I don’t think I’ve got lung cancer; I’m not a smoker, so I can’t have it. Actually, I stopped smoking last Wednesday evening when I decided not to buy any more fags after finishing a packet: I reckon it’s the best way of giving up: no prolonged reliance on nicotine through the various interventions that make you want to pull your own skin off or that taste like minty earwax, all the time, tying you to the drug that you’re trying to escape from.

On employing the power of Google to help me decide that I probably have a terminal malignancy, I started to feel a burning pain in my left lung. This is it, it’s DEFINITELY cancer. I convinced myself, especially also because I’m off for a chest x-ray on Wednesday evening (in a Ford Transit, at a Library). Anyway, over the course of the weekend, the diffuse pain on the left side of my thorax has concentrated somewhat… to my stomach. So it seems that a case of indigestion probably isn’t cancer afterall.

In all fairness, I have been in a lot of discomfort with my foodbag, and I am a hopeless doom merchant (I have my mum to thank for this) so it’s sort of understandable that I’d expect the absolute worst while not being particularly bothered about hoping for the best.

Anyway, more blood tests tomorrow that will probably show that I’m absolutely fine and that the machine that does the analysis at the hospital has had a clean and a calibration.

I’m really hot.

Probably pancreatitis.

But my temperature’s only reading 36.4! This is what happens when you have a brain tumour.