Digested week: It’s been a rough year – so thank you to our politicians for giving me plenty to write about | John Crace

Monday

It’s been a while since I last wrote Digested Week. Last May my wife was diagnosed with cancer and life has been a struggle ever since. Jill’s story is her own, but here are some of my initial thoughts on finding myself a primary caregiver on the front lines of cancer (I’ve always been the one needing care so far). From that first consultation, when the doctor told us that a blood test for a tumor marker had come back, the question arose: “How seriously should we take this?” “Very” – I felt separated from the rest of the world. I was in a land of shadows. There were those of us in Cancerworld and those who weren’t. It’s not that we stopped seeing our family and friends – far from it, we couldn’t have gotten through it without their love and food parcels – but rather that on an emotional level we were out of sync with each other. My life has become existential. I wake up every morning thinking about cancer and I go to bed thinking about cancer.

Despite this, it’s amazing how quickly one can get used to even the scariest situations. After a slow start, the NHS has been everything we could have asked for. I lost track of how much time we spent in the hospital for blood tests, scans, chemotherapy, and surgery, and most appointments happened more or less as promised. Aside from the times when Jill wasn’t well enough to tolerate the treatment. The doctors and nursing staff have always been wonderful. No false promises or platitudes. We always make an extra effort to reach out when we are on our knees.

Tuesday

Chemo’s reputation precedes it. It’s brutal. Hell for Jill, hell for me to see her go through this. But if you have to have chemo, the Marsden in Sutton is amazing. The service resembles a business class lounge in Terminal 3. Reclining seats for the patient. Huge windows. A free food cart that comes every two hours. It makes a difference.

Each session was an eight-hour marathon. Come to think of it, you’ll also never know how long 12 hours are before you’ve waited for someone you love to come out of surgery. We had been warned that it was a big operation and would take eight hours, so although I was nervous, I could just about manage my anxiety. When the clock passed the eight o’clock mark, I was in a good state. Able to do nothing but play mindless solitaire games on my phone. The surgeon called a few hours later to say the operation had been more complicated than expected – three different specialties were involved – but that he hoped to finish it in another two hours.

All I felt when I saw Jill that night, hooked up to a ventilator in intensive care, was relief that she had survived. Oddly, the job turned out to be a godsend. A welcome distraction. I have lost count of the number of sketches I wrote at Jill’s bedside as she recovered from surgery or the chemo ward. So a little thank you to our politicians for continuing to provide me with a lot of material.

It’s been almost 39 years to the day since I went to my first Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Back then, the elders told me to take it “one day at a time.” I need this advice more than ever today. It’s hard not to look forward to the future, even if that’s where the madness lies. The reality is that no one knows anything except that for now the cancer has been successfully removed and we are living from two month ultrasound to two month ultrasound. Things could be much worse. And we always have a good laugh – especially watching Nikki and Jack try to act in Silent Witness. Oh, and also, Jill looks just as beautiful with her scarf as she does without it.

Wednesday

It may just be possible that a few people missed an opportunity to stop the United States from bombing Iran. In September last year, I and around 50 other journalists were at Checkers for Donald Trump and Keir Starmer’s joint press conference as part of the president’s state visit. During his opening speech, Trump modestly informed us that he had ended eight global conflicts, including the one between Albania and Azerbaijan.

It was our moment. It could have been a journalist, but it would have been far more effective if Starmer himself had intervened. “Mr. President. The world owes you a huge debt. The war between Albania and Azerbaijan has marred the last two centuries. You have achieved what no other world leader believed possible.” Keir could then have invited the leaders of Azerbaijan and Albania to attend a three-hour thank-you service in the presence of The Donald.

This might have come as a shock to the Albanians and Azerbaijanis, who had no idea they were at war with each other, but needs must. This could have been a sliding doors moment. When Trump kept his promise not to get involved in foreign wars.

But Trump has now started a war that he doesn’t know how to end. Unless he gets bored and lets everyone else sort it out. For once, Starmer played a blinder. He remembers the Gulf War, Afghanistan and Libya and does not want to get involved in anything offensive without the backing of international law and a credible plan. And for once, Keir has the support of the country. Most people don’t want another war.

This seems to have slightly upset conservatives and right-wing media. What about the special relationship, they say. Meanwhile, Trump seems delusional and worrying, giving different answers to the same questions every day. However, he was right about one thing. “When crazy people have nuclear weapons, bad things happen,” he said. He should know that.

THURSDAY

I fought the law and the law won. A few months ago, I parked the car in a place I had parked it dozens of times before. Usually this is not a problem. There is a number to call on the lamp post and I pay on my phone. This time, however, the municipality had recently repainted each lamp post and there was no way of knowing either the correct number or the parking zone number. I looked around for help. I found a sign saying “pay by meter” with an arrow pointing to the right. So I went to the end of the road, only to find that the meter had disappeared. At that point I gave up, thinking I had done everything I reasonably could.

Fake. When I returned, I discovered a parking ticket. I emailed Wandsworth Council to appeal, pointing out that it had been impossible to pay. Five weeks later, I received my response, from an email address that did not accept responses. My call was refused. The municipality admitted to repainting all the streetlights, but apparently I should have guessed the phone number or app to use and manifested the zone number telepathically. And if it hadn’t worked, I would have had to use the counter which didn’t exist. Push coins into an imaginary hole in the wall. So I gave up and paid. I rather wish I had the presence of mind to personally go to Wandsworth council and hand over the £70 in coins that they had asked me to put into the non-existent meter.

To make matters worse, Wandsworth is now trying to turn our street into a controlled parking zone. Something only those with off street parking want, because in the 30+ years I have lived here there has never been a problem with on street parking. Why would I want to pay to park my car where I happily park for free? This is not the first time the council has tried to solve a problem that doesn’t exist and force residents to get extra money.

Friday

It hasn’t been a good year to be a Spurs fan. I guess all I can say in my defense is that I didn’t usually have to endure the mile walk and toxic atmosphere as much as Jill did when she was so ill. My appearances at White Hart Lane – I still refuse to call the ground the utterly bland Tottenham Hotspur Stadium – have been limited to matches where the potential for humiliation has been highest. Like the North London derby and Chelsea. Both delivered.

Over the years I have watched some fabulous Spurs teams, as well as some poor teams. But even in the darkest times, there is always something to love, something to support. Not anymore. I feel like this team has chased all the love away. There is no passion, no characters. Only one player – Micky van de Ven – could feature on the substitutes’ bench for a top-six Premier League team.

It wasn’t that long ago that Spurs had a team that played the Spurs way, regularly finishing in the top four and reaching a Champions League final. Now we are the laughing stock. We were supposed to be too big to fail. Well, part of me also wants us to be relegated. I just want to feel something different. I want to care again. However, on a happier note: I’m doing two shows in April. One in Wimborne on the 16th, the other in Salisbury on the 25th. Please come.