Breast cancer and the beauty industry go hand in hand

Beauty as therapy is not something I discovered the first time around.  Though I don't dismiss the difficulties of mastectomy and reconstruction, that experience was fast and easy for me in comparison to this winter's trials.  Cancer Round 2 has come with chemotherapy, and that's a whole different ball game.

While drugs spare most people the really nasty side effects, you just don't feel well.  For months.  Meanwhile, the treatment changes your appearance in far more significant ways than the breast surgery alone.  There's the hair, of course.  Add blotchy skin and occasional acne.  And weight gain.  (Far more typical these days, given the steroids in the drug mix, than loss.)  Add all that up, carry it on for five months, and you just don't feel very good about yourself.

In cancer Round 1, I learned to honour and respect plastic surgeons.  Round 2, I have a whole new perspective on make up, and new skills I will take with me when body and face return to something approaching normal.

There's a great charity called "Look Good, Feel Better" that deserves your support.  They put together workshops for cancer patients, great afternoons where you get around a table with women who are sharing your journey, have a cup of coffee and get make up tips from professionals.  Waiting for each woman is a goody bag jammed with beauty products donated by sponsors (notably Boots).  Cleansers, moisturisers, perfumes, pencils, bases, and eye lip and cheek colour.  A veritable treasure trove.  At my session, there were almost as many volunteers as attendees, so each woman got plenty of one-on-one coaching and makeover time.

If you want to donate to the breast cancer cause but feel like exploring something a bit different, do check out their web site at www.lookgoodfeelbetter.co.uk.  You can give cash or time.

A more glamorous invitation came from the Harrods' "Nurture Card" given to me by my breast cancer nurse early in my treatment.  I'd tossed it into a pile and hadn't planned on using it.  That was back before I fully grasped the challenges of the treatment.  By month five it was a very special, and valued, treat.

Turns out there's a spa on the 5th floor of Harrods called "Urban Retreat", and the Nurture Card is their  nod to corporate social responsibility.  It gives you a Creme de la Mer facial followed by a makeup consultation and makeover free of charge, plus a 20 per cent discount at their wig boutique.  The spa therapists all seemed familiar and at ease with cancer patients, and there was no pressure to buy extra stuff.  Given that the facial alone has a list price of £120, this turned out to be an essential part of therapy.  (Although the wig discount is a bit disingenuous; turns out cancer patients don't have to pay VAT on wigs, which is all the discount is.)

The facial was my first encounter with Creme de la Mer, a beauty product with such a following ... and so expensive ... it's made the pages of The Wall Street Journal.  I've never been tempted to lay out more than £100 on a small pot of moisturiser, even if it was developed by a rocket scientist and comes with plenty of scientific validation.  But I'll admit there must be something to the sea kelp-based miracle broth, because I can't remember my face ever feeling so magnificently hydrated.  A feeling that lasted at least partially through the next day, which is a good deal longer than the average facial's effects.  I was also impressed by the spa room, which had a curving wall dominated by an aquarium filled with neon tropical fish.  Sadly, you're still in the middle of London, meaning all that relaxation seeps from your body with the commute home.  I'll stick to lesser treatments in spas that don't require an exit via crowds and public transport.

Gidleigh Park is worth the effort to get there ... and that's saying a lot

Any reader of this blog will know that gluttony is the sin amongst the Seven Deadlies that's set to keep me in Purgatory longest. (Although I can give sloth a pretty good run, too.) And it's gluttony that got us into a bit of trouble at Gidleigh Park.

Indeed, gluttony got me there in the first place. There are 20 Michelin 2-star restaurants in the UK and I've only eaten at 3. I want collect them all! Gidleigh Park has been an object of desire for a while. Gorgeous place on the edge of a favourite holiday destination, much admired executive chef Michael Caines, great experience at "daughter" restaurant The Bath Priory (see 21.11.11), No. 3 on The Sunday Times ranking of the top 100 restaurants in Britain. There, Gidleigh ranks above all of the nation's Michelin 3-stars, and behind only The Ledbury and Le Manoir. So getting there has been burning a little hole in my brain for months, and was at least 40% of the motivation for this weekend on Dartmoor. The remainder being getting to get my other half to a restful place to relieve his gruelling work schedule.

