Cardinals and cancer are an odd match; let's hope I'm as victorious as the Redbirds

In 2006, I had breast cancer, and the Cardinals won the World Series. In 2011, the Cardinals returned to the championship, and my cancer came back.

I do hope they're not related. It could kill my love of my home team.

The cancer showed up in my annual ultrasound on October 11th. A tiny dark streak on the screen. "It could just be scar tissue, but it wasn't there last year, so we want to be extra careful," said the doctor doing the scan. "We're going to do a biopsy." In that moment, five years fell away as I remembered, vividly, the pain of the first one. The guys at Guantanamo Bay had it all wrong. Forget waterboarding. Biopsy a bit of breast tissue and people will tell you anything. No question of refusing, however. The results are more important than the pain.

Sure enough, a new cancer in the same breast as 2006. Strange, as I'd had a total mastectomy so there shouldn't be any breast tissue left in there. Post surgery, tests proved it to be lymphatic tissue, though all lymph nodes tested were clear. Which means I'm destined for a winter of chemotherapy, once I heal from the operation. I had the surgery on the 27th, just 13 days after the biopsy results confirmed there was something in there that needed to come out.

A routine operation, a small cancer found early, a positive prognosis. Add all those things together and it still doesn't take away the anxiety. Especially for poor Piers, who could only watch from the sidelines and have all the stress of dealing with this the first time around.

We spent the night before surgery in town, since my 6am check in time made it impossible to come up from Basingstoke. We tried to make a celebratory evening of it. An indulgent dinner at Orrery with the tasting menu and the wine flight. Should anything have gone wrong on the operating table, it would have made a fine last meal. Traditional French with modern twists, a progression of small, delicate plates, that exceptional cheese trolley and a satisfying chocolate tart. Still on the same form as previous visits (see 10.12.07), reminiscent in quality and price to Roussillon, though not quite as elegant and innovative, with a far less intimate dining space. A good option for fine dining in that part of town.

We then retired to Hotel La Place on Nottingham Place. (The club, sadly, had no rooms available.) A Victorian townhouse remodeled as a small B&B, going for the upscale boutique hotel category. The room was lovely, with traditional dark wood furniture, beautiful upholstery and a crown-style canopy with falling drapes above the bed. All very English country house transported to the city. The public areas were a bit pokey and Piers reported an unimpressive breakfast (consumed while I was under the knife). For general London tourism, I'm sure you could do better for your £180 a night, though the room was admirably large for a centrally-located hotel. But for our primary objective ... be able to walk quickly to the Harley Street Clinic ... it was a decent option.

So the surgery went well. The doctor got the entire cancerous spot out without having to disturb my breast implant, so no major follow up work will be needed there. Floating on anesthetic and pain killers, I slept for most of the day. Wide awake, then, for most of the night. Just in time for Game 6 of the World Series. Without doubt, the single most exciting game of my life. Any baseball fan will already know the story. Texas led the series three games to two. A win that night locked their first-ever championship. (The Cards were playing for their 11th.) The Cardinals had already come from behind to tie or lead the game three times, but they entered the 9th inning down by two. And were still there as they got to their last out. When local boy David Freese drove in two runs, tied the game and sent it into extra innings.

In the 10th, the Rangers quickly put two runs on the board. I could hear the groans all the way across the Atlantic. Could we come back from behind for a fifth time in the same game? Yup. Again down to their last out, Berkman hit the tying run, forcing the 11th inning. This time, the Cardinals held the Rangers scoreless, then Freese returned to the plate and hit a leadoff home run. This was, frankly, as good as a Hollywood screenplay. Even if I was experiencing the game in the oddest of ways.

The first five innings streamed onto my iPad via MLB.com with no problem. Then the hospital WiFi went down. Really, there's not much you can do about that at 3am. The night nurses can handle any crisis of the human body, but network issues had to wait for the day staff. I tried a few options on my iPhone, with no luck, and ended up following the rest of the game through text messages from the Bruneel household in St. Louis. (I watched the game the next day when I returned home.) Despite the bizarre relay reportage, despite sitting alone in a dark hospital room, the game filled me with joy. And a very pleasant distraction from the medical situation.

Back home the next night, the joy returned. Still on an irregular sleeping pattern, I slipped downstairs to the couch from 1am to watch Game 7. Not nearly as exciting as No 6, thank heavens. The Cards had a job to do; they went out and did it. I think the previous night had ripped the heart out of the Rangers, frankly.

