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Second scan results

Today I got the results of my mid-chemotherapy CT scan, but before I tell you them I’ll tell you about the test for whether or not it is possible to treat my tumour with Herceptin. It turns out that the tumour does not over-express the HER2 gene, so there is little point in treating it with Herceptin. I think the consultant was  more disappointed than I was, but we always knew that there was only a small chance — about 20% — that using Herceptin would be possible. So that avenue is now closed for good.

I don’t have the images from the scan yet, but I’ll put them up as soon as I get the CD. That may take a couple of weeks, if what happened last time is any guide. The results were all good. The first thing is that the lymph nodes are all much reduced in size. They are still enlarged, but much smaller than before, which is very good news.

The tumour in the oesophagus and stomach seems also to be considerably reduced. It is hard to tell because this time my stomach was quite full of food, which distends the stomach, and last time it was empty apart from the pint of water they made me drink just before the scan. But as far as the consultant could tell the tumour was quite a bit smaller.

We also think that we have an explanation for my back pain, namely that I have some sclerotic patches on my spine. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But in fact it’s rather good. Sclerosis is scarring at a healing site, so the chemotherapy has attacked and is reducing a secondary tumour on my spine, and the bone is healing in the place left behind by the tumour. That generally causes some discomfort, so the consultant was expecting to find something like this. We have a bone scan scheduled to try to get a bit more detail on this aspect of the condition.

The consultant said that none of this came as much of a surprise to him, because it is clear that I have been responding well to the treatment. His word for me is “performant”, which he said meant that if you passed me in the street you wouldn’t know that I had cancer, or any other illness. The tumour is responding well, not outstandingly but well, to the treatment, so he recommended that we continue. I readily agreed.

Most of the benefit of a course of chemotherapy is apparent in the first few cycles, so we don’t expect to see this rate of improvement continue. The big question, of course, is how long do I have left? That is always hard to answer because each case is individual, but in similar cases we would expect me to remain symptom-free for no more than a year after the end of the treatment, although symptoms would probably return before the 12 months were up. That means I probably have about 18 months to live. That is longer than I feared, but shorter than I hoped. Such is life. I’m looking forward to spending as many of those days doing as much as I can. This is going to be the best year of my life. Gillian and I are going to build as many happy memories as we can. It should be a lot of fun.

17 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer Comments (17) Permalink

Write to your MP about the Digital Economy Bill

First, some context about the Bill. It is full of controversial measures. For example it provides for disconnection from the Internet if a content provider simply accuses someone of infringing copyright. Another example is the designation of public Wifi hotspot providers as private subscribers instead of common carriers, which means that they must either inspect traffic to be sure it is legal, or stop providing the service. If they came to pass, both of these examples would be terrible for the future of a Digital Britain. And the worst thing is that the Government proposes to rush this Bill through the House without proper scrutiny, allowing for only two hours of debate. That is scandalous.

I’ve just written to my MP telling them why I am concerned that the Digital Economy Bill could be rushed through without a full Parliamentary debate. Will you write to your MP too and tell them why the government shouldn’t rush through these draconian laws. It only takes two minutes. Or you can take a little longer and add a personal touch your letter to your MP, as I did.

Thank you.

17 03 2010 icyjumbo invective
ORG Comments Off on Write to your MP about the Digital Economy Bill Permalink

Changes

Cancer and its treatment are changing me. I was moved to write about all the changes when I wrote recently about how my sense of taste has changed. My body seems to be changing all the time, and so does my mind to some extent. It’s quite fascinating to watch the process, as long as I can keep a little distance from it, which isn’t always easy.