It was a magnificent experience of lucullan* proportions, with ... as expected and planned for ... the bill to match. (Our lunch, all in, was roughly the same price as three nights and two dinners at our B&B.) In addition to the cash, and advance reservations, Gidleigh takes a good deal of transport effort.

This may possibly be the most isolated Michelin-starred restaurant in the UK, about two miles past the small village of Chagford, a mile of it down a single track, heavily forested road hemmed in for much of the way by high stone walls. Nervous drivers and claustrophobics beware. There's even a sign half-way along that affirms you're on the right track and tells you not to lose heart. Eventually you come into a cleared, shallow valley, lawns stretched before you, a long, half-timbered house stretching across the other side, with a hillside of woodland framing its back. It's classic 19th century Arts & Crafts, Olde England revival. Inside, the bones of the style carry on, with lots of carved dark woods, leaded windows, armourial crests and big furniture. But there are modern touches here, from lighter paint schemes to tastefully injected modern art, that add comfort and avoid any stuffy, old fashioned feel.

A genial, and overwhelmingly French, staff welcomed us warmly and, upon hearing our name, was ready for the reservation and settled us into the bar. It's a pleasant space that balances Tudorbethan bones and darker colours with light pouring in from the adjoining conservatory, offering stunning views to the other side of the valley. Cocktails and menus followed. And here's where gluttony set in. On offer was three courses off a limited set menu for £56. Immediately dismissed. Why come all this way, to try one of the finest restaurants in the country for the first time, to be so limited? The choice then moved to three courses a la carte for £105, or the eight-course signature menu for £125.

Now honestly, dear readers, can you imagine me doing anything but thinking "an extra five courses for just £20? Hell yes!". And thus we jumped in with both feet. Adding the wine flight for Piers. (I was driving, so just took a few sips of each glass. Considering there were se

ven of them, he could share without feeling deprived.) And this was, admittedly, a bit much. By the end of course four I was satisfied, at the start of six I was pushing it. My prodigious ability to consume dessert no matter how full got me to the end (plus the three+ hours at table), but it was a bit of a marathon. The experience left me feeling qualified to report on the full scope of Mr. Caines' & Co's skills, but uncomfortably full and wracked with a serious dose of dieter's guilt. The five course menu would have been the better option, but for some reason it's not offered at lunch.

The food was magnificent. French inspired, but laced throughout with modern touches. Heavily locally sourced. Both classic and innovative. The menu balanced, the presentation exquisite. Though occasionally just off perfect, as when our two plates were not identical, were set in front of us at different angles or ... quelle horreur ... my single fried herb leaf was standi

ng proud against the roast garlic clove, whilst his had fallen over. (These are the things my detail-oriented husband notes, particularly when the last series of Masterchef hasn't had time to fade from his memory.) The service excellent, the wine choices particularly good and explained by an expert, friendly and conversant sommelier.

We opened with a three-bite, perfectly oval morsel of loch duart salmon, prepared "souvide" so it was cooked and firm, yet

retained the vivid colour of the raw fish. Laid on a bed of salmon jelly and cucumber, topped with a bit of Oscietra caviar, dressed with micro herbs and precise dots of two types of vinaigrette: honey soy, and wasabi and Greek yoghurt. A fabulous warning shot across our gastronomic bow of what was to come. Next, terrine of foie gras with Madeira jelly and truffled green bean salad. Probably the weakest of the courses. Which is saying a lot, given my love of the core ingredient. Not bad, but I didn't pick up any truffle flavour, the foie gras wasn't any better than many I've had before and the rest of the courses were just more memorable.

On to perhaps the most innovative dish: Cornish salt cod with Beesands crab, chorizo, samphire, tarragon and a lemon puree. The cod starts fresh and gets just eight hours salting to give it taste and firmness but preserve the delicacy and flavour. The crab, mixed with a light mayonnaise, the tarragon and the samphire are there less as individual tastes, more as binders and softeners for the strong flavours of the fish, which has been rolled in paprika before cooking, the chorizo and the lemon. Exquisite, and one I might try to re-create at home in a humbler incarnation.

Then to Cornish duckling, pink and flavourful, its wafer thin slices wrapped around savoy cabbage infused with smoked bacon, accompanied by sweet and smokey roast garlic cloves and a spiced jus. Probably the most traditional dish on the menu, and possibly my favourite of the savoury courses. Fish and fowl out of the way, it was time for the meat climax. West Country beef fillet with wild mushrooms, shallot and a horseradish confit, with smoked marrow and a red wine sauce. The dish was very similar to the recipe I tried last Valentine's day (see 15.2.12), and gave me inspiration and example to try again.

