Don't tell me how I know. I just do.
It's coming back. It had a go at my head. Now it's going to find a way in. Through my fucking bollocks.
I have a blood test tomorrow.
I have two bollocks, conventionally enough. Unconventionally, however, one is three times the size of the other. The smaller of the two - we'll call him Righty - has been hurting, fairly consistently, ever since Lefty started to ominously inflate about a month ago.
I went to the GP today. He said, with the same quiet, sad but authoritative demeanour as my oncologist, that the signs were not good, at all. He referred me to urology on the spot.
There's a chance it's nothing, but we'll find out when there's a scan, which will be in a few weeks, probably. But I know it's not nothing. I know.
Last week, Mike fractured a vertebrae. Nigel's now unable to do the mobility exercises that keep him going.
The rocket left on its first unmanned test-flight today, but the mission - deep down, my final goal - has just been knocked back to 2026.
I submitted a load of goals around management, promotion and such today, and DC signed them all off. I love working. So clever, such a challenging. Keeps my mind occupied. I'm tired, though.
Here's hoping.
You've done incredibly well, my little man.
You're smart, funny, fast, talkative, and you've even started to make friends. I love you, mate.