Probably the most outwardly visible change is the amount of weight I lost. Before any of the cancer-related symptoms appeared last summer I weighed 13st 8lb (190lb, about 86kg). Now I weigh 11st 10lb (164lb, 75kg), up from a low of 8lb (3.5kg) less. I am a lot slimmer than I was last summer, and I like it that way. Unfortunately I am supposed to keep putting on weight, so I carry on eating any- and everything. It would be easier to put the weight on if I were drinking alcohol, but that is another thing that has gone by the wayside, to some extent a victim of the altered tastebuds, but the doctors also warned me off it as it would interfere with my antacid medication. Oh well, it’s quite interesting being permanently sober…

My bald head is quite eye-catching too. My hair fell victim to the epirubicin, one of the chemo drugs.

I’ve developed a laundry list of inward aches and invisible pains: my back aches; I have a lump in my left index finger; the skin of my finger tips splits every now and again; I get mouth sores; I am a lot weaker than I used to be, so I strain muscles very easily — this weekend I bought a 15-inch monitor and strained my abdominal muscles picking it up; and my sleep is disturbed. Some of you who know me well may say that disturbed sleep doesn’t count as a change. I say that it does because the disturbance has a different character now. I’m woken by my aching back, not my racing brain. Most of the other conditions are treatable, and I do my best to minimize their impact on my life.

The nausea has come and gone, but is absent now that we’ve hit upon the right treatment. I don’t think there’s any need to say more about it here, as I’ve mentioned it many times before.

I frequently feel very cold, and I feel the cold very badly. It’s more than just needing to wear a hat to cover my pate, although that does help. Gillian used to want the house warmer than I did, but the position is now very definitely reversed. An apparently related symptom is that I have a constantly dripping nose, which means I blow my nose a lot, which in turn means that I get fairly frequent nose bleeds. Both these symptoms are, in fact, caused by the 5-FU, as the dripping nose is well-known and common (I’ll say! Very common!–Ed.)

Were it not for the daily laxative I take, I would be constipated.

That’s about it for the list of concrete symptoms, but there are a couple of more abstract things. The first was brought home fairly sharply to me last Wednesday at the bag change in Worcester. While waiting for the consultant I noticed the daughter of one of the patients was not with her father, but was chatting away to another of the patients. Soon she came over and asked how I was, so I said I was fine, and asked how she was and her father. She looked puzzled, so I wondered whether the older man was an uncle or something rather than her father. I explained that we saw her with a relative who I had assumed was her father. She then said that she was the symptom control nurse. I realized I had completely mis-recognized her. I was appalled and embarrassed, and felt like a graceless oaf. There is a condition popularly known as chemo brain, a cognitive impairment caused by the chemotherapy. I felt as though this was the first time chemo brain had affected me, as I was totally convinced of the woman’s identity as a relative of a patient. It was a very nasty shock, especially for a person who has made a living with his brain, and prides himself on his cognitive strengths.

Having written out all the changes, I see that an enormous amount has changed. Amazingly I still feel very much like me. The essential Chris is still there. Even more astoundlingly, I am as happy now as I have ever been in my life. I don’t understand it, and I don’t really want to question it, because I like being this happy. I suppose being happy is the best change in my life, and is therefore the most graceful way to finish this article.

16 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer Comments Off on Changes Permalink

Less “do-it-yourself”, more “get-a-man-in”

By Gillian

When Christopher was made redundant last year, I had a long list of jobs around the house that needed doing, and part of the deal we made was that he would use his increased leisure time to do more DIY and general house repairs (we have a Victorian cottage, which is anything but low-maintenance). But now of course we need to renegotiate the deal. Not only is he physically weaker and lacking in stamina, but I would be very uncomfortable with sending him up a ladder, especially when he has unexplained fainting fits….

However, the list of undone maintenance jobs around the house wasn’t shrinking, and in fact was growing. So now it’s a case of “getting a man in to help”. Our aim is to get at least one job done per chemotherapy cycle, and if we do that in the last week of the cycle then Chris is generally well enough to supervise the workmen himself, so I don’t have to take any more time off work. Already we’ve got the gutters cleaned out (my very least favourite job and well overdue), the electric shower and extractor fan in the bathroom replaced (both broken for at least six months), had the hedges in the garden chopped back to get them much more under control, and today the chimney was swept.

