because we have first-hand access only to our own thoughts and feelings, we have to grant others equal status to ourselves in our estimation. That’s done naturally enough with family and friends, who share so much with us, and even to others like us, but there are many who we may not think of enough to even consider it. And there are plenty of examples in the past, and sadly now, of whole populations being taught to think of “others” as lesser, unworthy, unwholesome, or simply not human at all.

I was brought up Roman Catholic, and repeated many times across the lives of Christ in the gospels is the insistence that everyone is worthy of the same consideration and care, no matter their age or origin. It’s not a sentiment that survived those who came after with their legions of “You see, what he really meant was” but it’s a good lesson to learn, and many have. Despite no longer holding to that or any faith, I imagine it’s where I got the idea from.

If I hold to one belief about humanity, it’s this: we are all unique, possessed of untold abilities, and here on this planet for a limited time. If there is any purpose to our existence, it’s has to be a purpose we create for ourselves. In the decades since that first philosophical thought, the only purpose that has ever made sense to me was ensuring that we and those we share a span of time and space with feel as much joy as possible during our time together. Joy being a catch-all word for fulfilment, pleasure, tranquility, what have you.

If I believe that, and I believe that all of humanity is deserving of the same respect, then I can’t exactly be happy at the current state of the world, can I? An ongoing slaughter in Palestine, of people who have been deliberately dehumanised for decades by both the occupying power doing the slaughtering and those who are supporting and funding their efforts. A seemingly worldwide effort to push fascism as a valid ideology; fascism of course being all about “othering” outgroups and favouring violence as a solution to all of life’s problems. All against the backdrop of market-driven capitalism winding itself into its planet-destroying death throes.

Because, yes, the quarterly profit figures won’t look so good when there’s no market left to admire them. The latest folly to cross the news is that Amazon and Microsoft are planning to buy their own nuclear power plants in order to meet the wild increase in power needed to fuel new “AI” services.

Now, there’s a conversation to be had about nuclear energy’s role in a sane energy policy. But this is not that conversation, nor is it anything approaching sane. I watched an episode of Chernobyl before setting off on my current holiday, and as bad as Soviet employment practices might be, I shudder to contemplate Amazon management getting their hands on some control rods.

They’d probably let an AI manager run it anyway. That’s the point of all this. Not to provide better services to customers but to remove all human expense, to remove as entirely as possible all jobs that lie below the executive line. Perhaps AI Wrangler might remain as an entry level post in some businesses.

This is why, when the first inklings of AI burst upon the public consciousness, it did so in the form of “AI art.” Nothing is quite so indicative of humanity, of what we might call a soul, as art. Art is, after all, an effort to communicate the secrets of one heart so that another can understand it. If this AI could make art, didn’t that mean there was something at its heart? Didn’t that elevate it in worth?

Well, no and no. “AI” doesn’t understand its “art.” It’s not trying to communicate anything. It’s taking whatever instructions it’s given and matching them against the actual art it was trained on, then tossing out a guess of what the instructor wants. That’s why it’ll throw out multiple guesses, never the same twice. It’s why any factual accuracy in AI-generated text is the result of refined guessing, not innate knowledge.

AI is only half accurate. It’s certainly artificial, but it’s not intelligent by any useful meaning of that word. It’s a well-trained parrot, regurgitating phrases it doesn’t understand. The Large Language Models currently being passed as AI may have massive potential as productivity tools. But so did capitalism, and we made the mistake of letting that run everything too.

These days, I’ll gladly grant any other human being the same interiority and worth as myself. It feels to me like the best way to live. I don’t have to do that to what’s being sold to us as AI. Perhaps I will, someday. I hope we all live that long.

Health Update

Sunset over Andorra. Still plenty of light—the sun sets early in the mountains.

This is the fourth of these thirteen-monthly updates that I’ve provided. Once again, despite the nature of my initial diagnosis, I hit this arbitrary celebration in good shape. As I type this, I’m passing through a Pyreneean tunnel on a bus from Barcelona to Andorra. The first lengthy solo trip I’ve been on since I went to Chile to see an eclipse in 2019.

Covid had more to do with that hiatus than ill health, but I will admit to some trepidation. I’m not as fit as I was in 2019, and the medications I take require an extra regime of care. The cancer, thankfully, remains as quiescent as it’s been since the last update, but the new medication I shifted to in January 2023 did a number on my thyroid, resulting in swollen feet and sweating.

Medication for the thyroid has brought both under control, but dialing in the dose is a tricky matter, and it’s an issue that has to be observed over the long term. I worry a bit about my physical capability being slowly whittled away over time, but I’m still up for a day of tramping around Barcelona (with a siesta) and I’m looking forward to the cooler climes of Andorra and the walls of Carcassonne.

So as we descend toward La Seu d’Urgell, I’ll just say that I’m happy to be in good health and good spirits. I’m glad I still get to travel this way and enjoy a job that my younger self would have dreamed of. I’m less glad to be living in a world that has horrors like the Gaza Genocide and the prospect of Trump II in it, but we can work against those things. In fact, I think we have to.

Health, Personal

Three Years, Three Months On

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Starting to write this while watching an extremely aggravating Six Nations match is probably not the best way to kick off a review of the past year. Better to have a clear mind, surely? To offer a dispassionate view of the past thirteen months and all that they’ve contained.

