It was one of those calls you never forget. My uncle John, my mother’s eldest brother and de facto head of our family, was on the phone trying to tell me he had prostate cancer. At that moment, in the winter of 2006, we did not yet fully appreciate the seriousness of his illness, but it soon became apparent he was incredibly unwell. He died within a year, at the age of 64.

Shortly after John’s diagnosis his two younger brothers were tested for prostate cancer, and also found to be suffering from the disease. Alan survived for a decade, but died early last year, just a few weeks after his 59th birthday, following a short battle with oesophageal cancer. Bill, the middle son, recovered too, but had a kidney removed last month after developing a malignant tumour there.

It has become an article of faith in our family that we are afflicted with a hereditary curse. The belief hardened after we learnt there was a clear genetic link between prostate cancer and the ovarian cancer that killed my mother in 1984, nine months after I was born, when she was just 35.