We’ve never had the chimney swept before, despite living in a house with an open fire for the past twelve years. Our excuse is that we hardly ever use the fireplace – usually only for some atmosphere at Christmas, or if we run out of oil. But for the last few months the local paper has had several stories every week of chimney fires in cottages around Malvern, so we thought we’d better take some action. It was fascinating to watch, and not at all messy. Basically the sweep gaffer-taped a sheet over the fireplace, taping it firmly to the surround on all sides. The sheet had an armhole cunningly constructed in the middle of it, through which he could thrust his arm and shove a brush up the chimney. Apart from the very 21st-century industrial vacuum cleaner he used to clean up the last bits of soot, the tools looked identical to those in history books. It was really interesting to think that the original inhabitants of our house, back when it was built in 1872, would have had their chimney swept in an identical way.

The next job I want done is to have the kitchen and dining room redecorated. Both have been left in a bit of a mess since we had the extension built two years ago. Although Chris had originally promised to do them himself, I suspect that the very word “paintbrush” would give him backache these days, so we’ll have to call in the professionals. But that’s going to be a big job and may have to wait until he’s finished the course of chemotherapy.

15 03 2010 Gillian cancer Comments (6) Permalink

Cycle 3 week 2 update

After last weekend’s excitement, this week has been much less stressful. The nausea has been well controlled, but I haven’t slept well, although it hasn’t stopped me getting things done.

The consultant gave me a clean bill of health on Monday, so we were able to get home in the morning, having stayed overnight in Cheltenham, thanks to Richard’s parents’ generosity and kindness. Sunday was a nauseous day, but Monday and Tuesday were less bad, and on Wednesday we tweaked my anti-nausea prescription, going back to the old drug at double the dose. That seems to be working. I can’t say that my stomach feels completely normal, but the abnormal feelings it generates are easily tolerated and so I am content.

The consultant, on the other hand, is still worried about last Sunday’s events. His take is that it means there is something going on in my body that he doesn’t understand, and sooner or later it may interfere with my treatment. So this week’s CT scans of my chest were extended to include shots of my head. Whoopee! I get to see proof that I have a brain! I think the consultant is looking for evidence of things pressing on my brain. I hope he doesn’t find any…

I upgraded my camera last week, and this week I’ve been preparing to sell the old one and four lenses on ebay. That involved a heap of “product” photography, which was fun, and learning how to do my first ebay auction from the seller’s side. It seems to have gone reasonably well, as three of the five items have sold so far for the price I hoped to get. The other two items still have more than five days to run, and are people are showing considerable interest in them. Fingers crossed for the rest of this week.

And speaking of the new camera, I took it out to Madresfield Court today, for their annual Daffodil Sunday event. It could be considered a bit of a damp squib, because there were no daffodils at all this year; they’ve been horribly delayed by the unseasonably cold Winter we’ve all endured. But there were hosts of crocuses, and I had great fun trying to take impressionistic photos of them. Here’s my favourite from the day:

Purple, green, and white are Suffragette colours.

You can find others in the Photo Impressions set in my Flickr stream.

My weight seems stable at 11st 8lb (162 lb); my appetite is good, and I’m enjoying cooking. I have a little back pain which inhibits my sleep a little, but it doesn’t seem to have dampened my enthusiasm for life too much. I’m looking forward to a massage tomorrow, which may help. It has been a really good week altogether, contrary to that presaged by last weekend’s events. This coming week looks exciting too. More news as it develops.

14 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer
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Mourning Marmite

I have loved the taste of marmite for as long as I can remember. I know that it is a polarising flavour — people either love it or hate it — and I love it. Or at least, I did. Recently my tastes seem to have changed, and my morning toast and Marmite has become dust in my mouth. It turns out that this is a well-known symptom of the chemotherapy. Joan frequently comments on the metallic taste of her food at particular points in the cycle. See the third paragraph of this post, for example.

