It's the weekend.  We've done the shopping and in a short while we'll be making our way to Tottenham Police Station for the Vigil for Mark Duggan.  As far as radiotherapy is concerned, today is a day off, time to relax and to drink the occasional cup of coffee (which is, of course) awesome.  My very dear friend Carien, who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer early in 2013 has been blogging her experiences in Dutch for most of that year but now has begun blogging in English.  You can find her blog here.

For days 17 and 18 (Thursday and Friday) I was able to have something of a lie in with treatment not starting until later (10:45 and 11:20 respectively).  It was still dark when we arrived but that's an artifact of London Transport schedules.  Earlier than 7.30 AM, the buses take about an hour.  Later than 7.30AM, they take two, this gives a choice between arriving ridiculously early, or being late.  I prefer the latter, because the alternative might be attempting to self-administer an enema on the bus.  Given my name is not Leigh Bowery that's not going to happen.

On day 17, I had a chat with the nurse, Andrea, who told me that when they took the weekly picture on Monday, my bladder was only two thirds full and she reiterated the need for me to keep hydrated.  I know, but I so don't want to piss myself on the table again, so it's something of a dilemma.

On day 18 there was a new radiologist who slightly changed the routine for getting off the table.  I'm used to the table lowering at the same time as it is moved out from under the machinery.  Accordingly, I waited until my head was no longer underneath the device (and so there was no danger of cracking my head) and jumped from the table without realising until a fraction of a second before I jumped, that it was still five feet from the floor.  This pissed of the radiologist no end, so I apologised profusely (alright maybe not VERY profusely) and made my way to the toilet before going home.