Nah. This particular repetition of the Six Nations has already caused me heart palpitations, during the epic first half between Ireland and France, so I think I can handle a ramshackle Ireland trying to avoid falling apart against Scotland in Murrayfield. Probably. In any case, I’ll provide a final score when the match gets to that point. (Currently it’s 7-8 to Ireland at 54 minutes.)

So, to my own situation. It’s actually pretty good, all things considered. As my late-year catchup post probably stated, I had a pretty good 2022 overall, despite getting caught with Covid not once but twice. In fact, the second time, coming around the end of November, presaged something more serious. The cough wouldn’t shift and proceeded to get worse. By the time an early January CT scan rolled around, I was pretty certain I knew what it was going to show.

My old friend alectinib had, after three years, decided to hang up its boots. The cancer was back on a growth path and new options were needed. Luckily there was a new candidate ready to go. Second choice it may have been, but lorlatinib was an able deputy: one pill once a day instead of four twice a day, and a new suite of side effects to take stock of.

Three months down the line from that changeover and I’m pleased to report that things are, if anything, better than they were. The cough and raspy breathing are gone, I have plenty of energy, and the side effects seem restricted to a rising cholesterol level. For which I need to take another pill. The final count on the pill front has thus halved, so I’m pretty happy, and if I get another three years out of lorlatinib, I’ll be ecstatic.

Thinker/crank Aubrey de Grey has a concept called longevity escape velocity, according to which there will come a point at which expected lifespans will be increasing so fast that that mortality itself will be left behind. There’s not much sign of that yet, but I have my personal version of “cancer escape velocity,” in which advances in cancer treatment outpace my cancer’s ability to colonise my lungs.

On that front then, so far, so good.

(The match has now ended, with Ireland winning 7-22, so add that to the good news. Six days to a showdown with England in Dublin, a Grand Slam at stake.)

As for the rest of life, no complaints and onwards and upwards. The job continues to be fascinating and engaging (and the office is walkable in good weather), and the family are all well, with the gaggle of nieces and nephews expanding in recent months by two of the former, Clodagh and Brigid. There’s even a family wedding to look forward to later in the year and Best Man duties to be executed in a fashion that suggests I might actually know what I’m doing.

It all suggests something of a return to normality, and in truth I’m even planning some travel for later in the year, Brussels this month and something new and worthy of a blog post or two around September time. I might even (whisper it), dig out the running shoes in the next week or two and see if the lungs are up to a light jog.

So everything seems to be going pretty good for me. I wish I could look around and say that the same is true for the rest of the world. While politics in Ireland seems to be running along more-or-less standard lines (which is to say, venal and dishonest on the part of the ruling power block), things either side seem to be taking a distinctly nasty direction.

The U.K., of course, remains consumed by the mire that Brexit was always going to become, and it trundles on seven years in, currently trying to heave its bulk over the largely flattened roadblock that is Northern Ireland. (Where the fundamentalist DUP have come to the end of the knots they’ve spent the last few years tying themselves in, only to find that they’ve, well, run out of rope.)

The Conservative regime, desperately unpopular and now on its fifth Prime Minister since Brexit, is reduced to culture war gestures, targeting refugees and trans rights in a desperate bid to gin up a bit of good old-fashioned hatred. Their latest efforts on this front have led to them going to war with the BBC’s Sports department, or rather its personnel, who have left work en masse rather than condone one of their number being victimised for having a public opinion contrary to that of the government.

Transphobia, meanwhile, is being used as a wedge issue by the U.S. far right—sorry, the Republican Party—as it plays its own games of hate and works to make the Hunger Games a real thing in time for the next Olympics. There’s a weird cultural cross-contamination process going on, as right-wing groups on both sides of the Atlantic spout the same talking points within days of each other, even when they’re wildly inappropriate.

The claim that “15-min Cities” were a globalist conspiracy to restrict movement may have made some sense in car-addled Los Angeles, but in much of British suburbia it’s just how life is lived. And faking moral outrage at children being brought to drag story time at libraries is a lot harder to do in a country where most children grew up watching drag performers on stage during pantomime season, every Christmas.

But logic and common sense require a firm footing in reality, and there’s precious little of that to be had these days. Facebook groups share all the poison gossip in restricted circles while Elon Musk burns Twitter to the ground in the desperate hope that someone, somewhere might someday like him. You’d be forgiven for forgetting that there’s a war on, but though Ukrainians are bleeding for Bakhmut as I type this, there’s a breed of online narcissist who’d as quickly blame them for the bloodshed.

Beyond even that, there’s the accelerating degradation of the world we live on. The increasing desperation of fossil fuel companies to extract as much wealth as they can from the planet before their business model crashes into the ground and takes us all with it. The way that market-driven capitalism cheers them on, a system for extracting value, never suited to run a society filled with complex human beings, now governing the fate of a planet. The only planet we know of that we can live on.

It’s all a bit much, and far beyond the compass of a blog post to comprehend. I can only reiterate what I have read and found to be good: that no person is illegal. To which I’d venture that no person is good or evil either. Only deeds. People are complicated and sometimes broken, sometimes by choice but more often not.

Given the option, most of us would help and share rather than hoard and compete. I believe that. I still see it regularly, even in the middle of myriad systems that encourage the opposite. Green shoots push through concrete, given time.

And if nothing else, there’s a Grand Slam to look forward to. Now who do I know might get me rugby tickets?

