So it’s PET scan attempt number two. Yet another day avoiding pregnant ladies. I kept imagining what I’d say if a pregnant woman sat beside me on the train home: “I’m sorry missus, but I’m radioactive, so I’ll sit over there. It’s not because you smell.”

Obligatory weigh-in: Now 6½ stone down. WOOHOO. Another half-stone and I’ll have my 22-year-old body back but with the lucky bonus of saggy extra skin. Why did nobody warn me about this? My backside now hangs somewhere behind my knees.

Then another swaddling, another head vice, another session of being wrapped like a leftover sandwich, and—of course—another huge itchy nose the second the machine starts clunking.

And another wait. Another long, agonising wait.