He told this story in such an undramatic way that the conclusion seemed not so much traumatic as inevitable: if the sarcoma was to be removed, there would be no way of saving my leg So be it At least I would be alive. A failure to act quickly would have only one outcome – I would die. There was no point pretending that chemotherapy could be used to reduce its size – surgery was the only answer. This way, I could see out into the room and hold Barbara’s hand, which I did, childlike, throughout proceedings.

A few days later we found ourselves at University College Hospital, London, waiting to be seen by an oncologist, Dr Jeremy Whelan For the first time we heard the name of the enemy: sarcoma. With diplomacy worthy of the Foreign Office he led us carefully through the likely cause of the swelling, the implications of a tumour of such proportions, and the prognosis. In the end, the day was saved by my lump – the only bit of good it ever did me: the staff accepted that it would be too painful for me to lie on it, and I was allowed to turn on to my stomach. When the day came, there was a modicum of good news: I would be going in feet-first. But my head would still be inside the machine, and I started to panic.

I had always been clear that I would never agree to such torture. There followed a flurry of visits to surgeons and a series of hospital tests, the most alarming of which was the MRI scan. I pictured myself being pushed head-first into a hermetically sealed tube, bringing on claustrophobia that might be fatal. Everyone had been telling me how ill I looked, but I always brushed them aside, muttering something about a virus. Even when the stiffness developed into a slight swelling, I did nothing about it Then, the swelling began to grow more quickly It also became increasingly painful Finally I was persuaded to see our GP The word “cancer” was uttered. The doctor wasn’t prepared to commit, but I knew straight away what the diagnosis would be. I rang my office and told them that I would be absent – for a few days at least – to undergo some tests They weren’t surprised.

In retrospect, I knew that the first symptoms manifested themselves months ago: a stiffness in my left buttock, which I put down to the aches and pains of middle age, caused perhaps by toiling up and down stairs carrying three-year-old twin boys. Mostly he was encouraging: of course there were risks, but he did not expect death to darken the doors of his operating theatre He was realistic, too “You may find the artificial leg unwieldy. Some people only use them for Sunday best.” How had it come to this? I had never had an operation before, and had never spent a night in hospital. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a day off work ill. And now I had not only been confirmed as a cancer victim, I faced the prospect of becoming disabled overnight. Many people have asked me when I first realised that something was wrong. “Just that the cancer was too far advanced for chemotherapy …