Marmite isn’t the only food whose taste has lost savour. Steak and chips are fairly dusty too now, even when carefully cooked. And I need about three times as much vinegar in order to taste it at all.

On the other hand, I appreciate sweet and bitter flavours a lot more, so it’s hello again to the marmalade jar at breakfast time. I can heartily recommend Wilkin and Son‘s ‘Tiptree’ Orange marmalade. Old-fashioned cloudy lemonade is good too.

Cancer, and its treatment, does other strange things to one’s body. But that’s a story for another day, if I remember to tell it…

13 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer Comments (7) Permalink

I’m sorry I worried you all

My experiences this week seem to have affected people quite strongly, much more strongly indeed than I imagined they would. Three separate people have contacted me to express their horror at my plight, and to offer support.

I am immensely touched by the amount of concern that people are showing towards me, but I do want you to know that I am back to my normal self. The nausea is a nuisance, but it’s not really that hard to deal with, and the tweak to my prescription has helped. It is certainly worth investigating the causes behind what happened. I can see two courses of events. Either it keeps happening, in which case we’ll gather the evidence we need to understand and prevent it; or it doesn’t happen often enough to solve it. Given the excellence of my care, I’m not afraid of the second course, and the first is a good outcome. In either case, I am not worried about this little problem.

I know very well that I frightened Gillian on Sunday, but as far as I was concerned I never had a moment’s doubt that everything would turn out all right in the end. I didn’t even feel particularly bad during the entire incident, which is why I am not too concerned about it happening again.

What I’m really trying to say, or rather ask, is that you not worry about me. If I write something that seems scary, it probably wasn’t scary to me, or I wouldn’t have written about it that way. Remember, this blog is a place for me to be positive about my situation, not to complain about it. Nothing I ever write here will be a complaint, unless it is very clearly signposted as such. Even then, I will almost certainly be complaining about a situation that affects everyone, such as the ridiculous IP protection provisions in the current draft of the Digital Economy Bill.

In short, I am fine now, and I’m sorry that I worried you. I never intended to. I’ll try not to do it again.

11 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer Comments (6) Permalink

Bag change day

Having written about a chemotherapy hospital stay, I think it’s time that I also described having my 5-FU bag changed, as that is the other side of my regular chemotherapy treatment. Once a week I travel to Worcester to meet the oncologist and report weekly progress before the bag that delivers my 5-FU and the dressing that covers the PICC line are changed. I aim to make a mid-morning appointment so that I don’t have to get up too early, which has the useful side-effect that I can usually find a parking space in the main car-park. Earlier in the day it can be a bit of a scrum, so that time is best avoided, if possible.

As with the hospital stay, I have to prepare for a bag change. The first thing is to take a packed lunch. Cancer patients are decidedly unpredictable, and there are often times when things take longer than expected, although it is usually another patient who takes the extra time. Not that it matters, as there are only a limited number of staff to deal with all of us, so any delay affects all the following patients. It’s definitely worth taking a packed lunch of some sort. Today’s was a couscous lemon and sesame chicken salad, with added dried pear, trail mix, and honey roast cashews. All the waiting means it’s also worth taking something to stave off boredom. I usually take a book, and Gillian will take a novel too.

The other aspect of the preparation is to think about the conversation I will have with the oncologist. I like to report how the week has gone, with all the ups and downs. I can’t remember a week without some adverse incident, probably a bout of nausea or vomiting, or some back pain. This week had more to report, except that it was already known because of the unscheduled trip to Cheltenham on Sunday and Monday. But it is also important to think about what has gone well, and I’m pleased to say that there are always good things to report too. Finally I need to know whether I am about to run out of any of my prescriptions so that I can restock. Last night, for example, I did an audit of my pills and found that five of them needed topping up.

