Having spent the week following my bone scan feeling strange pains in all my remaining limbs and not enough air in my lungs, and train journey to my hospital appointment reading an article in the Metro about how dogs can sniff out tumours, which made Alfie the Dog’s recent over-attentive behaviour suddenly make appalling sense, there was no way I was going engage in small-talk with my oncologist or be lulled into a false sense of security before the bombshell:

“How are you?”

“OK.”

“Rehabilitation going well? Plenty of physiotherapy?”

“Yep.”

“It must be hard work.”

“Not really.”

So when she finally got around to saying that the latest bone scan showed no bone metastases, and that everything looked fine, I had to struggle out of my recalcitrant teenager’s body back into my middle-aged, rather red-faced one. Mindful of the wrath of the gods, but wanting to celebrate, I hopped around St Pancras Station and invested in a handbag.  As Matron Anna says, if they’ve got the results wrong, she can have the bag.