My night pot is a thing of beauty

Since Christmas I’ve been sending off these columns with the anxious thought that perhaps I’m overdoing the dying bit and the truth is that I have a long way to go. Suppose I’m still here on Lammas Day, for example? I worry that some people might feel short changed. Moreover I worry that some might be already tiring of a columnist banging on interminably about his terminal cancer. A month or two of cancer shtick before falling decently silent – ideal. Six months? Well, OK. But a year?

For this reason I am pleased to report the passing of another milestone on my private Menin road. The bone and lung pain have lately increased to the point where I need to lie still. No more nipping up and down four flights of steep stairs to the lavatory, for a start, if I can help it. So I am equipped with a beautifully shaped and moulded plastic potty. It stands on the windowsill. I’m admiring it now. Thanks to global capitalism, choosing a night pot is like deciding on a make of saloon car. Mine has an ergonomically designed handle and a lid that shuts with a satisfying click. While draining my bladder into the funnel, accompanied by what sounds very like a military drum roll at an execution, I stand at the bedroom window looking philosophically down on the village rooftops.

Our little expat colony has recently been expanded by two: my first editor and his partner are here for the maximum three-month tourist stay. Dave Goodhart gave me my first feature in Prospect magazine’s opening number in 1995 and thereafter a column at the back called Modern Manners. He was furious, I remember, when I told him on the phone I was also writing a column for The Spectator, but now says I am forgiven.