I went to Guy's this morning to hear what the latest PSA count is. And it is even lower than four months ago. Two years ago this week, the PSA was 9.2, and this launched a year of off-and-on treatment including 35 zaps of radiotherapy and hormone implants in my tum.

After that, the PSA count was 0.47; the following four-monthly tests have shown respectively 0.25, 0.12 and 0.07. They don't use the word "cure", and there will probably be a bounce in the rate as the prostate itself recovers from the radiotherapy. Next test will be in six months.

I am writing this in case anyone reading it has a father or relative who has been diagnosed with prostate cancer and would like some encouragement. And I would be happy to be contacted if anyone would like to talk about it.

So that's over for six months.

My filthy cold is still with me, and I blame it for one bad shot on the 18th which caused me to lose in the semi-final of our group's little singles golf competition. I went to the trouble of making a full roast chicken dinner, with roast spuds, sausage, bacon and a nice gravy, then I could only eat half a plateful. I need some appetite pills.

The government has suddenly realised that all the windmills in the world won't make a dent in energy needs, and is going to push nuclear, which will take about twenty years to get on stream, hassled all the way by anti-nuke people who don't like coal or oil or gas either.

And I have been unamused by the antics of the two sides of the Post Office. The union may have just noticed that if they strike towards Christmas, their employers will lose all their best customers and there will be no jobs anyway. And the both sides keep using the term "winning". What is the matter with these people? Rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic sums it up.

And a final rant about the sick people on the Sun who have ramped up this obnoxious rubbish about Brown's badly written letter of condolence to the mother of a dead soldier. For a start, he handwrote it, even though he is nearly blind. He spelt the family names as he was informed by some underling. And the Sun, no doubt under orders from their owner, went into attack dog mode. I don't know whether the Tories have distanced themselves from this foul crock of shit; I don't expect so, they are politicians after all.

Phew. Let me get back to the clean air of the golf course. I can't get on the Solo's New Year trip to Spain. There is an attractive-sounding few days to be had in Shropshire, but it's a four-hour drive. Too much for this clapped out old fart. So it will be Turkey in February. And here tomorrow and Friday.