Chemo 4 today and I trundle in and out of town to go about the business of being drugged up to the eyeballs. The breast care nurse has a word and tells me to take it easy. She's heard I've been sick in between bouts and I made the honest mistake of telling my oncologist I was peaking at 37.5 again last Thursday, 10 days after being sick. I was very gently and very nicely being told off for pushing myself too hard. Of course, she is completely right.
Then, on my way home, with massive rainstorms pummelling London at the moment, I decide to take the bus. Frankly only because it was pouring with rain when I came out of the tube and walking to the bus station offered better cover than the train, plus it drops me closer to my door.
So staring dumbly out of the bus windows in my chemo stupor, I am jolted to my senses by the sight of something completely unexpected.
It's coarse snow, almost hail, but it has piled up in narrow drifts all the way along the front gardens and side streets of Wandsworth Road. Weird.