When I arrive the very first order of business, after signing in, is to make an appointment for next week. The receptionist is well used to me doing this, and I find that if I don’t, I’ll forget, so it’s good to have a routine. It also makes it easier to get an appointment for about the same time, which suits me fine.

Then we wander along to the waiting room, where we greet all the other regulars and catch up on the week’s doings. I love it that we see the same patients week after week. We all get to know each other, and we’re very friendly. Most patients are accompanied by at least one loved one, so it’s never just a simple comparison of symptoms. Sadly, sometimes we see that a patient isn’t doing so well, and as he or she will tend to be a little listless we try not to over-tax them with too much idle chatter. Today when we arrived there was a treat: some fairy cakes and a home-made Victoria sponge. It turned out that the Registrar who frequently stands in for the Oncologist when he is on call in Cheltenham was moving on in her six-monthly rotation, and in celebration she had brought the goodies. I’m happy to tell you that the cake was excellent. Once we’ve exchanged the news, we start to wait. Today was one of the long waiting days, as it took over one-and-a-half hours before we got to talk to the Registrar, due both to problems with other patients and also sheer pressure of numbers, I think.

The meeting with the oncologist/Registrar comes next, in which we discuss the week’s events, think about variations to my anti-nausea medication, and plan the things I need to do during the coming week. This week I need to keep a diary of my nausea and vomiting, so that we have some evidence on which to base a better anti-nausea prescription for me. It isn’t that the nausea and vomiting is a big problem — more of a minor niggle, in fact — instead it’s an indication that something is happening in my body that we don’t understand, which might develop into something more major. But whatever the reason for sorting it out, I would rather not have the nausea, so I’m going to do my best to help solve the problem.

Then it’s back to the waiting room to wait until a nurse is free to change the dressing and bag. At least, that’s normally what happens. This time I had had my bag disconnected before seeing the Registrar, and the nurse doing the work had noticed a minor problem with the line, during the solving of which she had had to move it out of my arm a little. It’s important that its other end is in the right place in my chest, so I was sent off to get a chest X-ray, while Gillian went to the Pharmacy to collect my new prescriptions. That’s another good reason for being accompanied, as it allows some sharing of the waiting. But that didn’t fully occupy the time before my bag was due to be changed, so we ended up back in the waiting room. I ate lunch: delicious. So was the fairy cake I had for dessert. The patients were thinning out as more and more of them were dealt with, so I was able eventually to wait in one of the comfortable chairs in the treatment room.

At last it was time for the new bag to be fitted, and the dressing change completed. It took about 15 minutes and was trouble-free. As we started to go, one of the other patients commented about my bald head, which sparked off a general conversation about hair-loss amongst all of us who were left. To great hilarity, Gillian suggested that it would grow back ginger and curly. Most of the others thought that it would really be curly for a little while when it grew back. Then I put on my celebration hat (thank you, P+J!) to more general hilarity, and we left.

We were home by 3:30, approximately two and a half hours later than expected. Always take a packed lunch. If not, you’ll have to eat hospital food, which probably isn’t as good as your own.

Tomorrow I go back again, this time for a CT scan, but I won’t get its results until next week’s bag change visit.

10 03 2010 icyjumbo cancer Comments Off on Bag change day Permalink

Taken ill on public transport

By Gillian

I thought I’d give my version of the events on Sunday, as I am convinced that Chris can’t remember half of what went on! We’d had a really good day on the Saturday. I had been worried about Chris standing for hours in the queue for the Hoard, but the vast majority of the time was spent inside the museum in a long queue that snaked first around the gift shop and then through the galleries.  There were plenty of comfy seats scattered around the galleries, so I stayed in line and Chris moved from one seat to the next and didn’t spend that much time standing after all. Phew.

