I am beginning to become what the quacks call ‘constitutionally weak’. Lack of breath plays a big part in this as the tumours in my lungs expand. There is no treatment they tell me, except to attack the tumour with chemotherapy — a risky proposition. I get outside as much as I can, lolling around the veranda with its beautiful views of a turquoise sea and the islands beyond. And I go for trips on my Segway electric scooter, which has performed faithfully on this island, to everyone’s amazement, for 13 years. So my balance cannot be entirely shot. But the end of the ‘pretence of normality’ (as I have called it) is approaching, although I have told very few people on Mustique of my illness. (Too much fuss, however well meant, is exhausting.) Unfortunately, this also means I must begin considering leaving here for the last time, to take the flight to Blighty to finish the job. By the way, I asked the quacks about my cold feet and was told: ‘the cold feet are a part of growing older. The breathlessness and chest pain are not.’ So there you have it.
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This is almost the last poem I’ll include in I Just Stepped Out. I shall keep on writing for as long as I can, but one must draw a line somewhere if a book is ever to be completed. Today was the 110th day following my terminal diagnosis. I’ve written more than 90 poems in that time, (a ludicrously high count) from which I will select the best, with help from friends and editors, for the Verse Diary section you’re presently reading.