The cafeteria is little more than a small concession up on the first floor, sitting in the atrium between treatment areas. I’m aware that I’m sitting with a slump, my left arm covered in a half-dozen gauze pads. I look absolutely defeated, and crack a half smile at the pathetic figure I must be cutting.
I am inhaling a bottle of chocolate milk, a protein bar, and a sandwich because I’ve not eaten since 6pm the previous day; my blood sugar is on the floor. I have already passed-out from the repeated needle sticks (apparently this is my new thing).
Oncology. I came back here to this place, having been away for a year, because they asked me to. I didn’t want to; I’d had enough of it. It had been four miserable years of my life and I just could not do it. Nobody seems to understand, not even people closest to me. You get pulled into the machine and ‘care’ starts to feel like an elephant on your chest.
The facts are I had a very dangerous cancer, my chances of survival weren’t great, but the treatment worked, and I am still here. However, I started to feel a sense of dread and suffocation around doctors. I barely saw a doctor for most of my adult life. I’d like to go back to that, thanks. I can’t for now, because as a result of diagnostics they’ve found things they want to look at, so now I am looking at a surgical procedure to take a lymph node out of my neck because the scan pinged it. I don’t think it’s anything. I hope it isn’t anything. It’s fun, isn’t it?
I have a little joke that oncologists cause cancer. “I was fine when I walked in there, I leave and I have cancer. I don’t make the rules.” I think it’s funny, fuck you.
My PCP (GP for the NHS people out there)…God bless him, nobody tries harder, but people keep asking me why I don’t go back to see him. Well, it’s because he is obsessed with things going up my arse. He’s become a colonoscopy salesman. Yes, I know I should, but there’s a key concept here: I don’t want to. Change the fucking record mate, I don’t want things up my arse right now. Maybe in a year or two I’ll feel the need. Until such time I’ll rely on the radiology surveillance and take my chances. No, I’m not being reasonable, it’s okay.
To top off what has been a stellar week, I was waiting in my car at a red light when a young man lost control of his vehicle, smashed into mine from the left side, then got out of his car and ran off, like a sort of crackhead Forrest Gump. Police caught him further up the road as a witness called it in almost immediately. So there’s that to deal with. Police and insurer have been great, less I have to deal with right now, the better.
Netflix, in their absolute unquestionable wisdom, have bought LOST. This is the show that is now regarded as the ‘Golden Age of Television’ in some circles. It’s not, that title will forever be owned by The WIre, and I am sorry, I will not be taking notes. LOST was the defining show of network TV, in much the same way Climie Fisher were the defining band of the 1980s.
So of course, I watched the fucking pilot, for the first time since the absolute crushing disappointment that was the original broadcast run of the show. LOST was a glorious mess, a one-trick pony the likes of which we will never see again, because you can only pull this shit once, and everybody sees how it is done. It killed Westworld, for a recent example. “This show feels a bit like LOST“, I remember thinking, shortly before it died early, before really doing, well, anything.
Mystery boxes – a perennial theme for showrunner Damon Lindelof, who got so badly broken by LOST he ragequit Twitter because people had the audacity to suggest his handling of the show was, like, shit, have a very short shelf-life. You can’t keep doing it. It’s boring, and it is not a substitute for solid storytelling. They were spinning plates, and they knew it, and by Season three, the audience knew it, too. Sky TV’s promo posters for Season 3, and I remember them very well, used to say “answers are coming”. It was an admission that the show set itself up for failure and had no hope for a resolution. We wanted to believe that they “knew what they were doing”. They didn’t.
Ironically, LOST had fucking spades of great stories. It remains one of the greatest character-driven shows ever made. On form, the show was magic, but the writers never nailed the big picture. I remember in Season 2 with ‘The Hatch’ and the endless exposition the uneasy feeling the audience was collectively having its pisser pulled.
Now the zoomers have got hold of it, and are fully embracing it in their weird little fanatical way. I wonder if they too will feel that burn of disappointment as the show goes on. Much is made of the ending. It’s okay, it’s just the show goes stale long before the finale.
I hadn’t been back for over ten years. I arrived, after 7hrs squeezed into a brutally tight seat with around 2hrs broken sleep, at Heathrow. The customs officer took my passport, scanned it, and said “Welcome home, James” like I’m 007. It gave me a laugh. This wasn’t home, though. Not anymore.
At arrivals my best friend of some 30 years was waiting for me, and we’d take the short trip along the M25 to St. Albans in his absurd BMW sportscar. First, I’d have to get in the fucking thing. At 6’3″, and not lean anymore, it was comically difficult. Middle age sucks (unless you buy a German sportscar apparently). Leaving the airport and getting onto the roads – England proper – I’d expected to feel something. I didn’t.
