Responsible sexting et al: a racecourse guide for catering to the elderly

Some people think I should be dead, or at least buried. I can only apologise for popping up now and again like a recurrent Lazarus (a winner at Chelmsford and Huntingdon last year).

Dr Glum, my oncologist, seems equally surprised, telling me that I’m very lucky. Ten years after the removal of my prostate and eight after radiotherapy failed to eliminate my prostate cancer the rogue cells are taking longer to become 'testosterone independent' than your average prostate cancer cells. After six years on intermittent hormone therapy they are still responding to it, albeit at some physical cost. Well done, I say.

Dr Glum makes it sound rather unseemly and stresses that it won’t last for ever, but neither did Methuselah. I’m grateful the cells haven’t been in too much of a hurry, possibly realising that if they kill me they’ll be committing unwitting suicide. I’m hoping they grow accompanying brain cells so that they can work that out for themselves and resign.