All my life I've been comfortable with numbers, having a good memory for dates and phone numbers and a facility with arithmetic that sometimes becomes a compulsion. Sometimes this can be a problem. I may be keeping it in the day, but I can't help counting them.
C was told she had cancer on 8 June. A month later an oncologist told us that the median prognosis (I think he must have meant the mode, rather than the median) for survival was six to nine months after diagnosis. Today we are halfway through that period, and C does not look like a woman close to death to me. Normally I wouldn't be so hubristic as to say it (although I've been thinking it quite often over the past month or two), but the hospice nurse said it too, last week, and it needs saying. Some days are better than others, and C has had a viral infection that has brought her low at times in the last week or so, but the better days are very good, and we still manage to take our pleasures where we find them.
Here she is at our favourite Indian restaurant, the Ganges in Exeter, yesterday: what do you think?