People ask me how I find things to write about. I hope readers will read the line above this concerning items of community gossip. I then hope people will send me their thoughts of what is going on – or not going on – in their areas.

Forthcoming events may find space on this page but there are still many groups who, I know, produce newsletters for their area but don't send a copy to me – please make sure I'm on your list.

Sometimes something to write about comes to me – sometimes quite unexpectedly, as on Monday, 24 February.

I had a face-to-face appointment with my oncologist at the Royal Surrey Hospital (RSH) in Guildford. My eldest daughter took me – my middle daughter being with my youngest in the Netherlands where she was undergoing hospital treatment – much better now, thank you.

Back to the visit to the RSH. My daughter found a way of escaping the various road closures and ensuing traffic jams which surround Woking these days and, via Brookwood, got us to RSH exactly on time.

New readers should start here – I have successfully come through a course of chemotherapy and have been on a further course of immunotherapy, which I could very conveniently receive at a mobile unit in Morrison's car park.

However, my family had noticed that all did not seem to be going as expected. I had a couple of what Granny would call “a bit of a turn”.

Now when you go for a face to face it is suggested you make sure to bring up any concerns you may have. And we did.

If you read the small print on various medications you will see the usual dire warnings that one in a million may, possibly, perhaps, conceivably, suffer from some of the following side effects.

Oh dear, I seemed to be suffering from them all which, unsurprisingly, worried the oncologist, so with a bit of umming and aahing and consulting I was put in for various tests.

The immunotherapy had been having a negative effect on my lungs, leading to a surprising reading that I must be a heavy smoker. I do not smoke. This was 2pm on Monday; I left RSH on the evening of Saturday, 1 March loaded with a list of medications I should no longer be taking and a further list of medications which I should.

Thank goodness for my daughters who went through the lists and sorted what was to be taken and when, once more pondering the waste of unused medication which if returned to the pharmacy will go – where?

I was to go to Clandon Ward. Christian, who had been performing various tests on me, got me onto a hospital bed and admitted he did not know where Clandon Ward was.

Porter Richard did and I was wheeled away to said ward. Not without some little trepidation for I had recently – via The Crown quiz – learnt a thing or two about Clandon.

I was not, therefore, completely taken aback by a low grumbling sound. I thought about this for a good while, and then thought it could be an industrial washing machine somewhere in the bowels of the hospital. Or was it the Dragon of West Clandon?

Legend has it that back in the 16th century villagers were plagued by a dragon which blocked the main road . It is said that a soldier, condemned as a deserter, agreed to fight the dragon in return for clemency.

Now what I like about these legends is the thought that they are somehow based on at least a grain of truth. Unless you live in China or Wales you are unlikely to know what a real dragon looks like. Way back they were sometimes referred to as serpents, or even great worms.

The soldier was, apparently, accompanied by his dog. I have not found any mention of the size of this dog, which makes it all the more difficult to picture the ensuing battle which, of course, the soldier – and his dog – won.

The story is kept alive by volunteers who, to celebrate the Queen's Silver Jubilee, carved the shape of the dragon into the slope of the A246.

I am told this is best viewed from the road itself, which may be undoing the brave soldier's work for although he cleared the road of dragons, I can envisage the road will be slow going as drivers slow to try to see the carving cut into the slope just west of the crossroads with the West Clandon-Newlands Corner road.

Going to and from X-ray, CTE, and so forth was simple – wheeled there on my bed by a porter and directly into the treatment room. Then out and wait for a porter to take me back to Clandon.

At one time my bed was parked directly opposite a clock, so I could see exactly how long I had to wait for a porter to take me back to the ward: exactly half an hour. Well, I wasn't going anywhere, but I had no reading matter with me and, for those who know me, they will realise that was a considerable hardship.

The word “porter” may conjure up different images. Perhaps Livingstone – other explorers were around – followed by a procession of porters bearing all the necessities for a Scotsman hacking his way through unknown yet-to-be-mapped areas.

Or perhaps the more modern porters, such as those at the old Billingsgate Fish Market, wearing specialised hats to carry their wares.

Transport for London has, from time to time, “refreshed” the uniforms for their railway staff . There was one rather smart navy and red livery which was condemned by passengers as looking like something from a German army surplus store.

Perhaps the best remembered – and loved – porter is Bernard Cribbens’ Albert Perks in the film of The Railway Children.

I asked how many porters there were at RSH. Medics reply “not enough” but one porter told me there were about 20 to serve the whole hospital. I asked whether, in similar fashion to London's black cab drivers, they had to do some sort of Knowledge to help them find their way along the labyrinthine corridors with doorways scarcely wide enough for a hospital bed.

Evidently there is some sort of method – if you can get your head around it – and after a week or so you should be able to take patients to where they should be, and back again.

I was lucky that daughters and son-in-law could, and did, visit. I was lent a laptop that I might write this page but in true technophobe style, I managed to delete what I had written but son-in-law managed to retrieve it and send it to me . How very lucky I am to have family!

One of the problems about hospital life is the timings. To be told in the evening, after the last blood pressure and pills have been dealt with, that they will be back at 2am or even 3am to do it all over again had me on the alert – like waiting for someone upstairs to drop the second boot.

On one occasion I became anxious that they had forgotten me: there had been a couple of minor alerts on the ward which had roused me and I could no longer see the clock.

So worried was I that I took my torch but, being partly asleep, could not read my watch. I tried to settle down but was now certain I had been missed. Should I press my alarm?

I must have dozed for, sure enough, at 2am there was the gentle “Ann” and automatically my arm went out for the pressure bandage and my wrist turned so they could check the identity bracelet that I was me and then it was over land back to sleep – or try to go back to sleep.

Breakfast seems too close to lunch and lunch too close to supper. I do recommend the fish in parsley sauce but two helpings rather too close together can be a bit too much.

Yes, I shall be back here again soon: I have had the letter summoning me to more chats. They are such lovely smiley people – and the hot chocolate is delicious.

When the death of Robin Hoyle was first announced at the end of January you could probably hear the gasp of disbelief well beyond Horsell and right across the borough.

He was not just mighty in Horsell – in many ways – but way beyond the village. It is not surprising that he was the Mayor's Choice for Eminent Citizen in 2017.

He was a veteran car enthusiast and was known for his Nissan Figaro – “too small for me but I love to drive around with the roof down”.

One of the interesting facts brought out in a brief interview with Robin some years back is that his wife, Amanda, is his step-sister. His father married his wife's mother a couple of years before he and Amanda tied the knot.

He will be sorely missed: many had asked me why I had not written of his death but I was waiting for any further news about this wonderful man to emerge.

And when it does there will be an even greater outpouring of love and thankfulness that we knew such a man.