Kick the bucketlist. Just do it.

Bucketlists are supposed to be a list of things you really long to do before you die, aren`t they? And sadly, you often see people with life-limiting illnesses setting out what they`d like to see or achieve once time starts ticking by extra fast. Some make it. Others just don`t beat the clock.

So..well..this.

February on Harlech beach. 

Don`t write a bucketlist. Don`t wait for the moment you`re told you might not make it to the Queen`s telegram. Don`t procrastinate until you`re too ill to travel, or until the long lost friend you meant to visit in Sydney has popped their clogs .Just do stuff now. Maybe it`s skydiving. Or running a marathon. Or something closer to home like walking Offa`s Dyke, or strolling along your favourite beach in the moonlight. Or going camping in your favourite beauty spot. Or saying `sod the chores` and going out for a picnic.

I don`t want to get too morose about this, but we all know people who`ve received shocking news about their health. People whose life, suddenly, turns a right-angle. It can happen to anyone.

I was found to have a pre-cancerous, high grade breast condition called DCIS three years ago. I had to have minor surgery, then three weeks` radiotherapy. They`d spotted it on a mammogram--a regular test because of my family history (Mum got breast cancer at 48 and died seven years later. Three of her sisters got it too--two also died, and one has survived into her eighties). It was scary, but they were pretty sure that after thwacking mine with that course of action, I`d be fine.

So it was a bit of a shock a few weeks ago, the day before Dad`s funeral actually, to get a call saying my most recent mammogram had shown little dots, possibly calcification spots, and they wanted me back in for a biopsy. I was already shattered about Dad, but parked the fear, put on a brave face and closed it all off until after the funeral. Then I started Googling what it could be, and found that if it was another bout of DCIS, or worse, they wouldn`t be able to offer radiotherapy to the same area. It could mean a mastectomy and possibly chemotherapy. So I kept quiet, had the biopsy under a local anaesthetic, (the team at the Princess Royal Hospital in Telford were truly fantastic; thanks Dr Walsh and the radiography ladies) went to Glastonbury (would have been on my bucketlist if I believed in them...) with backpack straps bashing my bruising, had fun, regardless, and 35 long, long days after the call from the hospital, went back to the clinic for the results.

All fine.

The dots really had been calcification, and everything was benign. I asked everyone to double check, including the registrar who examined me. When I got up to leave, still trembling, my heart sank as he said: `There`s just one more thing I need to tell you`. Here we go, I thought. `Your buttons are completely done up the wrong way,` he said. I decided it would be inappropriate to kiss a registrar while partially undressed (or fully dressed, for that matter,) so made myself decent, legged it down the corridor, bought a breast cancer fundraising badge in a blur, and sped home, weeping with relief most of the way.

I didn`t fancy bubbly, or balloons. Or celebrating, much. There was a clinic full of women with me that day, some of whom would be getting far less welcome news. I feel for them. And for everyone else I know right now who`s living with cancer. I don`t, and won`t, ever consider myself `out of the woods`, and I signed up on the spot to be in a clinical study which might, just, help others.

Juliet on a chilly day trip to Aberdovey

But it got me thinking about how, if the news had been different, it would be less easy to see the places I still want to see, because there`d have been treatment, and possible side effects.

I asked for voluntary redundancy from my job two years ago, for a couple of reasons.That decision bought and brought me freedom, and the chance to travel, relax, see the people I want to see, wipe out every bubble of work-related stress and focus on my priorities. So yes, I`m incredibly lucky, and I`m hoping to travel again soon, and treat my daughters to some trips, too.

It`s all well and good if you have spare cash to travel to those special places. If you don`t, there are cheaper ways to travel. Here are my top tips:

+I signed up with a house-swapping website (www.guardianhomeexchange.co.uk ). You need to pay your travel, but you can get free accommodation in the UK or further afield.

+List yourself as a house-sitter, and care for someone`s home and or their pets while they`re away, in a location you really want to visit (TrustedHousesitters.com).

+ If you fancy a weekend under canvas, but don`t have the kit, try Freegle (www.ilovefreegle.org) , and get a tent for free, or ask your friends (I have a leaky pop up tent from Glasto...but if the forecast is ok and you want to borrow it, just shout!)

+If you want to skydive or parachute jump, you might be able to sign up at a charity event, and get your kicks while raising cash. And if you`ve always longed to run a marathon, you probably can. Just start slowly, with help from a local running group (www.shropshire-shufflers.org) --and you might just cross that line in the Mall one day.