Sunday started fine, but when we got to Stoke station he suddenly started shouting “Bag! Bag! BAG!” at me. It took me a while to work out what he meant – I though that maybe someone was trying to steal my handbag or one of the suitcases. But what he wanted was the sick-bag I had stashed in my handbag. By the time it became clear what he meant, it was too late – he’d projectile-vomited all over the station concourse. Messy and surprisingly copious….. Fortunately there were some transport policemen handy – keeping an eye on the football supporters I think – and they sent for a cleaning trolley to mop up the yuk.

We’d left plenty of time for the train, so there was no rush – Chris was able to sit & rest on the platform, and said that he felt much better. The train was on time and although it was very busy we managed to get two seats opposite each other with a table in between. About 10 minutes into the journey, somewhere near Stafford, he had a “funny turn” – his eyes rolled up into his head, he couldn’t hear me, and had clearly lost consciousness. This was the second time he’d fainted on me when he was wedged tightly into a small space – last time he was  stuck between the toilet and the bathroom wall, this time he was sitting firmly wedged up against the table. It took two of us, me and the woman sitting next to him, to unwedge him and get him onto the floor of the carriage in something approximating the recovery position.

The journey to Birmingham was only about an hour, but it  felt a very long hour to me! Chris fainted fully at least one more time on the way, and the rest of the time was drifting in and out of semi-consciousness in his seat. Distinctly worrying, to say the least. At Birmingham station, four complete strangers helped me get him and all our luggage off the train. There was another policeman on the platform, and he radioed for Customer Services to come and help. It was at this point that we realised that we had misread the train timetable, and that the next train to Malvern (where we’d left the car) wasn’t for another two hours! So when Customer Services arrived with a wheelchair, I over-ruled Chris’s protestations that he was fine & could walk (he clearly wasn’t and couldn’t) and asked the porter to wheel him to a taxi. An expensive option, but better than hanging around at the station with a sick husband.

The taxi driver had never even heard of Great Malvern, and had to ask a colleague which direction Worcester was. He was a real Brummy local and had never travelled that far away from the city! But he was cheerful and willing, and when I asked him to try to drive gently as Chris was still feeling sick, he drove very smoothly indeed. Chris was still not much more than semi-conscious, so I had to direct the taxi-driver to Malvern station, where he helped me transfer our luggage to our car, then set off back to Birmingham. He said that he had all afternoon to find the way home if he got lost!

I drove us home, and put Chris to bed, but he was shaking and shivering so much that I was still really concerned about him. So I phoned the Chemotherapy Hotline at Cheltenham, and they said they wanted to see him in person to check his bloodcounts. I packed an overnight bag for him in case he was admitted to hospital, and drove him to Cheltenham. We got there about 2:30pm. There were two very ill people in the assessment ward, who clearly took priority over us, and by the time the doctor reached us Chris was feeling quite a bit better and was really rather perky although he’d missed his anti-emetics in all the disruption so was throwing up again.

The duty oncologist put him through a whole battery of tests and was clearly puzzled that she could find nothing much wrong with him. She phoned her on-call consultant for a second opinion, and they decided that there were two options. Either they could admit him overnight for observation, or we could come back the next morning when our own oncologist would be on duty, and we could discuss the situation with him. But they didn’t want me to take Chris all the way back to Malvern overnight – that was too far away from the hospital in case of problems. Fortunately I’d remembered that our friend Richard’s parents were at their Cheltenham flat that weekend, only ten minutes away from the hospital. I’d only met them once before, but when I phoned them and said we were in trouble and needed help, they leapt into action offering food and a bed for the night. The oncologist and her consultant were happy with that compromise and I felt so relieved that we were in good hands.

We went back to the hospital on Monday morning to talk things over with our oncologist. He was happy to discharge Chris back home, but said that slower-time he would want to do some more tests on him, at Worcester, to see if he could get to the problem of what had happened. But it could well be a “multi-factorial problem” which I took to mean “just one of those things that happens when you are seriously ill and pumped full of so many different interacting drugs”. We finally got home at lunch time on Monday, and I got into work only half an hour late for yet another important meeting on the project I’m meant to be running.