Health

Catching Up

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Well. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I wasn’t even going to look up how long it’s been, but the WordPress app front loads the list of recent posts and, well, the last time I posted here was in February. And even that post was late. So I guess 2022 hasn’t been a good year for posting. Hasn’t been a good year for a lot of other people either, but at least this one small thing I can fix…

In actual fact, I did have plans for posting here multiple times across the year, but distractions and overthinking combined make for a high hurdle. Something of a theme for the year, maybe? Anyhow, here’s a bundle of thoughts that maybe should have been posts of their own but didn’t make it.

Health

May as well get this out of the way first, seeing as part of the reason for getting back into posting was to throw out updates on my health situation. So, the good news is that the cancer is staying put for the moment—my medicine is doing its job nicely and long may it continue to do so. Covid hasn’t been quite so friendly, and it’s taken two shots at me this year, the latter of which left me with a cough that’s been hard to shake in the face of a cold snap and the array of sniffles and maladies doing the rounds at the moment. Still, Christmas is coming, and that’s a season of rest, right?

Work

Not a huge amount to say on this front, apart from the fact that I’m getting towards two years in the games industry and still enjoying it. Actual details will be thin on the ground, due to the NDA-heavy nature of the industry, but we actually had some RTE cameras in the studio recently, and it was nice to see some info creep out into the wild. With any luck, there will be some exciting news on the projects I’ve been working on revealed to the world.

Writing

Not for the first time, NaNoWriMo was a bust. Honestly, being stuck at home as much as I’ve been this year isn’t conducive to creative writing, at least for me. What creative juices have been flowing have been directed towards work instead. Hopefully something to balance a little better in 2023.

Travel

I travelled! Not just once, but twice. First time in March, a long weekend in London, to catch the Stonehenge exhibit in the British Museum (proof that the BM can do pretty well in the absence of imperially abducted goods) and do a metric ton of walking across a city I love but hadn’t been to in about ten years. Then, towards the end of the year, I took a somewhat chaotic trip across Switzerland, Germany, and Brussels. My travelling partner came down with Covid (I dodged it, somehow), but we took in new cities and met old friends, and I got to travel by rail and climb to the top of Cologne Cathedral, eleven years after I arrived in town too late to gain access. Again, here’s hoping that 2023 has some new travel adventures in store.

From below ground level to the base of the tall spire. With only a few pauses to catch my breath.

Movies

I didn’t get to the cinema much this year, mostly out of a desire to avoid Covid. And there are still several movies that came out this year that I really want to watch, not least The Banshees of Inisherin. Still, I did see a few. Black Panther: Wakanda Forever was disappointing, at least on my first and only watch. Chadwick Boseman’s absence was felt and the gap wasn’t entirely filled, even with multiple actors taking their shots at it. In this, it felt as disjointed as its Marvel stablemate, Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness. Which at least had the advantage of multiversal capering and Sam Raimi’s imaginative visuals to keep things fun. Lastly, there was See How They Run, which started strong with Saoirse Ronan and Sam Rockwell’s double act (Ronan in particular is a deadpan delight) but never quite committed to the bit and limped to a flat finish.

TV

If movies were something of a mixed bag for me in 2022, TV offered a lot. Especially when it came to large-scale fantasy productions. Amazon’s The Rings of Power threw huge amounts of money at the screen to variable results, but despite a few charming performances it was sunk by the fact that its setting, massively truncated in time and space, had little to no internal coherence. Game of Thrones prequel House of the Dragon fared a lot better by keeping its focus on the machinations of family and regal politics and trusting the audience to follow along with its time jumps. Its success can be seen in just how hard the climax of the series hit. Lastly, there was the long (as in decades) awaited adaption of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, which proved admirably faithful to the books, under Gaiman’s stewardship. Perhaps even to a fault, as the series more or less climaxed in episode 5, had its strongest episode in the subsequent one, then picked up some loose plot threads to round out the season. Now that it’s been confirmed for a second season pickup, hopefully some of these pacing issues can be smoothed out.

Other Media

Loads to talk about here, but this is already dragging on a bit, so I’ll do a drive by on everything.

Comics: Kieron Gillen has been one of my favourite writers for years, and he got his moment in the sun this year with the Judgement Day crossover, in which he got to put all of the Marvel toys in play and run them through an existential wringer. Well worth catching, especially if you read his Eternals series (a vital prequel and great series in its own right).

Games: Best game of the year is a recent entrant. Pentiment sees the player take the role of an artist in medieval Germany and attempt to solve a murder that rocks a small mountain community and the nearby abbey. It’s meticulously researched and beautifully presented, but it’s not heavy going at all, and I introduced a non-gamer friend to it, much to their enjoyment. Worth a spin if you have any interest in murder mysteries, the social politics of imperial Germany, or illustrated manuscripts.

Roleplaying Games: Keeping up a regular gaming habit in the face of social distancing wasn’t easy, but now that those restrictions have eased a bit, there has been some in-person gaming too. Most of that has been plain old D&D (with Solasta providing a nice toolset for online D&D adventures) but I’m hoping for more in 2023: a return to Call of Cthulhu, the new Pendragon release from Chaosium, and the Kickstarter delivery of DIE, based on Kieron Gillen’s comic of the same name, which promises some psychologically intense gaming if I can find people willing to play it.

And that’s…

…it. Too little too late as far as 2022 goes, but here’s hoping I’ll be a little more active in 2023. Plans are afoot to be a little more organised at least. I have all of the tools at my disposal. I just have to use them and develop good habits that have fallen into abeyance. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all.

