When Nigel Buxton was 91, he went to live with his son, Adam. For both men, it was uncharted emotional territory
In February 2015, I was in my dressing room at Pinewood Studios, about to shoot what turned out to be another failed television pilot. I now have so many of these to my name that I’ve been awarded a Failed TV Pilot’s Licence. This allows me to board any project and cruise at a low altitude, nearly breaking through the clouds before plunging back down to earth and crashing underwhelmingly.
I was taking selfies that made me look handsome when my sister called and said she’d just accompanied our dad to a meeting with the doctor. He’d been told he had mesothelioma, cancer of the lining of the lung. “Could be worse,” I thought. How important is a bit of lung lining? After all, if you have a favourite jacket and the lining gets knackered, you can still wear that jacket, right? According to the doctor, lungs and jackets aren’t as similar as you might think, and Dad was given three to 12 months to live. He was 91, well into bonus time but, still, it’s not what anyone wants to hear.
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