I’m still having flashbacks and nightmares about what could have gone wrong, but the main point is that it didn’t. I wish it hadn’t happened, but we got through it fine and everything seems back to normal now.

09 03 2010 Gillian cancer Comments (10) Permalink

The Staffordshire Hoard

As I mentioned earlier, we went to visit the Staffordshire Hoard this weekend, at a temporary exhibition in the Stoke-on-Trent Potteries Art Gallery and Museum. We had tried the previous weekend, but the queues were three-and-a-half hours long, we were told, so we decided that the easiest way to make the visit was to stay overnight, get up early, and join the queue as early as we could. We were there at 09:05 which wasn’t a moment too soon, as the queue was about to reach the three hour mark. Fortunately the museum staff opened the doors an hour early, and we soon reached the two-hour-wait mark, and then made it inside within a few minutes.

Once inside, however, the queue’s movement slowed down quite considerably, so we were quite pleased when some of the museum volunteers showed up dressed in costume to keep us occupied. King Raedwald was the most gorgeous of all of them, dressed as he was in a full replica of the Sutton Hoo burial armour, including helmet, sword and belt decorations, purse, and various other fittings.

This was a good indication of the sorts of things we were to see when we finally got to see the treasure, for it consists mostly of jewel-inlaid gold armour and decorative pieces, some for weapons, and others for garments. Interspersed with these war-like objects were a few with more religious overtones, although they had been treated less than respectfully, and were freuquently badly damaged.

We finally saw the treasure after a little less than two hours of queueing. The pieces were not very clean. It seems that it is forbidden to attempt their proper conservation until after the ownership has been finally decided. You can still see the mud in the detailed view linked to this image of one of our favourite pieces. This image, like all the others in this post, is linked to a larger version, although this is the only one from a set on Flickr. I encourage you to visit the set and see them for yourself. For an extra treat, make the browser window full-size (use the F11 key), and then view the slideshow.

After we saw them, we went back downstairs to make our donations, so that the Hoard could be kept in the region. You can donate, too, if you think keeping this treasure locally is a worthwhile goal. While we were queueing, more volunteers had arrived to entertain the visitors. I particularly enjoyed the off-duty atmosphere down here. These foot-soldiers were enjoying a comfortable chat, while a man was clearly not sure about being groomed in public.

Not only were there soldiers, but also people demonstrating traditional crafts. This man was making brass or copper plaques, hammering a mould into the plaque through a protective piece of lead. Next to him another man was making small pewter coins. I find this sort of revealing of the life of the more common man at least as interesting as the history of the great people that we normally get, which is why I have concentrated on it here.

And here is the final proof, if needed, that we went. Gillian’s hand has the three stamps that she collected while in the queue. The first was given as soon as we joined the indoor queue. The second as we arrived upstairs, with about an hour-and-a-quarter to go, and the final one as we entered the room where the treasure was laid out in cases. I was pleased that we were allowed to go around the room at our own pace, with just peer pressure to govern how long each person spent at every case. There was usually enough room for about six people at a time to see into the case, looking intently at each piece as they worked their way around the case. I was shocked at how tiny some of the items were, but there were large blow-ups of the more interesting pieces around the walls, which allowed us to get a better view of them, and made it easier to make out their designs.

It was a very good visit. The treasure was fascinating, but so was the effort made to keep an unexpectedly vast number of people from becoming too bored while they waited. We were told that the staff expected to get their 50,000th visitor late that day, or early the next, which doesn’t surprise me, but did surprise them, I think. In fact, over 52,000 visitors saw the Hoard before the exhibition closed, which is wonderful. That’s why, although this weekend ended in a way that I didn’t like, I still think of it as a great success.

08 03 2010 icyjumbo Day out
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