In the French tradition, cheeses came next, as a transition to the sweets. This fromage, however, was resolutely local, and upheld my long belief that the Southwest of England can go head-to-head with Gallic cheese makers any day. Triple cream Sharpham, Quick's mature cheddar, Little Stinky (similar to Stinking Bishop, but a little less aggressive) and Harbourne Blue are national treasures.

Those without a sweet tooth could stop now, but... out came a palate cleanser of exotic fruit salad with passion fruit sorbet and a crystalline of pineapple. Perhaps the most exquisite presentation o

f all in its combined drama and simplicity, the fruit salad cut into tiny, precise, exactly matching cubes, the quenelle of sorbet crowned with a fan of pineapple, all just a few bites. And those bites perfectly calculated to sharpen the taste buds for the final, rich course to come.

We concluded with one of the finest chocolate and caramel desserts ever. On one side of the plate, a square of caramel and cardamom parfait, its texture somewhere between mousse and that gooey, guilt-inducing stuff that tops the best millionaire's shortbread. On the other, a shot glass shaped tube of dark chocolate, filled with milk chocolate mousse and topped with a cardamom foam. Heavenly.

The wine flight was filled with unusual and rare stuff, much of it not great for straightforward sipping but completely transformed when consumed with its food. The whole point of a good pairing, of course. This was particularly noticeable with a Rosso di Montalcino 2007 San Polino, to which I wouldn't have given a second thought tasted straight, but was practically miraculous with the duck. The sommelier was proud of Gidleigh's ability to find very special wines from unexceptional areas like Corsica. Most producers there are doing cheap and cheerful, not even worthy of export. Yet the Ajaccio 2010 Comte Abatucci, Cuvee Faustine was so good with the salmon it immediately went on our search list. We also appreciated the growing trend to match foie gras with German Rieslings rather than the traditional Sauterne. Here it was again, this time a Mosel Riesling Spatlese 2009 from Dr. H. Tanisch, Bernkastle Badstube. While we didn't know this particular wine, we've been tasting in the region and still have half a case of something similar in the cellar. Which we'll now save for when we break out our own foie gras reserves.

After more than three hours at the table, getting up was an effort, but necessary to the digestion. We adjourned to a comfortable wicker couch in the conservatory, watching the afternoon light dapple the croquet lawn and fat wood pigeons flit through the pines. An hour with coffee, the newspapers and staff popping in to make sure we were ok rounded things off nicely, though the exquisite plate of petit fours barely got a touch. An advertising supplement from The Sunday Times folded into a makeshift doggie bag. This glutton, after all, couldn't bare to leave anything behind!

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*If you're unfamiliar with this adjective, to take the time to look up Lucius Licinius Lucullus, the fascinating republican Roman (118-56 BC) who gave rise to the term.

Coleton Fishacre and Buckfast Abbey are this Dartmoor visit's sightseeing highlights

Imagine the amazement and joy early explorers must have felt when they found that first lump of gold sitting in a California stream. Or a glittering diamond in a pile of south African rock. Or pearls, thrown up amidst the sands of Isla Margarita. I don't want to start a rush, but this was pretty much my reaction last weekend when I found a neat stack of jars of French foie gras piled on a shelf in a small shop on the edge of Dartmoor.

This incongruous delight is thanks to the Benedictine monks of Buckfast Abbey, who raise funds for their ministry by selling the produce of other abbeys across Europe. Thankfully these good men, who spend their life in contemplation, teaching, and a regular rota of prayers to save all of our souls, have no issues with force feeding birds a bit of grain in pursuit of culinary ecstasy. (Let's hope none of the protesters who've forced the stuff off most grocery shelves in this country never discover what the monks are up to.)

