'To have leukaemia once may be seen as unfortunate, to have it twice could be perceived as careless,' as Oscar Wilde might have said had he been in my predicament. As many of you already know I have been diagnosed with a relapse of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia and have been undergoing chemotherapy treatment for a month or so now in the delightful Queen Elizabeth Hospital of Woolwich, London. It's the newest in the country, being visited by Tony Blair during the election campaign, and currently the residence of one Ronnie Biggs no less. I've taken to hiding my trainers in case the old rogue gets confused and tries to steal them. I have a fancy electric adjustable bed of the kind you see advertised in-between pensioners' TV shows like Watercolour Challenge, and a sort of in-flight entertainment system thing with digital TV, radio and phone. Actually the Patientline 'service' as its known is a point of contention. I dislike the rather Orwellian manner in which it is impossible to turn the screen off during the daytime, and I object to being woken at 8am every morning with GMTV. The Today programme on Radio 4 would be fine, but I just can't abide morning television. Furthermore the phoneline, whilst cheap (compared to a payphone) for me to use, is prohibitively expensive to call from outside. 50 pence a minute thank you very much. I figure if they're going to run a premium rate number then I, as the main attraction, should get a cut. They could have ads on Channel 5 with a bunch of patients attached to drips shuffling along to a faux house soundtrack whilst a narrator intones 'call 0898 66 66 66 now for red hot live oncology ward chat.'

I received an email today from UCH Euston, which is where I'll be moving to before long for my bone marrow transplant. It's a lot closer to where I live, and apparently I might be housed in a special 'adolescent' room with an net connected iMac, Limp Bizkit posters for wallpaper, a bed in the shape of a racing car, and taps that spew coca cola instead of water. Actually I made up everything except for the iMac, but that's good enough for me. I do have my laptop with me of course, but at the moment I have to dial up via my mobile phone which is neither cheap nor fun. I am in touch with the world though and emails are always appreciated. By the time you read this I may already be in at UCH; the date of the trasnplant has been set: Friday July 20th. There's a week of preperation chemo and total body irradiation beforehand, and then a cool six weeks afterwards to recover before I get to go home. The Doctor assures me that I will feel quite terrible for a long time and can write off the rest of the year as far as having a 'normal' life is concerned. Well I appreciate his candour at least. The youngest of my three younger brothers, Thomas, is to be my bone marrow donor. This is handy because he's just finished his A-levels and will be sat around the house doing nothing, whilst David will be busy learning how to kill people with the Royal Marines and Christopher equally occupied performing wheelspins, burnouts and handbrake turns along with hordes of similarly culturally impaired youngsters in carparks throughout the East Midlands.

I'm confident about the transplant. Of course there are risks, and I have been given a percentage, which I'll keep to myself for now. It's quite chilling to hear your life expressed that way, quantified into survival rates, but I asked and they told me so that's that. Apparently my case is 'not overly complex' so we're not expecting any troubles beyond the usual litany of complaints: nausea, fatigue, sickness, loss of appetite, vomiting, diarrhoea, alopecia, infertility and so on. The biggest risk is from infections, which my immune system, having been entirely depleted prior to transplant, will be unable to counter. I will be forbidden from eating takeaway food, and this includes pizza. It will be a long, hard and painful recovery.

I always try to take something positive from every aspect of my illness. It gave me the perfect reason to quit my job, despite their offers of sick pay. I didn't like it, and although my employers treated me well, I didn't want to feel indebted to return to them. I've decided to pursue my ideal vocation of writing professionally, and will most probably return to university to study for an appropriate MA. When I'm in hospital I have an abundance of time for reading and writing, when out of hospital I can saunter round London like a tourist, enjoying the benefits of our extortionate rents. Surprising it may sound, but hospital treatment allows for quite wonderful experimentation with class A drugs. With an on demand prescription for diamorphine, genuine cases of pain relief soon turned into flagrant recreational usage. Cocaine mouthwashes, prescribed for soreness, are tremendous fun, especially when you swallow them in front of your parents. So you see, it's not all needles and drips here on the ward. The food however is as disgusting as one would expect, and doubly so for vegetarians like myself (Cauliflower Crumble anyone?).

I write this now on one side of a long dark tunnel. The transplant, its preparation and recovery, will be unpleasant in the extreme. I hope that I can be so upbeat the next time I write.

Shoes@clara.co.uk