Sinclair on life: I feel a bit like a clock running down

Longtime television and radio icon and Herald columnist PETER SINCLAIR breaks his silence on a private sentence.

Last year, I was made redundant. Redundant from life, that is.

My doctor, who is also a friend, told me that what we'd feared for a while was true: my own corpuscles had turned on me like sharks.

I was suffering from leukaemia; which, given my particular circumstances (too flimsy for intensive chemotherapy, and with no close relative from whom to borrow a cup of bonemarrow), was essentially untreatable. He softened the blow by telling me I'd probably be around for a while yet, so I shut up about it and got on with life.

Why am I telling you all this?

Living in New Zealand, as I once wrote in a novel (The Frontman, published by Penguin and long out of print), is pleasantly like belonging to a large and not very exclusive club. News gets around quickly, so I wasn't especially surprised or put out when, a few months later (last week, in fact), reporters from both Sunday papers started hammering at the door.

But it forced me, reluctantly, into this pre-emptive strike.

I realise, of course, that this is as embarrassing for you as it is for me. Death, after all, is embarrassing - I mean, where do you look? Nor am I vain enough to believe that the state of my bloodstream is of universal interest. So I shan't inflict it on you - I've had a public life, and, as far as is possible, I desire a private death.

Like most of us, I always hoped (when I thought of it at all) that death would be just a sort of gigantic kick in the chest from the infinite: brutal but brief. As things stand, I hope to be able to exit without pain and with whatever shreds of grace can be salvaged from the situation.

There are, I suppose, advantages to a slow departure, if only because it gives you time to tidy up after the party.

There are two things most people want to know but are too tactful to ask. So I'll tell you.

First, how long have I got?

How long, as my doctor asks, is a piece of string? Hopefully, it may be a few years yet before I trail off into silence.

Second, how does it feel?

A bit like a clock running down. In my case, things have a faintly autumnal edge to them, the slight but distinct feeling that if the journey of my life has had an object, then - whatever it was - it has already been achieved.

But, in fact, thanks to the team at Auckland Hospital, I'm feeling better than I have in years - if not a new man, then at least a somewhat renovated one. There'll be quite a few WebWalks, CyberSleuths and Herald InBoxes to come on Tuesdays and Thursdays yet.

Meantime, I don't wish to become some sort of poster-boy for leukaemia. Right now I have more important things to do. I have to deal with a pressing schedule of reading, writing, making a new kitten purr and, for the first time in many years, raising my eyes to the sunset.

Thanks, life, it's been a pleasure.