Health, Personal

Two Years, Two Months On

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It should have been Two Years On, really, but I was around a month late last time, and if 2021 was good for anything at all, it was procrastination. A year in which not much went forward and not much went back. A year of holding your breath and waiting to see which way the spinning coin falls.

Plus, if I keep up this trend for long enough, I get to skip year 13 entirely, and that gives me something to aim for. Grab for those slender straws!

Let’s frontload this post with some updates of the kind that I dropped around this time last year. In keeping with the theme of the year, my cancer hasn’t really advanced or retreated in the past thirteen months, though it has thrown up some interesting curveballs. To wit, a small anomalous blob in my left lung was identified as something of concern, so my pill-based treatment was supplemented with some judicious Stereotactic Radiotherapy.

A stereotactic radiotherapy machine, ready for use.
My high-tech chariot awaits.

If you’ve never heard of this before, it’s a refinement of older generations of radiotherapy treatments, designed to deliver pinpoint radiation to small targets, like the aforementioned anomalous blob. Quite a bit of setup is required: I had a prep session in which I was fitted for a moulded beanbag bed and marked with some targeting tattoos, rendering me unsuitable for salvation according to several religions. Ah well.

The treatment wasn’t a barrel of laughs, but I’ll take boredom and discomfort over pain and ill health any day. Under the care of the excellent medical staff, I spent five sessions of an hour or so breathing very shallowly (observing the motions of my chest on a monitor so close to my face that I couldn’t focus on it) while the rotating sensor zeroed in on my problematic portions and the emissive elements zapped them into oblivion. Hopefully anyhow. Further scans will tell more.

On the similarly high-tech but much more invasive front, another anomalous blob further south in my torso called for a couple of cystoscopies. On the bright side, this anomalous blob appears to be entirely benign. Similarly brightly, I’ve now enjoyed live HD footage from inside my bladder. Not brightly at all: everything else about the experience, including an infection that dropped me in hospital for a few days after the first scan. The staff as always were excellent, but there are places where cameras are not meant to go, no matter how small and flexible they may be.

A cartoon of a Daily Bugle newspaper with the headline EVERYTHING AWFUL: Oh God Somebody Do Something
The year in a headline.

Of course, there’s whatever I went through in 2021, and there’s whatever the world at large was going through. 2021 was the year that refused to get better, as Covid worked its way through the Greek alphabet with a series of resurgences as the moneyed powers of the world tried to persuade everyone to go back to spending money even as the elite creamed as much off the top as they could get away with.

Does that sound a bit radicalised? Maybe I’ve been reading Twitter too much, but there’s a depressing refusal among western governments to look towards long-term solutions with regard to anything, pushing climate legislation down the road even as the Antarctic melts and the permafrost vanishes. The sclerotic nature of political systems occupied by people for whom government is a career rather than a job more or less guarantees a conservative status quo. I’ve said before that I think we’re heading into another cycle of revolutions driven by the tendency of wealth and power to accrue more wealth and power, but this time around external factors might end up intruding before any sea change is effected.

It’s funny when having incurable cancer isn’t the worst thing about your life. It’s bad when it isn’t in the top two. Covid and isolation take top spot, and I’m really hoping to at least escape into the wilds more often in 2022. Second place is taken up by the recurring nightmare of waking up in a world where fascist talking points are increasingly aired in public and creep in on the edges of “respectable” media. A world where Trump, Johnson, Peterson, Rogan, and Musk are defended by armies of vehement fanboys online and bitcoin and NFTs are promoted as the be-all and end-all of putting a price on everything in existence, no matter the cost.

A freshly baked sourdough loaf on a metal rack.
I baked some bread.

Thank you for listening to my rant, and if you haven’t made it this far, please excuse the logical impossibility. 2021 was far from a terrible year for me. It was too quiet for that, in the first place. I got to spend time with my family, adjusting ever so slowly to the absence of dad, and when I was able to, I met up with my friends, whose presence I remain entirely grateful for.

I baked bread, I wrote a novel (NaNoWriMo once again), and I enjoyed the summer as best I could. I also got a new job, and if there’s a positive side to the year, it was this change: the job in question is as close to my dream position as any I’ve ever been in, and the fact that I’m still learning as I go is just the icing on the cake. At some point in the year to come, I may even meet some more of my workmates in person (I’ve met a few, but mostly it’s been a work-from-home year).

So 2022, or the ten and a bit months of it that remain, is not without things to look forward to. There are medical worries hanging over my head, but that’s par for the course these days, and as long as I can enjoy the open air and the working day, I’ll consider myself fortunate enough. Hopefully the year will bring enough good things that others will be able to say the same.

Health

One Year On

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On December 3rd, 2019, I got my second cancer diagnosis. It wasn’t wholly unexpected by the time it arrived, but news like that still takes time to digest. You can read more about it here, if you want. My assumption at the time was that this would be the problem that I’d spend the next year navigating. That I would have to shape my life around it, one way or another.

2020 laughed at us all, didn’t it?

From the vantage point of twelve months later, cancer was just one of three major issues I ended up having to deal with. Of the three of them, it hasn’t been the hardest to get past, and it’s actually had the least impact on my day-to-day life. The others were, of course, the COVID-19 pandemic, which has upended and ended lives around the world, and the unexpected death of my father just as the pandemic was seriously getting started. Amid all of this, I can actually count myself a little lucky: as serious as my cancer is, it hasn’t been a massive burden to add to everything else 2020 has brought.