There was much joy in St. Louis, and for St. Louisans around the globe. Good thing, too. Because as those anesthetics wore off, I realised just how much even a small incision can hurt. I was very happy for the distraction. And I hope my beloved Redbirds can do it again soon. But please, let me be cancer-free next time.

Despite the cruise ship, Comms Directors' Forum a bust

This recession has killed a lot of events.

Before the crash, I used to be asked to speak at three to five conferences a year, and was invited to scores more. (The former invitations, all expenses paid, I often accepted. The latter, at several hundred pounds a day plus travel expenses, I usually skipped.) Most of those conferences have disappeared. Even prosperous companies aren't paying to send their employees on educational breaks these days.

That validates the cleverness of Richmond Events' simple idea: book a cruise ship; invite big corporate representatives free of charge; get agencies to pay for everything in exchange for guaranteed meetings with the big names. Given that most big corporates limit their vendors to those on a rostered list, and most corporate execs brush off new business calls like dandruff on a collar, this gig is one of the few ways a small agency has any chance of having a sustained conversation with global corporate types. Why they consider us nirvana, I have no idea. (In my experience, large mid-market companies are far more profitable on agency books.) But their enthusiasm has kept the Richmond Events cruise going.

Granted, it's a lot smaller than it used to be. On my first outing, the Communications Directors and the IT Directors split the whole cruise ship. There were hundreds of communications types, and more than 20 just from the IT services sector. It made for a fantastic three days, networking with colleagues, comparing issues and getting ideas for improvement.

Times have changed. Though the conference concept has survived, there are now five different types of directors on the ship. Meaning the specialist groups are much smaller, and the industry specialisms amongst them are tiny. (I still managed to find a happy cluster of colleagues from BT, IBM, Orange and Nokia to drink with.)

It is always valuable to get out of the office to mix, mingle and compare experience with colleagues. Beyond that networking, however, I found myself questioning the value of the time away. Perhaps I'm just getting too old and cynical. Perhaps, now that I'm head of marketing communications, I should have been on the marketing directors forum. But I found the seminars, on the whole, to be distressingly old hat. Surely, these are all the same issues, and all the same bits of advice, I heard at my first such conference in the late 1980s. The critical primacy of internal communications. The need for employee, marketing comms and PR to work together. Confusion over measurement. The call to understand the company's overall goals and lash yourselves to business basics. Good lord. Has the industry not moved on at all in 25 years?

I found myself deeply depressed, and indulging in my recurrent fantasy of becoming a farmer or a restorer of Georgian plasterwork. One thing, at least, comforted me. When I indulged in deep conversation with colleagues, I found their issues to all be the same as mine. If these conferences do nothing else, they remind you that you are not alone.

No time for post-honeymoon depression as London return piles on the glamour

On the plane back to Heathrow, I was thinking I'd had enough excitement, and it would be nice to get into a quiet routine for a while. Honest.

Clearly, I hadn't checked the social and work diaries before having that thought. If I had, I would have seen tickets for the Royal Opera House after the first workday back. Piers' annual company social ... a grand masquerade ball ... on the Friday night. The next week, off to a cruise ship to the Channel Islands for three days on the Communications Directors' Forum. So much for a quiet life.

Heading to the opera on our first night back wasn't ideal, but it was the only night we could get my father to the performance before he went back to the States on Wednesday. I've never seen anything I didn't like at the ROH, of course, and it's the grand, established blockbusters of the repertoire like La Traviata where they really hit their stride. Even the great critic of Italian opera, my new husband, can't say too much against this particular work. Grand setting, great music, good pacing. What's not to like?

This is a production first created by Richard Eyre in 1994, and is one of the ROH's most regularly revived works. The sets are a show in themselves. The first party scene is a dramatic two story affair with guests coming up and down curving staircases as action takes place in the drawing room at the top. The gambling den at the end of act 2 is smoky, a bit sinister yet echoingly grand; a perfect evocation of the raffish end of late 19th-century Parisian high society. The action wraps in Violetta's simple, impoverished bedroom, but the tall windows and use of space convey an almost church-like atmosphere as our heroine reaches her end.

You've barely had time to settle into your seat at the start when the rousing drinking song "Brindisi" makes you want to jump up again and raise a glass. (We didn't, of course, but we did exchange warm smiles. Remember, dear readers, this is the song we played as we entered our wedding meal.) Russian soprano Marina Poplavskaya and American tenor James Valenti were excellent as Violetta and Alfredo, not just in the quality of their singing, but in their acting. This is perhaps one of the most poignant yet believeable stories in all opera. Violetta, the courtesan with the noble heart who finds true love, then gives it up for the greater good of family honour. Alfredo, passionate and impetuous, who is too thick to see the sacrifice his one true love makes until she's on her deathbed. The couple played out the arc of falling in love, falling out, bitter recrimination and regret, ending with understanding, love and loss with a passion that had me reaching for the tissue.

