Monday, 09th October 2023
New weeks, new beginnings, new lives, always seem to want to start on a Monday. Some rhythms are indelibly embedded much more so than the natural, Circadian one. In the UK, School years, University academic years, start in September / October. No matter the logic of children’s / young adults’ ages. Why?
Because of the wind.
Yep.
The wind.
Britain and maritime trade, before the age of mass travel and fruit all-year-round brought about by the 707. OK, 747 for those of a populist cultural knowledge.
Trade Winds — note the term ‘trade’ winds — would cary sailing ships up from Cape Town to India arriving in the Northern Hemisphere Autumn. So that’s when the trade with India, and for Britain the whole of the East by missing out the trade centres at the end of the overland Spice / Silk routes to Venice and Istanbul from China and Persia, would begin the cycle again.
Two or three hundred years later, September is the start of the school year, Monday the start of the working week. I have it in mind Sunday is the ‘official’ start of a week but I haven’t looked that up to confirm. I prefer to like the idea, irrespective of the truth.
How is this related to cancer?
It probably isn’t if you don’t see the world with a brain like mine. Always enquiring, seeking deeper truths, working out the difference between how the world works to our convenience and how it actually works. Made me excellent in Intelligence. An excellent Tester in Government projects and IT. And a pain in the arse as a husband. Or boyfriend.
Zappery finished last Tuesday, a week ago tomorrow. Yesterday, an hour or more from home, I had a huge, er, um, release into the seat of my pants. This morning, just as I was beginning to feel an element of control of my bowel at night, I’ve had to throw away another pair of underpants. Even at home, a couple of meters from the loo, unable to get there in time — at least the pants did the job they were being worn to do. Protecting the kitchen floor.
Even protecting your delicacy it’s still possible to get the message across. Words, right?
The thing is, during five weeks of high-energy beam bombardment, I knew my bowel and bladder was going to be in trouble. Now, almost a week after treatment completion, there is no obvious cause to latch onto so I get a bit foot-stamping ‘it’s not fair!’
We humans like a nice neat cause for our effects. The truth gets in the way.
My house mate has been gracious enough to keep her opinions to herself — mostly — in the week since completion day. A bottle of champagne, KFC, a curry, a few beers Tuesday in a nice bar, a few ciders for lunch in my favourite pub. Some tinnie’s watching the ruby. Yesterday’s (Sunday) poached egg and crispy bacon breakfast came back to haunt me big time, and cause me to change all my plans for the next few weeks. But I had a reason. I ‘knew’ what I was doing. Even though it didn’t look like it when it is clear to all logic I need to give my body a rest.
But what about my mind?
I felt it was so very important, a kind of all-costs important, to behave, and treat my body, as if it was ‘normal’.
OK. OK, in whose book is alcohol every day normal? Umm. There are not many of those round here, as the wide-mouthed frog once said. But I very very badly needed a holiday feel. A reward. A metaphorical pat-on-the-back well done my son, have a break before we get on and live the rest of our lives.
To follow the trade winds.
Now, of course, it’s time to rejoin the real world, the world as it is. Cancel all my celebratory travel plans. Or at least postpone them. Put the corkscrew in the cupboard. Set up a non-hospital inspired life routine.
Listen to my body.
And be grateful to be, non-celebratory, alive.
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