Yesterday I listened to Jack Layton get buried in French en route to and in the car park of a supermarket.

A woman sang Rise Up. I sat in a hot car surrounded by passing shopping trolleys.

It was desperately sad. Still it felt appropriate to be upset and mourn the loss of him amid getting on with the practicalities of the day.

Also, I recommend getting buried in French. Somehow it’s more satisfying.

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This week I also had cause to attend the Prostate Clinic. I learnt there are 10,000 patients at that VGH clinic.

I sat between 2 old men and felt pretty special. The place reminded me of Heathrow Airport.

I like my doctor very much and we both agreed it’s good I do not have a prostate.

I asked him how can we feel hopeful if Jack Layton who has full access to healthcare and appeared a fit, healthy man (to my eye) and excellent advocate for himself cannot survive it.

What hope is there for the man who smokes 40 a day and drinks a six pack and doesn’t go to the doctor? Says I.

They do die, he replied, you just don’t hear about them.

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