I had a CT scan earlier this week. I imagined it would be all quite mundane. I use the analogy that it is like someone making a photocopy of a page in a foreign language, and only when the translator sees the copy can you get any useful information. The “translation” is happening as we speak and next Monday is my meeting for the results.

But there was drama. The radiologists saw blood clots on my lungs. These can be nasty, potentially fatal, so the on-call doctors were consulted. I had to go into a series of tests and the result was a prescription for a dose of blood thinners. Chemo (and Cetux) make your blood all sticky so it has tendency to clot.

Also, remember I was supposed to travel to California in late May for business. I cancelled because I had a vague feeling it was a bad idea and the travel insurance was a joke – £4000 for 7 days cover. Looking at it now, it’s lucky I was not sitting on a 12 hour long-haul flight with DVT clots forming in my legs. It would have been a fate worse than death to die in California.

The method for administering these blood thinners is self-injection from a pre-filled syringe. The nurse did the first one. I get to do the rest. From the pharmacy I collected a carrier bag full of boxes of syringes.

A syringe really is the most implacable of objects. It just stares at you with lts long pointy needle, almost daring you to cross it. It is devoid of pity. Its payload horde of drugs could be yours, it suggests, but only if you really want it.

Next day, at work, I was scared to go home. I knew that when I got there I would have to inject myself. I don’t think I have a problem with needles, but my coping strategy for 30+ years has always been to look away from the injection. You can’t exactly do that when you are sticking it into yourself.

The injection goes into your tummy. You don’t need to find a vein, just a nice roll of fat. I was very able to do that, what with me being a big-boned boy n’all. Not the most pleasant sensation to pierce your own skin, but really not painful. I am now proficient in self-injection. Wonder what heroin is like? It could be my slightly-misinterpreted version of Breaking Bad.

It’s a bit of a step-down from the usual where everything gets done for/to me. Who knows where it will lead – they may well give me a scalpel, a pack of bandages and a pic of my lung with a big X on it and let me do my own surgery. “Don’t hesitate to call us if you need help…” NHS cuts in every sense.