The Elvis Diary

She brought it for him. It's pink and it has its own biro and Elvis on the front, with a motto I can't recall, something like 'Getting down to business.'
And she had written his first entry on the road to recovery, something like:
Today was a great day because [Boot] and [Whimsy] came to see me. It was splendid because I love them!
He took it and put it beside him. Then he sat us down and told us what we already knew, and added something new, something that the one who loves him may not know yet.
Two months, but because the operation on Tuesday did not result in a thorough sewing up and the infection is leaking, down to one month. He can choose to fade out, or opt for aggressive treatment of the infection, which may give him more time. But the cancer can't be treated. One month, two months.
Pancreatic cancer, misdiagnosed as Gastritis for a year. A year. Now it has spread to his stomach and other places.
And she sat there and used that same little diary to fastidiously note details of his will, of going to his flat and picking things out, of the story he wants me to finish for him which lurks on a couple of memory sticks or the hard drive or, or I don't know. Only when there was nothing left to note, nothing to record, did the tears hover across her brisk face, just a couple of moments of wild eyed wondering what the hell happened in a matter of weeks to our friend. Me, I was fine, sort of, most of the time, except for this weird swooney thing I felt. Had to get to Blackfriars tonight, and just wanted to wander into the city and lose myself by the river, by the lights. What is the point of this city, at all?

He phoned me just now. We will do everything we can. I don't know where the diary is, I think she tore her page of notes out and left him with it,with Elvis and the biro and the sweet desperate little message.

Enough. Time to stop writing.