Foie gras was just the start. It seems that Europe's Benedictines produce for many corners of the luxury goods market. Gourmet foods, scented candles, high-end cosmetics, essential oils and exotic fruit liqueurs filled the shelves. I shouldn't have been surprised. As any Brother Cadfael reader knows, Benedictines have always put a lot of attention into their fruit and herb gardens, using the produce in their infirmaries. Many culinary delights started out as medicinal. My day's haul, in addition to the luxury liver, included: floral essential oils in a variety and at a price I haven't seen since street markets in Provence; world-famous Agen prunes, at about half the price of when I last found them in Paris (and now being reserved to accompany some very good pork); two jars from a choice of at least a dozen kinds of honey; a tisane comprised of linden, hyssop, mistletoe leaf, camomile flower, angelica seed, fir tree bud, peppermint and lavender that the sweet nuns of Aiguebelle tell me will be good for my respiratory problems; hand-made cough sweets with honey and propolis, a resin collected from beehives that my oncology nurse says works wonders on sore throats; and some ultra-rich hand cream, also with propolis, from the Abbaza di Praglia (the only Italians in this otherwise French line up).

I can't believe I've been coming to Dartmoor for a decade and never found this place. It's like someone hijacked a Fortnum & Mason food, wine and cosmetics lorry and flogged it off at a third of the price. They have a limited range of their products on their web site (www.buckfast.org.uk), but for the best stuff, you have to get there in person.

Before you shop, however, do have a look around. Had it not been for Henry VIII, this would be one of the oldest abbey's in Britain, founded in 1018. Monks came back to Buckfast in 1882, as the worst of the prohibitions against Roman Catholicism ended and the country saw a resurgence of the old faith. In ancient Benedictine tradition, they built their church with ther own hands. It's a lovely place, but becomes awe-inspiring when you learn that there were never more than six monks working at any one time, but they persevered over 32 years to completion. The style is early Gothic revival, to match what would have been the glory days of the old abbey, and it's filled with some beautiful side altars and a particularly impressive corona lucis (a giant chandelier) over the high altar. Outside, there's are two lovely gardens, sensory and herb, screened by high hedges, and other gardens and grounds that encourage quiet contemplation.

Quiet was not the point of our other big sightseeing destination this trip. Coleton Fishacre is the Jazz Age party house of the D'Oyly Carte family, who made their money as the exclusive producers and promoters of Gilbert and Sullivan, then parlayed it into a luxury hotel empire that included the The Savoy, Claridges and The Berkeley. The house, now National Trust, sits on its own green and pleasant peninsula between Dartmouth and Torquay, providing both dramatic coastal views and idyllic rural scenes, with plenty of walking paths to appreciate both.

The house is Arts and Crafts on the outside, and clean, restrained art deco within. It was empty when the Trust inherited it, and over the years they've made an effort to re-furnish with period pieces. Today, you feel like you've dropped in on some house party with Hercule Poirot. There isn't much from this time period open to the public, so it's a unique day out. There's also a room dedicated to Gilbert & Sullivan and the family history, and they've fully restored and kitted out the large servants' quarters. Both are just as interesting as the public spaces. My favourite spot, however, is the covered loggia off the dining room, where both a dining table and a hammock are set up to enjoy those views. There are also magnificent gardens, cascading down a narrow valley to the sea.

Sadly, all the family's good fortune did them little good. The only son and heir to the empire was killed in an auto accident while on break from his hoteliers' course in Switzerland in 1932. The D'Oyly Cartes' marriage shattered and the glamourous entertaining at Coleton Fishacre came to an end. Like its inhabitants, the house withdrew into a quiet retirement. A daughter inherited, but she didn't have children, so the empire was split up on her death.

All of which brings me back to the monks, who ultimately have the right idea. Quiet contemplation, community and faith endures for thousands of years and delivers contentment. Fame, fortune and party-fueled lifestyles ... even with the best foie gras and gourmet goodies ... can't guarantee anything.

Dartmoor's Cherrybrook Hotel back on form

I fell in love with Dartmoor the first time I drove up to its desolate heights on a blustery January day in 2000. After that, at least once a year I'd throw Mr. Darcy, the spaniel, into the car and head for the only place in England that could match the vastness of the American wilderness. I always stayed at the Cherrybrook Hotel.

Just after I created this blog, however, the place changed hands. Though I gave it a basic review (see 25.3.08), I didn't rave. Then, I didn't manage to get back to the moors for four years. I hadn't intentionally abandoned the place ... life just got a bit busy ... but I was worried. The new hosts didn't have the engaging charm of the originals, and the quality of the food had slipped badly. Though Cherrybrook remained on my "Some Great Places to Stay" list (scroll down the column at right) that was more for its stunning location, canine welcome and great price than for its excellence as a B&B.

