‘You are what you eat.’ Are you fuck! When did I eat a brain tumour?

An old friend came to visit. When we were young I spent much time correcting her linguistics.

‘Are you feeling fat-e-guude?’ She enquired not long after arrival.

‘What the fuck’s fat-e-guude?’ I replied.

‘You know, fat-e-guude’ she said again.

‘Oh for fucks sake – you mean fatigued?’

The next day we cycled to the beach.

‘Wow, what a beautiful lake!’ she exclaimed after spotting a vast expanse of water.

Incredulously, I responded ‘Are you insane? That’s the goddamn fucking Atlantic Ocean.’

Later in the week M and I were chatting about his old uni alumni.

‘What’s an alumni?’ My friend enquired as she entered the room.

I glanced at M and then turned to my friend and replied

‘It’s what you call a support group for people with perverse sexual fetishes.’

‘Omg! Really? What type of fetishes?’ She squealed.

‘Mostly sexual.’ I pointed out again.

At this point M couldn’t bear my jesting and told my friend what an alumni really is. Killjoy!

She’s been a great distraction from Bambi’s fuckery and doesn’t complain when I roll out of bed at noon and crawl back in at sundown.

I love this whacky beautiful babe so much but sadly she’s now departed and I’m back on the evil vomituous chemo.

I fucking hate this poison and as each day passes I feel like Captain Blackbeard’s mutinous deckhand being forced to walk the plank.

After a while I find myself washed up on a desert island. That island being my bed. And while I’m castaway I have plenty of time to contemplate.

This afternoon I woke from a 6 hour nap after dreaming about the epitaph I’d like inscribed on my tombstone…

‘She died doing what she loved, swearing like a sailor.’

My fabulous friend posing for the centre-fold!

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‘Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth. They say in heaven, love comes first. We’ll make heaven a place on Earth. Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth.’ I think only of Bermuda when I hear this song.’

WARNING: Virtually no cursing in this post. Just love and a few mildly offensive images.

One of my Blighty Besties arrived on a jet plane. We’re like a contradictory version of Ab Fab’s Patsy and Eddie. I’m sober Patsy and she’s skinny Eddie.

We generally entertain ourselves by conversing with random strangers… And we have no preference.

Tuesday consisted of:

Meeting a handsome retired Colombian drug baron and his adorable wife in the club pool.

When they informed us they’d been married 59 years I enquired  ‘So what’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?’

‘It’s our 3 week anal vacation to Bermuda.’ He divulged in his sexy Spanish accent.

Admirable at his age and she deserves a medal… Or a very large Colombian emerald for being such a trooper.

We then moved on to a bewilderingly voluminous cackle of women from Massachusetts (also in pool soup).

They told us they were here with their husbands for a fun weekend getaway.

That’s lady-like code for ‘fucked up debauched gang bang’

Our final encounter consisted of a flamboyant Belgium 3some…  And as delicious looking as the chocolate variety. Not only did their outfits coordinate exquisitely but their names… Aart, Abe and Abel were equally magnificent.

The following day, after my morning ritual of an hour long float, I discovered a savvy skill I didn’t know I had.

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Turns out I’m an aficionado diving guru. Eddie went from being the bellyflop beaver to the swan dive diva in a matter of hours thanks to my expert instruction. And a little help from a 5 and 8 year old.

Dinner by the harbour followed, with views of a dozen floating gin palaces.

I taunted Eddie into acquiring us an invite onboard. A tricky task at best seeing as we’re no longer sexy young kitties.

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However, she did come back with the offer of a tour aboard an antiquated fishing vessel named The Happy Hooker.

The next day was spent on the ocean. Kayaking the idealic peaceful islands with the occasional high pitched sequel when one of us spotted a turtle popping it’s cute head up for air.

Friday happy hour ended at 1am. We danced, sang, snogged one another and fought over a young sexy beast who also happened to be a superb dancer. Apparently when a guy grinds his knee into your vagina it’s called ‘salsa’.

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The evening ended with me spreading my legs…. to the stars.

My lack of filter came in handy the next morning when I picked a fight with a bunch of builders after witnessing them throw fag butts into the ocean.

Denial was their first attempt at defence so I added artistic licence to my response.

‘Look not only do I have incurable brain cancer but I have 8 year old triplet boys who swim in this stretch every morning and if they choke on your butts I’ll sue YOUR ignorant butts until you’re incontinent!’

Seemed to do the trick so we went for a smug dip.

Our final night with dearest friends listening to Yellow Man, sitting on the white-washed roof, drinking champagne and watching the perfect sunset.

This last 10 days have been the best tonic since that cunning little cunt Bambi entered my world 5 months ago.

The love I feel from my beautiful friends and the energy I receive from this heaven on Earth is maybe the cure for my cancer.

‘In this world we’re just beginning.  To understand the miracle of living.  Baby, I was afraid before. But I’m not afraid anymore.’

Practice what you preach .. or fuck off.

So my beautiful Guru has been here for a few delightful diverting days. 

We’ve done fuck all apart from lounge around in our pjs emulating lazy sexual positions and having really deep and meaningful chats.  

On her first night on the way up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire (dog in tow):

Guru:

‘I hope you’re taking one of your cats to bed  too…  They’re proven to cure brain cancer if you let them sleep on your head.’

Me:

‘For fucks sake.’

Next day…

Guru:

‘I think we should blow that candle out right now…   You’ve breathed in enough toxic paraffin for one night. You need to buy soy candles in future.’

Me: 

‘Fuck off.  My doctor said I can drink neat paraffin if I feel like it.’

An hour later…

Guru:

‘Right, here’s what you need to do, throw away your laundry detergent and replace it with baking soda and vinegar. Next throw away your dryer sheets and make your own with rags and lavender oil. All that Estee Lauder skincare has to go in the bin and put nothing on your face except what you can eat. Coconut oil all the way baby.’

Me:

‘Fuck off… I’d rather die!’

She’s also into juicing lots of green shit and making swamp water and she’s an advocate of eating all kinds of cancer fighting crap I’ve never even heard of. 

Me trying to join in…

Some people might say… You haven’t lived until you’ve shit yourself at least once…  And I’d die for this woman… But I’m not drinking that pig-pen juice.

Then right before bed the next night, when I went to make my bedtime cup of builders tea I was bombarded with a matronly…

Guru:

‘This is what you need to drink at bedtime… You need to drink golden milk… It’s turmeric, coconut milk, red hot chilli peppers and something else I can’t remember.’

Me:

‘Will you just shut the fuck up!’

I know I need all of Bambi’s baggage dispensed from my brain and there’s various patterns of thought on this. 

Go down the hardcore toxic chemical route of radio and chemo and end up sticking to the fridge every time I walk past it.

Or take the gentle holistic route and hope that kale and apricot kernels will do the trick.  

My Guru is educating me… Or at least trying to… In the more natural healing kind of way… And I definitely will be taking some of it on board.

I particularly like the hairy coconut balls she makes. 

And she gives a bloody good sexy coconut oil massage while she’s hand feeding me the hairy balls. 

If anyone wants her secret recipe for these delectable cancer cures (or a coconut Bermudian massage) just send me a cheque for 999999 thousand tax-free Bermuda dollars and I’ll happily forward you her number.  

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this girl with ALL MY HEART. And as the old saying goes… ‘Friend’s are like condons – they protect you when things get hard.’

PS. My gorgeous baby boy and my Ab Fab bestie from Chelsea are arriving on another jet plane tonight and I’m dying for a dose of both of them.