It has been pretty much twenty four hours since I was admitted to my room. People have come and gone with drugs, cups of tea, microwaved meals, and a variety of machines for monitoring bodily functions. I have not stepped out of the door and have been told not to without at least the precaution of a face mask.

I am thankful for the large window that offers a high rise view of the snowy vista outside; I am grateful for the cookies and snacks brought in by my wife early this morning.

Despite disturbances in the night to change drips or take drugs I slept well, albeit aware of an increasing tightness in my chest. Not part of a general ward the nurses left me alone to sleep in for as long as I wanted although I missed being woken by the kicks of my unborn daughter as she wriggles around in my wife's tummy.

The morning saw an experiment in one handed washing. I tried not to snag my peripheral line as I took of my t-shirt and threaded my drip through it before embarking on an ordinarily simple venture. Face, armpits and teeth were all I managed this morning. Now I have rehearsed I shall aim for a greater level of thoroughness tomorrow.

Currently, as I type on the worst keyboard in the world attached to a screen reminisant of the rogue ship's robot in Wall-E, I feel pretty reasonable. My hips ache, the beginnings of a cough still linger in my lungs, but aside from that things are good. My consultant popped in to say hello - on a Saturday - and is happy about how I am doing and how severe the drop in white cells has been. She showed visible excitment at the prospect of feeling my spleen later in the week.

All I can do now is sit and wait, eat my snacks and hope for a decent film on TV tonight.