It is 4:08am on Thursday 18th November. It’s early, sure, but we’ve got a 9:50am flight to New York to catch from Heathrow and an early start doesn’t really count when you’re flying off on holiday, right? Oh, and there is the obligatory, yet insanely overpriced full English and a beer waiting with my name on it! It is 4:08am on Thursday 18th November. I’m not on my way to Heathrow like I should be, and I’m not asleep. My hair is falling out though, so later this evening I’m getting it shaved. Life is cruel sometimes. We’re a week and a day on from Round Three of the treatment and it is lingering. My stomach feels hungover, a constant uncomfortableness. My sleep resembles that of a newborn, incapable of completing more than a few hours in any one stretch. But it is the sight of my hair falling out in my hands that is the most sobering aspect of this round. We always knew it was likely at some point, it would be remarkable had my hair stayed for the durati...