Yes, my cancer was and is serious. Lung cancer, stage 4, not curable. I have regular checkups and slightly less regular scans to monitor its progress. My running career has come to a grinding halt, and I can still feel the cancer’s presence with every deep breath or truncated moment of exertion. But I had a lucky break: a mutation in the cancer gene meant I was suitable for a pill-based therapy. Four pills, morning and evening. Minimal side effects and no need to be plugged into a saline drip for hours at a time, or have bits of me irradiated.

The result is that after being beaten back at first—allowing me to sleep more easily and largely eliminating my persistent cough—the cancer has been held in check for the rest of the year. The last few scans have been almost boring in their sameness, and my doctor and I have been enjoying informatively brief get-togethers for the past few months.

There have been hiccups, of course. Back around April and May, I found myself coughing up blood occasionally. No cause was ever found, despite a bronchoscope giving the medical profession yet another chance to poke around the inside of my lungs, but the fact that this coincided with the stress of my father’s funeral and the aftermath seems to offer a neat explanation. The pills have not been entirely without side effects either: a rash on my legs and a lowered heart rate that has seen me heading for my bed earlier than I might otherwise. (Typically I’m more of a morning person anyway, as several ex-girlfriends have bemoaned, so I’m not sure that many would notice any difference.)

Back when I was first diagnosed, I expressed some hope that I’d be able to spend some of 2020 travelling and writing. Prioritising things and people that matter to me. As it happened, none of that worked out. COVID-19 meant that international travel of any kind was off the menu, and the stress of living through a pandemic, family bereavement, and a cancer diagnosis turned out to be (surprise!) not conducive to the creative spark.

As the year has drawn to a close, I’ve started to get moving again, though the latest lockdown has kept travel far away. I did the 2020 NaNoWriMo challenge and hit the 50,000 word mark on time, giving me a boost of achievement that was sorely needed. Okay, so I didn’t actually finish the book I was working on, but I did at least prod my writing habit back into life. I’ve also kept up my walking in the face of worsening weather: work’s “Walktober” event probably helped with that.

Last of all there’s been Christmas. A strange, truncated Christmas that I managed to spend with my mum in the face of imminent lockdowns across the island of Ireland. A grab for normality as hopes for 2021 are born in the swirl of Brexit deals, vaccine arrivals, and the departure of at least one straw-haired headcase from the corridors of power.

For the past year, I’ve been appending these posts with a “Cancer Update.” Doing my bit to let people know how I’m getting on without broadcasting it on Facebook. With the end of the year, I think it’s time to retire that. As mentioned above, I’ve been enduring well enough through the year, with minimal side effects and struggles (cancer-related at least). While I’ll keep updating this blog, the “Cancer Update” will only reappear if there’s actual news to pass on. If it doesn’t appear, assume that things continue much as they have in the past year. Though I won’t take it amiss if you contact me to say hi and ask for a more detailed update.

So the time has come to crumple 2020 up and consign it to the dustbin of history. We’ll take our good memories where we have them and look to 2021 for a chance to improve things instead. I’ll continue to post irregularly, no doubt, and hopefully will have a chance to inspire some envy with travel posts before too long. After all, one advantage of cancer is getting bumped up the schedule for a vaccine shot…

Games, Health

The Matter With Britain

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These are dark days for Britain. As chaos engulfs the land, a venal and vicious ruler has risen up, interested only in seizing power by whatever means are at hand. Some have sunk into despair while others have abandoned their morals and thrown in with their twisted rulers. Amidst collapse, disease, and the dying throes of a nation turning in upon itself, you must gather your courage and your friends and make your way to the Field of Camlann, where King Arthur awaits your aid.

Wait, what did you think I was talking about?

Inkle Studios’ newest game, Pendragon, arrives at a fortuitously relevant time (for it). Its themes of loneliness, loss, and struggle in the midst of desperate times might cut a little close to the bone for some players, but that struggle also heightens the rewards of connections both new and renewed and reminders that hope is never entirely lost.

Inkle has a strong heritage in narrative games, with both the wonderful 80 Days (if you’ve never played it, seek it out—on almost any platform at this stage) and the more recent Heaven’s Vault, an archaeology-themed translate-‘em-up that’s only available on PC but is highly rewarding for those willing to delve into its science fiction worlds. Pendragon is a game on a smaller scale than Heaven’s Vault but it’s just as creative and rewarding.

The core gameplay of Pendragon consists of a series of chess-like encounters between Arthur’s followers, friends, and family as they crisscross Britain in their quest to reach Camlann before the once-and-future king’s final encounter with his bastard son, Mordred. A single play through of the game takes less than an hour in most cases, but with the opportunity to tackle different difficulty levels, unlock a variety of starting characters, and experience the twists and turns of the game’s narrative engine, there’s ample encouragement for replay.

The chess-like gameplay strikes a careful balance between being too intimidating and too simple. The basic concepts of threat and territory control are easy to figure out and amply signposted by the interface, with the special skills of certain characters suggesting particular strategies. Each encounter takes place on a limited battlefield, and though it can become crowded with enemies, their abilities and preferred tactics are likewise clearly signposted. Every battle provides the information that the player needs to win it, though victory isn’t always possible, and sometimes necessity or failing morale will see you fleeing the field.

In fact, victory is rarely a simple matter. Learning Pendragon takes the player along a specific path: First, learn the basics and simple strategies. Then learn to think a few moves ahead so that you don’t end up in a trap. Then learn how enemies act and where their weaknesses are. Then learn how to lure them into traps and dispose of them safely. Then … well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten so far. I’ve yet to even hit the middling difficulty levels.

