Like many people with early cancer (I am told), I am finding it impossible to adjust to the idea of being ill. Mostly that’s because I am patently not ill at all, not in the slightest. Last week I was swimming regularly (my usual 30 lengths); yesterday I cycled the three miles into central London for tea, and back. I have been penning my articles and tending to my daughters exactly as normal; the only thing that seems to be different is that I keep having to go to talk to doctors about my left breast, and the tumour therein.But then, six weeks into this strange episode of my life, I got my first solid proof that I really was ill. I was at evening Mass, minding my own business and vaguely thinking about saying a prayer or two, when to my astonishment I heard my name being mentioned f