The PWC annual party later in the week wasn't quite so grand as Violetta's salon, but it wasn't far off. After years of cost constraints at my own company, it was delightful to get treated to such a sophisticated and well-funded display of employee appreciation. Maybe I should have been an accountant. (Hmm. Would have required maths skills. Maybe not.)

The venue was the headquarters of the Honourable Artillery Company, a hidden gem in the City of London. The HAC is a voluntary regiment of the Army, founded in 1537, prestigious ever since and now acting as both a registered charity and an active military unit. Their headquarters is a gracious Georgian house a stone's throw from Moorgate tube, fronted by six acres of garden. This is all ringed by city buildings, so you'd never know it was there unless you were actually seeking it out. Once inside their grounds, you have the bizarre spectacle of country house and expansive lawns entirely ringed by urban tower blocks. We were in the Prince Consort Room, a modern, purpose-built function space to one side of the house. Smaller parties can take over the main building itself which, as the website shows, is an early Georgian blockbuster replete with wooden paneling, impressive portraits and glittering chandeliers.

The PWC party didn't need the glitzy background, however, since the guests themselves were a star attraction. This was a full on masquerade ball, heavy on the Venetian influence. Women in glamorous evening wear, men in dinner jackets, and the whole assembly in masks ... with a good portion of the masks large and flamboyant enough to hold their own on St. Mark's square any night of Carnevale. The girl who won the best mask of the evening award had gone to a makeup artist earlier in the day and had hers painted on, swirls of powder blue and gold to match her gown, highlighted by sparkling crystals affixed in curves across her brow and cheekbone. Another of Piers' colleagues had a full mask topped by a tricorn hat and flamboyant feathers, worthy of Casanova. Had I known how seriously Piers' colleagues take their dressing up, I would have made more effort!

As it was, we got lucky. I grabbed a mask I'd brought back from Venice off the shelf in my office for myself. With a bit of time to spare on Wednesday evening, I went to the craft store, found a blank plastic plague doctor's mask (the traditional one with the big beak) and jazzed it up with some baroque-style wrapping paper and red feathers. I was just trying to get something that vaguely matched my headgear, but it turned out he was awarded the best home made mask prize. Now, this might have been because in this sophisticated and free-spending group, most people hired masks rather than making their own. Or maybe they just felt they should be nice to the newlywed. I like to think it was an honest acknowledgement of artistic ability. (My mother would be proud.)

Whatever the case, it was a nice conclusion to the first week back. So many friends have warned me of post-honeymoon depression, where you get all glum and bored because your post-marital life is dull in comparison to the excitement of planning the wedding and traveling afterwards. If this week is anything to go by, I think I'm safe from that complaint.

Food and wine are matches from heaven at Birkenhead

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

I have never before been formally introduced to the head chef within five minutes of checking into a hotel. Turns out nothing could have been more appropriate at Birkenhead House, since Nico Verster's kitchen is the thing that tips this place from delightful to truly extraordinary.

The culinary style here is global fusion layered on a classical foundation, taking advantage of the abundant local larder of the Cape. Wine is an integral part of the meal, with each server having a comprehensive knowledge of the house wine list (at more than 20 bottles, no small task) and the confidence of a trained sommelier to recommend food and wine pairings. Whatever the meal, dining here is an experience. At breakfast, there's not only a buffet groaning with home made breads and pastries, gourmet muesli, exotic fruits, cereals, etc. and the option of a traditional cooked breakfast, but also the chef's breakfast of the day. One day banana crepes, another an omelette Florentine. At lunch, weather permitting, the whole dining room would be transported to the patio, complete with fine linen and crystal, so you could dine at the cliff edge.

And dinner! The magic started with the descent from our room, with each step of the marble stairs leading to the dining room illuminated with votive candles. (When you returned to your room after dinner, you found votives glimmering around your bed.) Before dinner there was a proper cocktail hour during which you could sink into the couches in front of the fireplace, talk to fellow guests, drink your fill (the staff didn't need to be reminded of your cocktail of choice after your first order) and nibble on passed hors d'oeuvres. You could linger here as little or much as you wished before crossing to the candlelit dining room to indulge in three decadent courses with plenty of fine wine. Then it was back to the couches, where you could linger over your choice from a wide selection of after dinner drinks, including a range of whiskys, cognac, armagnac, several grappas and sweet stuff like Cointreau and the local take on Baileys, Amarula cream.

