The man down the road stops me to talk of his cancer – sore throat, blocked ears; three separate trips to the doctor. You’re fine. You’re not fine. Strep-throat. Take a sick day. A few months on – it’s throat cancer; sorry. But he’s on the mend and he’s – massively – on the meds. He’s on some trial. Doesn’t know if he’s getting the placebo or the (real) good oil. But he’s back on food, even though it tastes like shit. And he’s not ashamed to talk about it. He’s got advice, sound advice in fact: get yourself checked. Get to the doctor. Get into the hospital system. Get yourself seen to with the slightest concern. Get your worry seen to. And I’m standing there with only the worry that the cat wants its food. So I make my excuse and head home. Sometimes the best chats are the ones you never planned for, the ones you never expected. It was a good day today. He thought so too. Every day above ground, as they say. Whoever said that…someone told me it was Lou Reed. But his idea of a ‘Perfect Day’ didn’t sound so flash. So, I’m not so sure about that. Better ask the doctor next week.