Now I don’t want to come across all maudlin here, but there’s no getting away from it. We had a cancer sufferer in our immediate family. A cousin of my Dad’s, who lived across the road from us, to be precise. I remember that he’d been suffering for a long time with what he thought was a bad back. He’d been everywhere to get his back sorted, but eventually the correct diagnosis had been revealed, and by now it was too late. My mum took him to Wolverhampton for treatment. A desperate attempt at chemotherapy or some palliative therapy, I don’t remember very well, but he didn’t live for very long afterwards – I think that it was in June that he died, aged 40 something.
I’ve just taken a look ahead in my diary, but I can’t find any other mention of our poor cousin. I do remember his death though (I was watching the World Cup when his girlfriend came across the road in floods, naturally) and his funeral.
Us kids, being what we were though, were hard at it playing Fox and Hounds up the old railway line and of course a game of football was fitted in too. And in the evening, we watched Auf Wiedersehen Pet, which was ‘bl**dy marvellous’ again.