One of the things that makes the whole experience so special is that costs are all inclusive. You're not left feeling guilty about whether or not you should get the more expensive wine, wondering whether you can afford another cocktail or feeling that dessert or that single malt after dinner is profligate. Another is that with every meal, whoever is running the kitchen comes out to chat about the menu with you, answering any questions and suggesting alternatives if there's anything you don't like.

Adjusting dishes is no problem. One night, when told about the magnificent beef the chef had received that afternoon, Piers ordered his steak "blu" (extremely rare), joking that he'd take tartare if they could do it. We would, but we don't have any gherkins, the distressed chef apologised. He'd get some on his way to work the next day, so Piers could have a rare steak now and tartare later. Another day at lunch, we were having trouble choosing from the range of intriguing starters, so the chef offered to create a combo platter for us. Not only was it one of the most beautiful dishes of the trip (see photo at right), but it delivered a range of extraordinary flavours, like Asian beef salad and mussels in a cream sauce.

As already mentioned, however, the real delight of eating at Birkenhead was the wine pairings. Your all inclusive deal includes any wine on the house list, and there are roughly 10 reds and 10 whites to choose from. After seeing the knowledge of the staff, however, we didn't bother making any selections ourselves; we left ourselves in their hands. Sometimes, we even reverse engineered the menus to match the wine. "I haven't had the pinotage yet. What should I eat tonight so I can try it?"

Memorable pairings included a luncheon main of grilled calamari salad with sun dried tomatoes, red onion and goat cheese, matched with a Bouchard Finlayson blanc de mer which was mostly riesling with a bit of semillon. I would not have thought of that combination of salad ingredients, but the meaty squid, salty cheese and sweet tomatoes blended well, augmented by the same sweet yet sharp notes of the wine. At the same time, Piers was eating a gnocchi with blue cheese and fig and cream sauce with a bit of dill. Once again, sweet and sharp flavours in the food picked up the wine.

Lamb with shavings of deep fried squash went with a South Hill cabernet sauvignon from the Elgin Valley. This was a classic Ellen wine; big, bold, rich with berry flavours. Sadly, I wasn't having the lamb, so only stole sips of this off Piers. I was having sea bass, heavy enough to carry a light red wine in the Newton Johnson Felicite pinot noir 2011 from the nearby Hemel-en-Aarde Valley. I can't better the tasting notes on this one: red berries, brambles and pomegranates on the nose; poised, elegant, smooth on the palate with a lingering finish. The next night saw it equally well matched with mushroom soup dressed with truffle oil.

One of the best matches came with a humble but delicious burger. Add Spookfontein Phantom, 2006, also from Hemel-en-Aarde. Ruby red in colour, with hints of mulberry, raspberry, red currant, cherries and vanilla. The tannins would be a bit much to drink on its own, but great with food.

For a lighter touch, there were the scallops and bacon with pea puree and a bit of garlic butter, served with Groote Post Weisser Riesling, 2010. Fresh and clean with simple, unchallenging flavours, Piers thought the acid, apple and crispness didn't necessarily give a roundness to the wine, but there was enough body beneath it to prevent acidity from overpowering. We thought it would be exceptional with curry or other spicy food. Another fine white was the Beaumont chenin blanc, 2009, from Botriver (an area you drive through on the way down to Hermanus). This was a fresh and vibrant fruit combination of lemon, green melon and tropical guava, paired with tempura crab claws that delivered incredibly sweet flesh in a very light batter.

Back with the reds, Gabrielskloof's "The Blend", 2009, also from Botriver, was a Bordeaux blend on par with any of the big, traditional wines from France. This went with those lovely fillets, served with aubergine puree and red wine jus. This was a really magnificent red meat wine, deep and rich with hints of liquorice and chocolate. And the next day, when the fillet returned as the custom-created tartare? The Beyerskloof pinotage from Stellenbosch was fruity, a touch peppery, and very reminiscent of a good Rioja.

If ever you need proof of the sacred match between great food and fine wine, plan a trip to Birkenhead. At every meal we were presented with beautiful elements that could have stood alone, but were so much better together. What a great way to end our honeymoon. Because two becoming better as one is what marriage is all about, right?