"Diagnosed with tumor". I repeated in my mind, for several times: "tumor, tumor, tumor". It sounded like hell. I was a passenger on the damned Titanic and I had no chances to get away: I had hit the iceberg, the ship was swallowing water like a thirsty giant and the few wooden boats were already filled with children, women, and rich guys who had bribed the sailors. I was standing by the orchestra playing with frenzy "Nearer, My God, to Thee" and I was preparing to become food for the aquatic fauna. I didn't have Kate Winslet with me, to give me her life vest or at least hold my hand, but I was comforting myself with the thought that, a century from then, I would be part of the group which would be awarded an Oscar for the best dramatic interpretation. "I am, still, only 37, isn't it too early?" I asked the doctor and I could not take my eyes off the blue bow-tie with purple dots he was wearing on top of his shirt that had the colour of a glass of Absolut Blue Souvenir. He had an aristocratic air. A Versace of neurology. It was comforting, though, to know I had received the news from someone who had style and class. The foot blow in your balls feels different if it comes from a Tanino Crisci fine leather shoe than from some dirty down at heel boots, don't you think?