So that`s it really. No bucket to kick this week, I hope. No lists. But no procrastinating, either.

Badge from the fundraisers at PRH.

Dear David: A tale of two parents.

Dear David Cameron and all at the G8 dementia summit. Got five minutes to hear about my mum and dad?

First: Jeannie.

She was 48 when she developed breast cancer. It was found just weeks before she was due to get married (to a man whose wife, sadly, had died of breast cancer). They went ahead with the wedding. A Londoner, Jeannie had worked in the city since her teens. She met Bertie at one of the big banks. She travelled to some fantastic places on business with him - on Concorde once. And when she needed it, the care Jeannie received at London teaching hospitals was among the best available anywhere in the world.

Although Jeannie had some good, 'clear' years, the cancer was to return in a very aggressive form, and she died seven years after diagnosis. She never knew her grandchildren: all of them lovely and sources of great pride.

The disease had claimed the life of one of her five sisters, and was to prove fatal, later, for another. A third sister has beaten breast cancer twice, and has survived into her eighties. So, it's 'in the family' and has knocked at my door too. Because of that, I have regular screening, was accepted on to a pioneering MRI research programme and another looking into DCIS. I feel 'watched over'. In a good way.

Now: John.

Down the mines near Musselburgh at 14, he 'escaped' to London to join the Met police. He was on the beat in London, then selected for royalty protection duties, often solely responsible for the security of key royals. He stayed in palaces around the world, worked the longest days, was an excellent marksman, fit and strong; protecting people. And looking after his family.

He's been battling Alzheimer's for over five years, and so now, we're doing our best to look after him. These days, he's bedridden, but at home. He needs help with every aspect of daily living. His face lights up when he sees me, but sometimes he forgets my name. He got to know the grandchildren well, but now struggles to remember their names or what they're up to.

I never expected to be standing over my big, brave dad with a toddler cup and a feeding spoon, but that's the way it is. His partner and carer, Phyllis, does an amazing job, backed up by visits from a local carer, paid for by Dad. She needs a break. Lots of breaks. Local carers' groups are helping, but it all takes planning, and Dad's not always receptive to newcomers who might 'sit' with him. He's had some bad days lately. Sleepy weeks. Not sure what the future holds, really. It scares me.


I was shocked, Mr Cameron, to see a report by Fergus Walsh on BBC news last night. It contained a statistic from the Alzheimer's Society, on how research into cancer receives eight times as much funding as research into dementia. Eight times! Is one condition more 'cruel' than the other? More deserving of investment into its prevention? I don't think so. From where I'm sitting, they both hurt like hell.

I know you've said you're working to address this, planning to double the amount of funding over the next decade or so, to £132 million, and increasing support for carers, like Phyllis.

But I'd like to hear that you're not 'just' doubling dementia funding... but quadrupling it, and then some. It seems that because dementia was for so long considered to be a sad and inevitable fact of life for some elderly people, it's slipped down the priorities list, and it shouldn't have done. You have the predictions and the projections at your fingertips now.

Cancer and dementia are equally cruel conditions in their way; for patients, and for families like mine. Both are dreaded and feared. I hope you use this G8 summit to make dementia research and care as much of a priority as that surrounding cancer, and as an opportunity to think about devoting more funds to those with other life threatening and life limiting conditions. Please keep support for carers uppermost in your mind. With the dementia timebomb ticking, you're going to need them more than ever. And they will be looking to you, to get the funding, the support, and the respite they desperately need.

Hospital consultations.Who hears?

Just back from getting some test results at the hospital. They were good this time. I`m lucky. And very, very thankful to the medical and nursing teams who spotted a problem two years ago, and treated it so effectively.

All the hospital staff I`ve met along the way have been professional, courteous, kind and compassionate. I can`t fault them.

So can I mention two things I spotted today which could really do with a re-think? They`re things which are happening every day, because, I guess, they`ve always been done that way. But they concern two major issues: patient confidentiality, and patient dignity.

I`ll deal with the dignity thing first.

OK--they were mammogram results I was getting today.I`ll have them every year now because I had a high grade, but luckily still pre-cancerous condition called DCIS in one breast two years ago. It meant I had to have surgery, then radiotherapy for three weeks to zap it.

Today, like last year, was an appointment to see my surgeon for the results, and an examination. The clinic was busy but brisk, and I didn`t have to wait long for my turn. After being ushered in to the consultation room, the charming, efficient nursing assistant asked me to undress to the waist, and lie down on the couch to wait for the doctor--with a paper sheet to cover me.