The hotel has changed hands again since my 2008 visit, and I'm delighted to say that the new ownership has returned it fully to the place with which I fell in love. In fact, it might even be a little better.

Two mature couples, Dave and Judy and Pat and Marion, have down-shifted from busier lives nearer London for this self-described "life style choice" which allows them to live in this glorious spot while bringing a once-thriving business back from trouble. Part of that revival has involved massive investment into the building's infrastructure. Every room has been renovated, and that's not just redecorating. Woodworm meant that some of the rooms (including ours, the generously-sized Beardown, in the front of the house with dramatic views) were torn down to their planks and rebuilt. You sense the depth of the work in the quiet and the warmth of your room; this place is solid, the doors are all new and the heating system is fierce. All the bathrooms are new, with power showers giving a boost to the once-lazy water pressure. There's free WiFi these days, and modern TVs that include iPod docs and all the Freeview channels.

The decor has been updated, too, but they haven't given in to the temptation to be something they're not. No uber-trendy faux stone, mushroom and taupe colour schemes or Asiatic decor here. It's solidly traditional English B&B, with unstained oak furniture in the bedroom

s, dark woods and curio cabinets in the dining room, watercolours and prints of the local area on the walls and the comforting tea tray in the corner. The bar is still in what was originally the stables, the rough stone walls, painted white, giving it a rathskeller feel. Sadly the chairs in the bar are still not the most comfortable, and the renovation does nothing to fix what has always been the Cherrybrook's one great disadvantage: There's no cozy, comfortable public space to just hang out in front of a fire for hours. But you can live without it.

The point of a Dartmoor holiday is generally to be outside, and energetic days typically send people to bed after dinner rather than leave them hanging about in the lounge. (Therefore make an effort to book one of the larger rooms, so you have lounging space of your own.) What has improved is the barman: Dave has returned to the geniality of the host of my first visits, chatting with all the guests, bringing people together and serving all the expected stuff plus a good range of local ales and a local cider.

The food is back on form, too, delivering a good variety of options, hearty and well prepared. A starter of a grilled portobello mushroom with goat's cheese and a sharp onion relish stands out, as did the guinea fowl breast wrapped in bacon and the decadent "crunchy pie" (chocolate, dried fruit and crumbled biscuit). I rather missed the serve-yourself fourth course of local cheeses, the South West of England producing some of the country's finest, which used to be one of the highlights of eating here. Dave said they used to do it, but most people passed and there was too much waste, so the local cheeses are now an option on the dessert menu. Three substantial courses for £25 will re-fuel you nicely after any moor walking without breaking the bank. There's a wine list with an equally pleasing variety, most prices ranging from £15-£20. This is all good news, because most guests will want to dine in. Dartmoor's roads make for challenging driving, which you probably won't want to attempt after dark. As you'd expect, you wake up to the classic full English breakfast.

Cherrybrook continues to welcome dogs, at no extra charge. You'll even find a water bowl and a dish of dog biscuits waiting in your room. A nice touch. The new management has improved the gardens, so on your shorter dog walks you can appreciate a little stream with banks planted with flowers, new floral beds or a meadow with paths mown through the grasses. At this time of year, the dry stone walls of the drive are lined by hundreds of bright daffodils. For longer walks, of course, the moor is all around you. The best quality of the Cherrybrook remains its location. Though softened by those surrounding gardens, it's in the centre of the high moor, just northwest of where the two main trans-moor roads cross as Two Bridges. Two minutes from the front door and you're walking through the wilderness, alone but for sheep, the occasional wild pony and your thoughts. Or, if you're less energetic, you can appreciate the rolling hills and rocky tors from your bedroom window.

Prices vary depending on package and season. We paid £94 a night for dinner, bed and breakfast for the three of us. (Mum, Dad, Spaniel.) Which is undoubtably the bargain option on my "Special Places to Stay List".

OK. Maybe I need to slow down.

Part of my coping strategy for dealing with illness is, frankly, to ignore it.

Two weeks ago I switched to a new chemotherapy drug called Taxol. It was supposed to be easier than the four FEC treatments that had proceeded it. But, just to add to the continuing contrary nature of my body, the Taxol hit me hard with a combo of bone and muscle pain that left me feeling like an arthritic 90-year-old badly in need of regular naps for the whole week after treatment. Plus, I'm still dealing with the cold and coughs that haven't left me since December. Looking back over what I've been up to over the past fortnight, you'd never know it.