Amid all of this tactical back and forth, Pendragon’s story engine does its best to weave a compelling tale. Each starting character has their own reasons for seeking out Arthur. You begin with the disgraced knight Lancelot and his lover Guinevere, both freighted with guilt, but other collectible characters who join on the journey do so out of a love of battle, a need to make amends, or sheer vicious spite. In addition to these main characters, there are others who may become your allies, their motivations created randomly and shifting in response to the choices you make.

These characters join you both on the battlefield, where their own skills open up new tactics, and around the campfire, where tales can be shared each evening of knights, faeries, and other Arthuriana. One of the game’s greatest strengths is how well it nails the feeling of the Arthur stories. The ultimately doomed nature of the best intentions in the face of time and dissolution is a recurring theme within both the original stories and Pendragon’s Britain. The world is unkind, and it only takes one person with bad intentions to make it far worse. Only through trust and determination can something better endure.

Mechanically, Pendragon has clearly been honed through multiple iterations. The short duration of each attempt at the game is a priority, with the constantly depleting morale counter pushing the player ever onwards. Characters can sacrifice themselves on the battlefield, to be rescued when the day is won, but this is a trick that can only be repeated so many times, with the food that extends its use always being in short supply.

In short, even on the lower difficulty levels, Pendragon instils in the player the sense that they’re racing against time. Both within battles, due to that falling morale, and on the longer journey as food runs out. Even once Camlann is reached, the pressure of time remains as you face Mordred, who grows stronger as the final battle proceeds, regardless of who faces him.

Mordred is, perhaps, the game’s biggest weakness. Depending on your character’s talents and the randomly generated battlefield you face him on, it’s possible for the final battle to feel unwinnable (in some cases it can even be unwinnable). This is exacerbated by the decision in this confrontation to remove the need to confirm moves, which is present all through the rest of the game. Changing the gameplay in such a way seems an oddly artificial way to up the stakes, and all it achieved was to annoy me when I lost twice to Mordred as a result of misplaced clicks. To have a quest end in such an anticlimax undercuts all the hard work done by the game’s narrative.

In a year like 2020, Pendragon will either match your mindset or undercut it. With its themes of learning how to cope with adversity, of maintaining the struggle even when things seem bleakest, it might feel a little too downbeat for some. For me though, the atmospheric narrative and gorgeous stained-glass art style kept me going through the initial stumbles of plumbing its gameplay depths. This is a tale of camaraderie and persistence in the face of a crumbling world. We could all do with a little of that.

For the moment, Pendragon is only available on PC and Mac, but it’s not an expensive purchase. Moreover, I wouldn’t be surprised to see it follow 80 Days onto a range of other platforms. If it drops onto one that you frequent, do take a look.

Cancer Update

I’m not as good at keeping this blog up to date as I was in the LiveJournal days. Sorry about that. The good news to report is that as of the most recent doctor’s visit, everything seems to be holding steady. I am a little worried about my medicine-induced low heart rate and the encroaching winter combining to turn me into a hibernating blob, but my workplace’s decision to run a “Walktober” event is at least encouraging my more active habits. We’ll see how well that lasts when the weather turns nasty.

There is also the issue of the ongoing global bastard (as one of my favoured YouTube channels calls it). Numbers are spiking in Ireland, especially in the North, which means that I may become even more housebound than I have been in recent months. My immune system is okay, but avoiding any trouble for my lungs seems sensible. I hope you’re keeping safe too, wherever you are. If we’ve ever met or talked, rest assured that you’ve been in my thoughts at some point during all of this.

Health, Personal, Writing

Morning Call

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Early morning calls are rarely good news. When the call is from your brother, his voice freighting two words with loss and grief, it’s about as bad as it gets.

“It’s dad.”

The call came at 6.45 AM on Sunday. For a few hours, I ran on automatic, alternating between doing what I normally did and trying to figure out what to do next. Actually confronting the news would wait. Would have to wait. My family were a hundred miles away from me in the midst of a pandemic. Could I be with them? Through the morning, I narrowed in on that question, and by lunch I had an answer from my doctor: yes. A visit to the hospital and a Garda checkpoint later and I was heading north.

I arrived not long before the body came back. He’d died at 6.00 AM, and as always with these things, matters followed their own course. My parents were lucky enough to have most of their immediate family living close by, so my mum had support as what needed to be done was done. By the time I arrived, I was there to fill in a missing piece. To offer support and presence, and to help figure out what came next.

My big contribution that day was to provide a photo of him that people could use. He wasn’t the most comfortable photo subject — in most photos of him, his smile was thin, if there at all. Perhaps he’d just gotten used to the formality of the job he’d held as head teacher of a primary school for 40-odd years. I found a different one. One where he was laughing. One of him and me, as it happened. I cropped myself out of it and sent it on.

The original photo, with tart.

The photo came from a couple of years before. My mum had been ill, needing heart surgery and then a lengthy recovery in hospital. I was between jobs, so I decided to head north and stay with him for a few months. Despite the circumstances, I appreciated that time we had. I think I told him that. I hope I did. The photo was of the two of us attempting to bake an apple tart. Despite it being the middle of summer, we’d decorated it with the only pastry shapes we could find cutters for: Christmas trees. Maybe that’s what he was laughing at.

The tart turned out pretty well, in the end.