Ideally, you`d meet the doctor at his desk, fully clothed, discuss your results or treatment, then whip your top off behind the screens and get checked over. But that would take longer. The clinics are busy.

So I lay down, for a second, before remembering feeling really awkward last year, greeting my surgeon *while lying down* .This wasn`t a ward. I wasn`t sick. So I sat up with a jolt, grabbed my paper sheet and wrapped it round me, and stayed seated on the edge of the couch. It meant when the doctor swept in, I could greet him eye to eye, modesty sheet in place, and even shake his hand. (Yes, without the paper sheet falling off). Then lie down again and be examined. Silly? Trivial? It made me feel more of a person than a patient on a conveyor belt. So for me...it felt important.

The other thing`s more serious. Because in the few minutes I waited for my doctor, I could hear almost every word of the consultation in the room next door. Without even trying. I could repeat big chunks of the conversation to you now, but I won`t--because it was (like most hospital conversations...) personal, delicate and actually quite upsetting.

I know this often happens when you`re lying in a hospital ward with just a curtain between you and the next bed. But these rooms had closed doors and walls between them. And that would have been bad enough, but by chance, my consultation, and the one of the patient next door, ended at precisely the same time. We both left our respective rooms simultaneously. We didn`t recognise each other, thank goodness, because by that stage, I knew too much. And now I`m wondering if my previous consultations have been overheard by people in the room next door, too.

Sorry if they appear to be minor observations in the great scheme of things. This is a hospital where the staff are working incredibly well. But frankly, the soundproofing isn`t. Surely, the preservation of some dignity in a delicate situation, and also, being confident that your consultation is completely private...are almost as important as the treatment itself? What do you think?

Precious time; precious people.

There`s nothing like a `health scare` to make you really appreciate the time you have, and how you spend it.

And because mine was exactly a year ago this week, I`ve been thinking hard about what would have happened if the outcome of my operation had been different. If the high grade but still pre cancerous area they found...had been more advanced. If it hadn`t been so easy to `zap it` with three weeks of radiotherapy.

People get bad news about cancer every day. News that can knock them for six; make them re-evaluate what, and who, is important to them.It`s happened to plenty of my loved ones and I was pretty damn sure it was happening to me this time last year.

And so today I`ve been reflecting on that. Taking my time.Choosing who to spend that time with, and how.

Family`s a good place to start.Our eldest daughter`s finished her university finals, and so last week we decided to spend time together in a little French cottage in the Normandy countryside. Reading, shopping, cooking...eating... OK, we threw in a day trip to Paris but there were plenty of opportunities even there to stop and watch the world go by. We avoided the sights, the big glitzy stores and the museums and galleries and pottered round the Latin quarter, and its smaller, independent shops. It was like a colourful but quiet oasis, offering us respite while the rest of the buzzing, throbbing city carried on in the fast lane, just blocks away.

Sometimes it`s just the simple stuff which can make your time with someone feel really precious. Just days before at the cottage, we`d decided on a recipe, and scoured the market stalls in a place called Conde Sur Noireau, to find vegetables we`d need to cook our meal that night.

The food cost just pennies, but the pleasure we got, taking our time to select our produce and hold brief conversations in French with the market traders, was immense.

Today was another gem. A simple lunch out with a former colleague; who`s become a friend. A fantastic couple of hours catching up on news we`d missed. Precious time. And another reminder that it`s not just time, but people who are precious.

In my extended family, there`s a band of 20 first cousins who, if put in a room together right now, would be a party all by themselves. Funny, loving, lovely and there for each other. And now the next generation of cousins are proving to be just as much fun. You can`t choose your family...but this is the one I`d choose.

Like the friend I met today, if I don`t see them for months, or even years, you can just pick up the pieces. People like that shine on your life like diamonds; offering you genuine friendship and above all, loyalty. Others might attract you...shimmer a little....draw you forward...but you find they`re fake; not what they seem and they end up, like the words of the song `just somebody that I used to know`. Sometimes it takes years to work out who you really shouldn`t waste your time on.

So that`s my conclusion on this contemplative day. If there`s someone in your life who you know, in your heart of hearts, would race you to the lifeboat, rather than help you into it...don`t waste your time on them.

But if there`s someone who sticks by your side and makes you smile, and will be there for you come rain or shine; treasure them.

Here endeth the thoughtful stuff.

Oh...and back in that Normandy kitchen....here`s our fab tea that Juliet cooked in that cottage in Normandy. She`s quite a diamond actually....