May 16th, 2020

SATURDAY, 16th MAY 2020

It struck me yesterday already I am over a month into my 84th year and time seems to be rushing by faster than it ever has done before. It’s rather concerning. The end is creeping ever closer.
We are in lockdown, have been for weeks now. To me it makes sense, to listen to the media this virus is spreading like wildfire,  and anything that helps to keep it away from us is okay with me, as, I am told, I am one of the most vulnerable.

When I was told, last year, by Neil Smith, (surgeon) I had bowel cancer it shocked me but didn’t frighten me. I never thought it would kill me, and, so far anyway, it hasn’t.  Then, a year later when I was told, by another surgeon, “Sorry Mr Thornhill, you’ve got lung cancer.” It did shock me, but it didn’t frighten. I think the reason for that is, because 90% of the time I feel fine.  And everyone tells me how well I look - accompanied by comments like: “Nobody would ever believe you are 83!” All very encouraging and flattering and good for my ego, but realism soon creeps back to remind me I AM 83 and people do die at 83 and nobody would be shocked if I suddenly went in my sleep, (my preferred choice of demise). Well, I think wife Heather and brother Cyril would be if it was tonight.  People would probably ask, ‘how old was he?’ And then nod and say something like ‘oh well, a good age.’