MAN ON THE MOON Illness is a full-time job, a tyrant who orders your life, never leaving you alone. Luckily, I am in Tesco, head back, staring up at the monitor suspended from the ceiling. I wonder where I am in the frame until I spot myself, crawling into the corner, a black armoured beetle spinning on its axis or suddenly moving in a straight line.  Getting bigger as I move towards the camera, I am mesmerised by what this creature is. What are they doing here? How does it survive? I wake up strangled by my own gut. A cummerbund of displaced muscle and excrement is tightening its grip, crushing my ribs and internal organs. I’ve always been full of shit but this is getting ridiculous. The pain is rising and I fear I am going to be smothered. I start to panic; will I die today? Might it be a relief? My bladder is being compressed, forcing urine from my penis. My catheter is malfunctioning, not for the first or last time. But my bowel needs to be prioritised. The stool is wedged in the centre of my body, and so, like a spit-roast, needs to be attacked from both ends.  Two nurses arrive and give me an enema, while my carer, who I call the ‘damn-buster’, blasts me with liquid laxatives. The enema isn’t effective. Nothing moves. Carlo arrives for work and sits by my bed with his laptop, looking up at me expectantly, like a dog anticipating a biscuit. But I am weak and can barely string two sentences together. However moved by his love and dedication I am, I have nothing to give him. It isn’t until the following day that I begin to defecate; four times, in fact, three of which while sitting in my wheelchair. Each shit requires me to be hoisted back into bed, undressed, cleaned, dressed again, and returned to my sitting position. At least half an hour each way.  I also have stones in my bladder which need to be zapped by a laser. Isabella writes to the consultant most weeks, but of course never receives a reply. A nurse comes to the house to change my catheter. A sudden, sharp pain when they pull it out. He shows me the tip, encrusted with sand-like debris, the cause of my urine-soaked nights. But I will have, now, I hope, at least a few days when everything will be working smoothly. I am left terrified of shitting or pissing involuntarily, especially when I am on my way for a swim, as I am now, crossing the city in a taxi with my carer. Since I make this journey every week, I know this route intimately, and look for changes in the environment: past the shrouded Grenfell tower, along the A40, up into north London, where the streets are filled with Muslims heading for the mosque, and men in MCC ties, hurrying into Lords. At the hospital, the physio comes out and greets me. I like physios, who understand the etiquette of speaking to the disabled.  Meeting ordinary civilians is a different matter. It can be awkward; do they bend down and kiss you like a baby in its pram? Or extend their hand, only to be met by my withered, incapable one? My preference is for a knuckle-bump, which I can manage with my right hand. Having been brought up in the 1950s, I am appalled by the new culture of hugging, and am glad I don’t have to participate. I am undressed, put into white trunks embossed with toucans, and elevated up over the lip of the pool and dropped into the warm water. After some arm exercises, I am stood upright, one curled-up hand on the rail, and I take a step, followed by another, and then another, walking around the basin like a man on the moon. I am convinced of my ability, and feel as if I could step right out into the street, walk down by the canal and all the way back to west London. I would love that. I want it. Next morning, a friend passes by. She asks if I am improving. I hate that question. What does it look like? I can’t even blow my nose. But optimism is a gift to others and so I tell her that I am getting stronger, that I don’t intend to remain in this condition much longer. I want to go back to who I was before, my old life. This, I insist, is only a temporary. But I am also aware, from the look of pity on my friend’s face – as my carer spoons soup into my mouth -  that she doesn’t believe me. I will not be going back, but forward in some broken form. Back in Tesco, the black armoured beetle at the centre of the frame is joined by a frizzy-haired, thin woman wearing yellow platform shoes and carrying lots of bags. This is Isabella who bends down to kiss me. --- If you wish to preorder my forthcoming memoir, Shattered, you can do so by following the links provided here: linktr.ee/shatteredH