Craic On

I am not in Kansas anymore. Actually, it’s fair to say that I’ve never been to Kansas, nor have I ever had much of an urge to go there. It’s isn’t covered by my railcard and getting there would definitely involve wearing compression stockings, which don’t come in 15 denier. When I say that I’m not in Kansas anymore, I mean that nothing is normal, in it’s place or playing out as I had expected life to play out during the course of this year.  Life has become reduced and intense, although cancer is not the first thing I think of when I wake up, or the last thing I think of before I go to sleep.  I’m always on the hunt for humour and what better way than to amuse myself than to turn the drama, which already runs like a second-rate soap opera, into a black comedy. It’s not that I’m summoning the spirit of James Robinson-Justice. I’ve never felt the need for another encounter. “Here’s sixpence, now bugger off,” he said to the six year me. I went home to ask my Mother what a bugger was. “James,” she said.  No, my