While I have been writing fascinating blog entries in my head, in real life I have been hanging out with my sister and not writing anything. Suzanne has come across from Cairns in far northern Queensland and is spending six weeks with myself and B. At first I thought her hot tropical blood mixed with London cold would lead to her expiration through overwearing of thermal layers, but the unseasonably warm weather (nine degrees in London today!!) and the discovery of B's super thick winter coat has allowed her to survive. So far. My brother and his family also arrived yesterday for five days, en route to a skiing holiday in America. I am so lucky to have a family who respond to a crisis by getting in touch and getting on a plane. Even my dad made it across for our civil partnership back in September.

I hope to be able to reciprocate the plane travel and visit them all in Australia. Maybe even with hair. After my chemo tomorrow I'll have another scan in two weeks, which hopefully won't throw up any new surprises. At my last scan the Proff said my internal landscape indicated that the Doxorubicin is working, so fingers crossed it's still seeping into all the unwanted cancer cells. Then I'll be on the final stretch - two more cycles of chemo, another scan and... I finish treatment. By mid March I will be an ex-patient.

But... but... but... one of the hardest aspects of this whole process is not being able to plan. Suzanne and I were virtually on the way to the airport for a short break in Barcelona when B insisted that I check with the hospital. Adios Barcelona. I felt bitterly disappointed and reminded once again that I am not the same as everyone else. For most of the time, if I wear glasses to frame my eyebrow and eyelash-less eyes and a hat to cover my baldness, I like to think I can pass for a short sighted snow boarder who likes to go to bed early. The reality is that I need to spend my time getting well.

At the beginning of this whole process I remember Suzanne insightfully remarking that I would have to spend the time doing chemo not being productive. Another friend, Moss, who guided me to the electric monk (seeing him next week) advised me that recuperation is a full-time occupation. B often reminds me to check if I am tired. All are right. I'm not working, or at least not working in the way I was before. But I need to get better, so that means doing... nothing...

... which leads me to my January non-task: mindfulness. Along with the rest of the country (mindfulness was on Radio 4's Today programme over the festive period), I am attempting to do nothing for 45 minutes a day for eight weeks. I'm listening to the CDs of Jon Kabat-Zinn  and trying to read his rather dense book Full Catastrophe Living Lying or sitting still and relaxing and breathing for three-quarters of an hour a day is proving almost beyond me, but I am persevering. Even if it does mean twitching on the carpet.

Is it working? Am I working? I know I can blame cancer for the amount of leisure wear in my wardrobe and for my rediscovery of escapist science fantasy fiction (the Seven Kingdoms beckon - thanks Kath and Elaine!). I'm also beginning to wonder if I can blame my cancer for... nothing.