After the pressure of the first day, the next few were all waiting. We had time for realisation to sink in, as the body lay in repose in the house with us. Mum fielded condolences from her and dad’s expanse of family and friends. I did useful things, like cancelling his satellite TV subscription (awkward) and deleting his Facebook account (easy enough, as he’d never really posted much there).

The last missing piece arrived on Tuesday night. My brother flew in from Australia and arrived a little before midnight. Like me, he’d needed permission to travel through the pandemic, but his journey had been much longer and the prospects for his returning after were far more questionable.

The day of the funeral was … strange. I suppose it always must be, but then 2020 hasn’t been a normal year so far. The weather seemed to feel the strangeness. There was sunshine before and sunshine after, but during the funeral itself, there were two hours of squally, cold rain. Even so, the road between our house and the chapel was lined with people seeking to pay their respects. Not able to attend the funeral due to the pandemic, they did all that they could.

I helped carry the coffin to the grave. Helped lower it in, along with my brothers and uncles. Then we walked home again, through the easing rain. I found myself wanting to do everything I could but not knowing whether anything I did could make a difference. The funeral was over, and now the living without him had to begin.

It’s a huge gap to fill. Most people probably feel the same way about their parents, so please excuse me if I talk about him for a bit. I often tell people that I know that I’ve been pretty lucky in life. A strange thing to say, given my medical history, recent and otherwise, but my mum and dad are at the base of why I believe it.

He was born in Ardglass, County Down, a few years before World War II ended. Grew up there, made friends, got an education, saw a bit of the world, then came back. Got a job in a local school, became headmaster, got married, had four kids, retired, played golf. A life summed up in a paragraph; accurate but missing almost all of the important things.

His four kids are pretty different in temperament. We each took different things from our parents, but all of us learned from his curiosity, both about the world and the people in it. How to treat other people is the most important lesson that parents can teach, and he and mum aced that.

When I was young, I was constantly amazed at how many people would come up to him on the street and start chatting. As a shy kid, it was incredible that so many people knew him. Part of that was down to his job, which brought him into contact with so many. But mostly it was because he was interested in them, and they picked up on that. Not that he always remembered who they were on first meeting, but he never let on and usually figured it out quickly enough.

You could see that attention repaid in the crowds who braved rain, wind, and pandemic to line a narrow country road and see the coffin go by. You could see it in the generous tribute in the local paper, written by the father of several children he’d taught years before. The letters that crammed into our letterbox as the days went past after the funeral. He’d given out love into the world, and the world gave it back.

He loved sports, though for different reasons. Most of his sons picked up on his love for rugby and football, but I was the only one whom he snared into supporting his beloved West Bromwich Albion. He was a little more successful in passing on his contempt for Manchester United. He liked horse racing too, and golf, and he’d watch cricket as well, if only to see England lose.

He loved history, a love that kept my own love for it alive after school had done its best to bore it out of me. We’d planned to visit Venice and maybe other sites before the lockdown came in. He loved stories, both reading them himself and reading them out to his pupils. He’d have drained the local library dry of books if he could.

He loved quizzes more than almost anyone I knew, and they gave him an outlet for his curiosity and ability to retain odd scraps of information. It’s a love and a trait that I inherited too. He took part in several TV quizzes, most notably Mastermind, where his specialised subject was the Second Punic War. As a kid, I accidentally taped over his recording of that appearance. As an adult I retrieved a copy of it from the BBC archives.

Above all, he loved my mum. An ex-girlfriend of mine once turned to me after meeting my parents and said “They never argue!” or words to that effect. Which wasn’t exactly true. I imagine they were being on their best behaviour at the time, but the fact remains that they were together long enough to see several of their kids get married and have kids of their own, to build their own house in a beautiful part of the country, and to enjoy a retirement that saw them travel to various parts of the world both sunny and historical on a regular basis. If they argued, they loved and knew each other well enough to know that the arguments weren’t the important thing.

He wasn’t perfect. He could be a grumpy sod, especially when West Brom were being managed by Tony Pulis, the Irish rugby team were hoofing the ball into the air for no good reason, or Rory McIlroy was failing to putt properly. He had a tendency towards temper when driving that I’ve inherited as well. The world is full of idiots, and most of them are on the roads (a good proportion of them driving BMWs).

He never quite settled into retirement. His curiosity and need to be doing something wouldn’t let him. He churned through library books, wrote a book of his own, joined the local golf club and ran it for a while, volunteered to help out with charities and his old school, and did his best to fill his days. When his grandchildren came along, he loved them too, though they at last managed to remind him of the value of moments of peace and quiet.

I could go on adding detail until my memory ran out and all my readers had given up, but no matter how many words I added, it wouldn’t amount to more than the barest glimpse of a life. That he died so suddenly, without warning and a chance to say goodbye, hurts for those of us left behind, but the silver lining is there to see if you can manage it. It was a good life — it could hardly be a better one — and it ended without suffering. He left behind the best of memories and having done his best to leave the world better than he found it. We should all be so lucky.

For his family and friends, we now have to adjust. As much as death is an inevitable part of life, saying goodbye to a massive part of your life isn’t something that we’re taught to do. We have to figure out what our lives will be like in his absence. We’ll have to cope with the grief of all the moments that will never be. To be reminded every now and then that there won’t be another chance to talk with him. To see a photo, or read something and think of sharing it, and be pierced to the heart in an instant.

The sun is shining and the world is still. There are terrible things going on, and it sometimes feels like the worst people are running everything. But most of us have examples we can look to and know that it can be better. My dad was that for me. He is still.

