When will I learn? It’s embarrassing. I love a good horror film and I know how they work. Our hero leans against the wall after a particularly scary encounter, blows out a huge sigh of relief and BANG my popcorn is all over the floor, the alien is scurrying off and there’s mayhem. I should know this.

I finally waved goodbye to Ward 11 on Tuesday 27th May and made my escape clutching a large carrier bag of various drugs they’d given me. It was quite late because there had been a bit of a disagreement about the technicality of the term “bowel movement” (Oh yes IMPORTANT you are reading a blog by someone with anal cancer, sometimes this gets a bit necessarily erm “poo-centric”. You may wish to skip this post if this is too much to consider or you are raising your first spoonful of cocoa pops – honest I won’t be offended – see you at the next post.)

Right you sickos still with me, here we go!! So yes, THEY said I couldn’t leave until I’d had a bowel movement. I immediately called upon the services of my lovely Yorkshire nurse and her enema kit. I was, for various reasons *tilts head and raises eyebrows at occupant of next bed who had kept up a steady somewhat impressive stream of complaining, moaning, screeching for six days and NIGHTS* eager to return home by any means necessary. There was then a bit of a discussion about the fact that nothing had been said about the results of the movement and it was clear I was determined to argue the point so they gave in.

So I was finally home. My own bed, my cats, my bathroom – lovely neighbours, visitors and sleep that felt as luxurious as cashmere. It took me a couple of days but my appetite was returning and I was managing a few wobbly legged short walks. Sure I hadn’t been to the loo yet but I joked with the 6 laxatives a day I was taking it was only a matter of time. Reader. I leant against the sodding wall and blew the sigh of relief OF DOOM.

I won’t go into vast detail but cast your mind back to the last time you had “the trots”; the cramping, the sweating, the sheer exhaustion of waking up after an hour’s hard won sleep in panic, the hatred of your body for betraying you in such a disgusting, humiliating way. I had 3 full days and nights of it. You’re told to eat but you honestly can’t because I think it’s a primal thing not to put anything in the top end of the tube when something bad is happening at the other. You can’t move very far from the bed or the bathroom, there are adult nappies involved, somewhere an alien smirks in an air duct and watches and you shout “Stop smirking you bastard because this is the price I paid to stop what you were trying to do. You tried to strangle my bowel and every dehumanising horrible moment proves you lost this one Alien. It’s working again – it’s clearing. So get back to your air duct ”

So on this bright Saturday morning I start again. My neighbour gave me some breakfast this morning with her pleading expression, fully expecting me to cry and say I couldn’t. I finished the lot with relish. I’m planning to continue the short walks today. However if I see any walls I won’t lean on them – just for a while.