Don't make jokes about gin to oncologists unless you want a scary alcohol lecture – Susan Morrison

You can imagine her taking charge during a Girl Guide camping trip when all the tents blow down. Friendly, assured and that hint of steel. In many ways, she is the diametric opposite of practically everyone currently on the government front benches right now.

She listens, and answers all my questions. Well, I didn’t ask her for George Clooney’s phone number, but only because I forgot. No worry is trivial. There has been a strange sensation in my foot, and I wondered if it could be the chemo causing trouble. Unlikely, she said. What does it feel like? Oh, I wake up with it sort of cramped, like I’ve had to sleep awkwardly, as if there’s been a cat… Oh, hang on…

Mind you, I said, I do drop things. But that’s the gin. Note to self: medics don’t think drinking too much is funny. This triggered a short, mildly scary lecture about safe levels of alcohol units (none, they think) until she relented and said a G&T wasn’t going to drag me to hell. Stay within the unit guidelines. Whatever a unit is.

We are still losing too many too young to cancer, but it is starting to crack under the strain of the relentless onslaught of research. Every penny counts to fund those super-clever, big-brained boffins in white coats peering down microscopes and doing things with isotopes.

That very evening, I was replying from the lassies at a Burns Supper. It was a fundraiser for prostate cancer. Not one of mine, obviously, but I try to be inclusive in these things. And whilst we’re on the subject, lads, when was the last time you had your nether regions checked? Get it done. It might save your life. Oh, and when I say checked, I mean by a professional.

As a thank you, a charming prostate specialist presented me with a bottle of Edinburgh Gin. Mixed messages, medics? It’s ok. I’ve decided that the bottle is just one unit.