Bad luck to be ill in the too-much-information age

IT was one of those “where were you when?” moments.

When the news was being divulged, I was having hospital physio for my recent fall on the ice.

I only found out when I got home and a shocked Mrs R said “the King has cancer! Really!” All sorts of outcomes spring to mind, but he is of my generation (five years younger) so first and foremost is a fellow-feeling.

I may not be the greatest fan of the monarchy but I sincerely hope that he recovers fully.

Few people of my age have not been touched by cancer. Close family and friends have lived through it, and died of it. It is the scourge of modern life.

The King has asked his people not to speculate about the nature of his illness. I fear that is a bootless quest.

Spurred on by the grotesque appetite of so-called social media, this is an age of expectation, of entitlement to be told.

Everything, from sexual peccadilloes to life-threatening illnesses.

I grew up in a different age, when the King was seen rarely, and then only on Pathe News in the cinema or heard in the annual Christmas broadcast.

We didn’t know about George VI’s lung cancer, which killed him tragically young. He may not have known himself. We were none the worse off for that, in my view.

Eventually, the green-eyed monster of must-know will have to be fed with answers. What cancer? How dangerous? What treatment?

Sickness is hard enough to bear, without being ill in public. The King has gone far enough – probably too far, despite his best intentions – with disclosure. Whatever others want, I can wait for the outcome.