First, there's work. We're dashing toward the end of the financial year, which is my deadline to roll out the most comprehensive graphic design system my company has ever had. Really quite an enormous deal and one I'm hugely proud of, especially considering that I planned a wedding and got cancer at the same time I conceived and ran the project. Like anything this big, the weeks up to the launch have been crazy.

Crazier still was driving down to Eastbourne for a digital media conference the week immediately after the chemo. Obviously, I didn't expect to be feeling like a cripple. I soldiered through, with the help of an hour in the Grand Hotel's whirlpool.

By the next Saturday I'd recovered enough to get through a full day's cooking class at Newlyn's without too much trauma ... though standing up most of the day was a bit of a challenge. One well worth the effort. "Butcher it, cook it, carve it" was a meaty feast, focusing on understanding the process from carcass to plate and improving individual skills for meat preparation. We spent the day with Newlyn's head butcher, watching him take both a whole sheep and half a pig from carcass to all the individual cuts, talking us through quality, cooking and shopping tips as he cut and sawed away.

Moving to the "doing it ourselves" part of the class, Piers and I can now debone a lamb shoulder, stuff it and tie it into a cushion shape that bakes and yields cake-like slices. We can score pork crackling into a decorative diamond pattern. Slicing breasts off a pigeon hardly requires thought. My greatest new skill, though, is being able to de-bone a whole chicken with just one slice along the back. This leaves you with all the meat, still held against the skin, that can be stuffed, wrapped and rolled.

And that was just week one. Picking up steam, I rolled into a frenetic week leading up to the next Taxol jolt. More packed work days, of course. Punctuated on Wednesday by medical appointments and a business lunch at Orrery. (Foie gras parfait followed by pork medallions, tempted off my Lenten wine abstinence by an irresistible Mersault.) As delicious as ever and enhanced by the bizarre warm and sunny weather that found us eating outside, basking in the sun despite it only being the 28th of March.

By Friday, time for more chemotherapy. But the oddity of this treatment is that the side effects don't set in until Monday. The first 48 hours is a breeze. So I might as well keep busy, right?

Post chemo, it was off to Arbutus for the best Michelin-star deal in town. Pre-theatre, 3 courses for £20.95. Great Mediterranean food. Porchetta, ricotta gnudi, blood orange parfait. served with prompt and attentive service that gets you in and out before the curtain goes up. Then to the penultimate night of David Haig's critically acclaimed performance in The Madness of King George. Great stuff.

Saturday morning, back in Basingstoke, we piled in our first three potential house viewings. We're a couple of months away from buying, but the initial foray tells us that there's good stuff in our price range. Much optimism. A few hours' rest at home, then it was back to London for a reception at the Savoy for visiting Northwestern President Morton Schapiro. A delightful man who delivered a great report; the place is in good hands. Off then with Hillary to Terroirs, a French-inspired tapas place just off Trafalgar square. Delicious, but a bit meat heavy and probably not the best value for money. (The three of us shared five savoury tapas plates, one cheese platter, one sweet and two bottles of moderately-priced wine and came out at £50 each.) If we try it again, we'll go for more traditional starters and mains.

Trying to slow down a bit, we decided to spend the night up in town at our club. The first time at the Lansdowne since the wedding. I missed the bridal suite, but we compensated for that by a room service breakfast in bed. Off to St. Mary's Bourne Street for the dramatic Palm Sunday service, featuring a musical passion of Christ with three priests singing the lead roles and the choir as the Jewish crowds. Next, to Madsen's with the London Bencards for the traditional Scandinavian Sunday lunch. Herring, smoked salmon, Jerusalem artichoke soup, beer and aquavit. Much merriment. And the warm, sunny weather continued.

Quite a fortnight. Which could have produced ten separate blog entries: reviews of four restaurants, one play and one seaside hotel, an insightful look at the future of digital media in the marketing space, a full entry on the Newlyn's class, details on house hunting and maybe a bit of philosophising on cancer care. But I did all of that while, I now admit, being quite ill and completely exhausted for more than half of it. So you get a round up instead.

And for the fortnight ahead? I am admitting that the Taxol was a bit harder than planned, and promise to take it easy.

Well, easier. We're off to Devon for the Easter break on Friday...