I was in the kind of daze jet travel gives you, little sleep, ~4000 miles, 5hrs time difference, so I was struggling to take it in. I had not been outside the contained little world of the airport since 2014 (although I’d transited Heathrow just three months earlier) but for all that it seemed absolutely familiar. I had forgotten how busy the M25 was, even outside of rush hour. It is dense. Prior to the trip I’d toyed with the idea of driving myself, but it had been too long, and it’s too different, and like anywhere, you have to worry about where you’re going to park for days at a time.
We arrived at the flat, a place I knew very well, and I was surprised how my memory had failed me; I did not remember the kitchen right next to the living room, even asking if it was new. All of this seems funny in hindsight, I just wasn’t with it, and didn’t realise. This was the beginning of a process where my old life would merge with my present one. In just two days time I’d be in the West End of London, feeling like I’d never left.
The tradition with my old friend was lots of TV and cups of tea. And so it went. By midday I was sinking into the sofa and thinking I really needed to do something to overcome the inertia, I was flagging, big time. There was no spare room in the flat, so for the night I’d be on the floor. It’s fine, but also means I can’t just crash and surrender to the jetlag. I suggested we go out for a walk.
We did a couple of miles around St. Albans, taking in the cathedral, and stopping off for a coffee as the blue hour came. This was restorative, and I started to feel normal. I had not, however, let the place in. I felt nothing as I walked familiar streets, even messaging my wife to tell her it was very odd to feel like America was home and this was just some other place. By the end of the week, I’d feel very different. I looked out of the flat’s window, onto the concrete courtyard with the flowerbeds atop the garage, and considered what a familiar view this was. I’d had the same thought many times 2008-2011. It was starting to get dark around 4pm. It seemed early, but I’d just forgotten that’s just how it is at this latitude.
The evening would bring a few pints in various St Albans pubs, topped by a lebanese takeaway. I slept like the dead.
In a happy coincidence, my sister lives in the same town. She wanted to take me to a football game; Tottenham vs Man City; her partner’s a season ticket holder and we’d all go the following night. I hadn’t been to a game since Southampton vs. Middlesbrough in October 2011. Not that this was a regular thing for me.
We took the Thameslink train to London, and the Tube to Seven Sisters. I didn’t know North London at all, but this area feels a bit like Old Kent Road. A bit of a shithole; lots of barber shops, takeaways, litter and scruffy pavement. I didn’t mind it at all. We did a fair bit of walking; this would be a theme for the trip in general. The football ground is spectacular; a gleaming new thing with an amazing hospitality area that yielded much beer and excellent food.
White Hart Lane
Walking from the bar out onto the terraces presented that magical vibe of sound and energy. We had great seats.
Great seats
I’m not a huge football fan. I didn’t grow up with it, didn’t have that with-dad-on-the-terraces experience. Nevertheless, I enjoyed seeing a game again. It’s the kind of thing everyone should experience, and I was grateful to my sister and her partner for making it happen. We got out of there after 10pm and set off for the long walk to meet an Uber for the trip home. There were pub stops, and I got into St Albans around 0100, my friend waiting up for me. I felt a bit like a kid that had been out at a gig, but I’m 50. I’d been here a day and it already felt like a great time.
My host had got tickets for Dr. Strangelove at the Noel Coward in the West End. After an easy day of telly and tea, it was time once again to get a train to London. St Albans is only about 20 miles out of town. It’s a quick trip, and the transport infrastructure is excellent.
We took the overland Thameslink train right into central London. It would be about a mile’s walk to Soho. I had not been in this part of London for about 22 years, but it didn’t feel that way. Time vanished. Central London has an energy. I grew up in it, and I hadn’t forgotten. I grabbed a photo at the junction just after the Thameslink station, as much for my memory as anything else.
Ludgate
We were early, so we stopped for a couple of pints around the corner. Soho was packed; it reminded me of midtown Manhattan; the sorts of crowds you see around Times Square. It was also Halloween, and it was amusing to see huddles of people in various outfits. Harry Potter was well-represented.
The garish rickshaws were new to me, blasting out music as they whizzed past in a flurry of sound and neon. My friend quipped that if he was run over by one of them, I was to tell his family it was anything else.
Soho
The play, Armando Iannucci’s interpretation of the Kubrick classic, was excellent. Faithful with some modern winks in the script. We walked back along a much quieter Fleet street, getting to St. Albans in time for a quick pint and a takeaway. It was nearly Friday, and it would soon be time to go to Dorset for the big reunion with some of our old friends. This was the actual reason for my trip, but I’d already made some great memories, and I still had another five days.
