Chemotherapy. It's a daunting word and a daunting process. I had my first treatment last Friday, and can confidently report that no element of FEC-T is likely to be adopted as my drug of choice, or as anybody else's. Breast cancer patients prescribed with this particular course of medicines receive a combined dose of fluorouracil, epirubicin, cyclophosphamide three times, then a single dose of docetaxel three times. All – if one is vain enough to wish to attempt hair preservation – are administered while wearing a tight, electrical "cold cap" designed to numb and constrict the blood vessels around the scalp and avoid damage to the follicles.

The best that can be said of this particular regimen is that the FEC bit puts one in mind of Father Jack, while the T bit puts one in mind of Mrs Doyle. So one could sit hooked up to a drip in the day unit shouting "Feck! Gurls! Drink!" for three doses. Then one could hold a large teapot and repeat: "Go on, go on, go on . . . " for the next three.