Today, the 4th February is World Cancer Day. Around the globe events are taking place to increase awareness, educate and raise funds for a multitude of the research and support charities that underpin the fight against this rancid disease.
The people selflessly involved in today’s events do so with the objective of making a difference to sufferer’s lives, be it preventative, clinical, supportive, curing or palliative.
As my family’s lives, like millions worldwide, have been touched by this unwanted visitor, I have nothing but admiration for this massive effort. A day organised to improve the lives of the those whose every day is cancer day, not just the 4th February. Sufferers who are impacted every day by this malevolent nemesis. Be that physically, emotionally, financially or spiritually.
Despite finding it therapeutic conveying ‘our story’ living with this unwanted visitor, I’m not going to touch on our experiences in the last seven years within this blog.
The narratives commence with the day of Karen’s diagnosis in Where The Rainbow Ends – “I Regret To Tell You…” , followed by subsequent monologues of her journey.
The reason I raised the topic of World Cancer Day in this piece was from an angle of expressing gratitude. In particular, to all of the individuals who give their time to ease the plight of mine and millions of other families touched by cancer.
Thank you!…… Your humanity does you credit!
I’m sitting looking out of my dining room bay window as I seek lexilogical inspiration. Greeted by the uncommon sight of the cloud cover lifting, it’s heartening to see a rare glimpse of solar rays in Leeds 15.
On the right hand side of my garden borders, I catch sight of two of the neighbourhood cats covertly monitor a large wood pigeon as he perches atop a pyracantha bush.
I use the word ‘he’ above, but to be honest I’ve no idea if it is a male or female pigeon; and I’ve no intention of venturing outside to check. Checking the genitals of a pigeon to ensure the forensic accuracy in my blog just isn’t going to happen. That would apply even if the gender bore relevance to the narrative, which it doesn’t.
As he gluttonously gorges on the plentiful bounty of orange berries, exhibited with peacock pride by the bush, this large bird seems oblivious to the threat from two local moggies.
My neighbour Mike’s cats (Marmalade and Marmite) regularly dine in my back garden. Although amiable felines, they are a fussy pair always insisting on a quiet table in the corner. High maintenance of nature, they’re also never slow to criticise if the chaffinch béarnaise is overdone.
This morning I’ve allocated the wee feline scamps a seat at the rattan table on the corner of the patio. They plan to dine on wood pigeon; if/when they get a window of opportunity to pounce on it.
As discerning connoisseurs of vino, my little feline chums have ordered an extremely palatable New Zealand sauvignon blanc to wash down their cuisine. Marmite particularly enjoys the wine’s woody bouquet with the faint after taste of vanilla. Marmalade has a drink problem so will down anything.
Marmalade and Marmite’s favoured wood pigeon recipe (below), served on a mint pea bed with a parsnip au jou.
Their frequent return to dine in my garden and the appreciation of the fine cuisine is heart-warming. I take it as a sign they approve of the establishment, in particular the efforts my wife and I have gone to in ‘doing it up’.
I have to say, though, Mike’s moggy’s are lousy tippers. They either leave nothing at all or a fur ball they’ve just coughed up, along with some avian feathers they couldn’t digest.
Just like their owner…… A right chuffing tight arse!