Cancer Update

I normally think of myself as a pretty stoic person, but starting to cough up blood the night before my dad’s funeral, while waiting for my brother to fly back from Australia in the midst of a global pandemic pushed me as close to panic as I’ve been for a long time. Exactly what the cause was, I don’t know, but the odds are that wearing a mask for extended periods of time was too tough on my lungs and a blood vessel went pop somewhere. Then I made it worse by taking part in the funeral while wearing a mask too — though that part I don’t regret at all.

As a result I haven’t been able to stay at home as I wanted to — even with the pandemic, there are still people dropping by to offer their condolences, and I need to be isolated so I don’t have to wear a mask. I did get myself checked out at the hospital and there are no signs of anything worse going on, and it’s now been several days since the last spot of blood, so I think I’m on the mend. Still, it’s a reminder that despite the good scan results recently, I need to take care. Especially amidst everything that 2020 has become.

Health

What You Need to Do

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When I was younger, newspapers were fond of stories of people who triumphed in the face of adversity. You know the kind of thing: “I lost my job but invented a hairdryer and now I’m a millionaire” or “I learned to play the piano while going through chemotherapy and now I’m playing Carnegie Hall!” Reading these full-page stories, usually accompanied by photos of the people in question, smiling beatifically, the younger me tended to agree. Taking a traumatic event and turning it into something positive; that was good, right? That was what you ought to do.

Then, when I was nineteen, I got cancer myself. And despite having ambitions of being a writer, I spent most of my eight months of chemotherapy glued to the couch, exhausted, constipated, or both. No writing got done, and for a long time afterwards I viewed those eight months as wasted time. I could have done more with all that free time. I should have done more.

Fifteen or so years later, I had another life upheaval and reacted differently. I lost a long-term job while I was still reeling from a painful breakup. No physical illness to add to my troubles, thankfully, but a similar form of mental adversity. This time I took a step back and thought about what I needed to do. I travelled and made plans and shifted my life in a direction that I hoped would make me a better, happier person. I wasn’t suddenly in a different place, just moving in a different direction.

So I handled the second crisis much better, didn’t I? Got lemons and made lemonade, whereas previously I’d just sat on my couch and done nothing, right? That’s how I saw things. It took me a long time to realise that I was wrong.

It’s not just that the circumstances were different. In the first case I was still a student, reliant on my parents and suffering from both a disease that had taken a huge amount out of me for a year and a half and a treatment that wasn’t much less gruelling. In the second I was in receipt of a decent payoff from my old employer and more emotionally mature, despite any relationship trauma. What I could do in the two circumstances was worlds apart.

It’s also that my needs were very different. In the first case I was ill, and getting better was the priority. Putting pressure on myself to write wasn’t helpful, whereas resting, spending time with family and friends, and enjoying being in one of the most beautiful parts of Northern Ireland certainly was. In the second, I’d been uncomfortably static for a long time and needed to shake things up. Travelling gave me time to think and learn from new experiences, and I followed it up by going back to college and trying out several new jobs, putting a new shape on the next decade.

In both cases, I did what I needed to, which was the best thing for myself in the circumstances I was in.

Right now, we’re sharing similarly traumatic circumstances. Covid-19 has circled the globe and everything feels like it’s on shutdown. Circumstance and carelessness have ballooned a crisis into a potential catastrophe that people all across the world are working, sometimes at risk to their lives and health, to forestall. For the rest of us, we don’t know what the next few weeks or months are going to bring, but most are spending a lot of time at home, our normal habits and activities disrupted.

Amidst all of this, I’ve seen more than a few suggestions that people should take advantage of this disruption to tackle the mountains that loom in the back of our heads. To finally write that novel, learn how to play that instrument or speak that language, take up baking or knitting, or get fit and cut out the junk food. My sympathy is far more with those who respond to such calls with a simple, “Eh, no.”

Don’t get me wrong: if the need’s been in you to do something and you have the time and energy, go for it. But take it from someone who knows: don’t beat yourself up for not doing the things you think you ought to be doing. Figure out what you need instead. And if you’re struggling to cope with the day-to-day news, isolated from your loved ones, or even spending three hours a day trying to persuade those loved ones to go to sleep, then what you need might be to curl up on your couch with Netflix or Disney+ and the relaxing beverage of your choice.

As for myself, I’m doing what I can. I’m isolated enough that I’ve taken to speaking to myself just to hear a voice, but that doesn’t make me any more crazy than I already was. I’m getting as much exercise as I need, experimenting with baking and cooking because I enjoy the experience and can eat the results, reading more than I have in ages, and catching up on a load of TV shows. I haven’t done much writing, and there are three unpainted miniatures on the table in front of me most days, but they’ll still be there if I need them.

So do what you need to do, however active or inactive that might be. If you achieve something new, that’s awesome. If you come out the other end of this in a good mental and physical place, that’s even better. I’ll meet you there, and maybe we’ll swap stories.

Cancer Update

A brief and positive update. Last Thursday I had a CT scan, which turned into a bit of a trial, though thankfully not a lengthy one. This morning I got the results: The cancer is responding to the treatments and the tumours that the doctors are watching have all shrunk. So that’s nothing but good news. More details will come, but for now let’s be thankful for medical science and living in a country with a mostly functional health service. I’ll keep taking the pills and staying as far away from Covid-19 as I can. One life-threatening illness is as much as I want to cope with right now.