My husband’s amazing, he’d take a bullet for me. But he’d still criticise my driving on the way to the hospital.

Safely back in the US of Trumpton after binge watching a whole box set en-route only to discover that during the last 5 minutes of the last episode I’d already watched the whole goddamn series pre Bambi.

Picked up Maddog from gorgeous sis and bro in law. They still seemed fairly sane and weirdly attached to him. I think it’s called Stockholm Syndrome.

Then the 7 hour drive which takes as long as the Atlantic crossing.

Feeling hellishly homesick. Didn’t want to leave Blighty so planning on escaping this place again ASAFP.

The thought of starting chemo is nauseating. Not in a scary kind of way, more in a ‘For fuck’s sake, more fucking shit to deal with’ kind of way.

I want to get back to normal, plan holidays, drink copious amounts of fizz with my friends, ride a horse when I feel like it, work, go back to the gym and get back into shape.

I look like an old Barbie doll, who prior to getting crushed under Action Man’s tank in the bottom of a toy box 40 years ago, had her tits and hair chopped off by some fiendish demon child.

And whilst dealing with prolonged jet-lag I’ve been lounging around reading Brain Tumour Survivor stories.

This is serious stuff for the next 60 seconds.

Ridiculously there’s around 120 types of brain tumour. This might sound like a lot, because it is.

You almost have to multiply this by the amount of people in the world who have brain tumours to get an understanding of the enormity of the research required.

Because every single person reacts totally differently to every single tumour.

In our gang of 4 Love Honey Survivors 3 of us have the same tumour. But different sizes, different locations, different mutations.

Which means over the long term we’ll all fair differently and react differently to surgery, chemo and radiation.

Apparently around 5 in every 100,000 people in the general population will draw a short straw and end up with a Grade 3 Anaplastic Astrocytoma, so you might as well multiply 5 by a billion trillion… it’s impossible to believe statistics because every single case is different!

Some people carry on for years after treatment no problem, others have a recurrence within weeks or months, some have surgery time and time again and a few don’t make it at all.

Every human being has a cut-off point as to how much they can take… so this got me thinking about my cut-off point.

It’s been easy so far, almost a bizarre novelty walk in the park.

But it’s getting monotonous and the thought of having surgery, radiation and chemo all over again is exasperating. Especially when it’s a waiting game and all down to luck of the draw.

Tick fucking tock.

Right, that rant’s off my newly flat chested chest and I’m signing off… to book a flight to Bermuda.

I need warm ocean and pink sand right now, not toxic chemicals and poison.

Fuck cancer. Chemo can wait another week.

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Being able to respond with sarcasm within seconds of a dumb comment or question is the sign of a healthy brain. I’m not being rude. I’m just getting some much needed exercise.

When diagnosed with incurable goddamn brain cancer on Valentine’s Day** I knew, no matter what, I’d make it to my blue-eyed boy’s leavers ball (that’s graduation to Americans).

**Thx Cupid you dumb dick… You’re supposed to stick the arrow through my heart not my brain.

Anyway…

Not only did I make it to the ball but I drank, ate, socialised, went in the photo booth 32 times, attempted the bumper cars, but M dragged me away hissing ‘Have you forgotten you’ve got a massive fucking hole in your head?’

I enquired to our housemaster, ‘Sir, please be honest, is my kid in your top 10 naughtiest kids ever?’

‘Oh no’ was his reply.

I sighed waiting for something further.

Housemaster transitioned to stern teacher face and added ‘He’s in my top 3!’

YES!!! My blue-eyed boy’s going far in this world.

So my ultimate goal was not to expire prior to midnight. I lasted ‘til 2am… Screw you Cinderella.

I needed to get the most out of the beautiful gown gifted by my gorgeous girls.

We spent the weekend with bestest friends. One of whom travelled from Aus that am, played a round of golf that pm, then drove 200 miles to get pissed with us. That’s friendship!

The evening consisted of delicious lamb, erotic sexual poses against an old rover and Cards Against Humanity.

We laughed, cursed and spewed hilarious profanities. I didn’t inherit my potty mouth… I learned it from my foul-mouthed friends.

My baby sis’ and I visited the cemetery and left flowers for our beloved grandparents. The only adults who showed me unconditional love as a child.

Dinner on a lake and another debouched night followed.

Then a smart party hosted by Lord and Lady Q which aptly ended in a face licking competition. I’ve yet to catch Lord Q, however her Ladyship’s always up for it.

Then to London for 4 more nights of love.

Love arrived from Bermuda aka my gorgeous Guru and Godson laden with the bags of green cow fodder she still tries to cram inside me.

Next, love and lunch from Sussex. The wonderful women who I always wished could be my real mummy and sister.

Dinner on the Thames with dearest friends where I attempted a citizen’s arrest after an enibirated youth pissed in the river.

A 6 hr liquid lunch in Notting hill. Old friends, new friends, crackheads wandering by… One of whom became aggressive/racist/way too opinionated …

So I took matters into my own hands and stood up, lifted my hair and declared…

‘Seriously? You think you’re having a tough time? Look at this… I’ve got goddamn fucking brain cancer and weeks to live (slight exaggeration). Shut the fuck up, sit down and have a drink… Or fuck off.’

You can’t waste time trying to understand idiots. Unless you’re the fuckface whisperer, which I’m not.

An old acquaintance wandered by and stopped to interrogate me on the use of profanities in my blog… I replied ‘Did you know, the clitorous has 8000 nerve endings, but still isn’t as sensitive as some of the cunts I’ve met over the years.’

Whoops 1 less reader. I spend a lot of time realising I should have stopped talking 10 minutes ago.

Later that night something triggered the ‘funny turns’. It’s been two drama-free months then suddenly… bam! Extended periods of deja-vu again.

Rest was ordered or M would have strapped me to the bed (and not in an S&M kind of way). It seems I’ve become a pro at choking on air, falling up stairs and tripping over nothing.

Once up and about I purchased 27 lottery tickets… It’s the only way I’ll get to live in my favourite Holland Park postcode.

A final post-gay-pride supper with two gorgeous men I’d married had they not been gay.

Followed by a farewell lunch with beloved friends and hugs with my blue-eyed boy before heading to Heathrow for the long haul back.

So there you have it. I’m living proof that you really can fuck brain cancer and live a carefree-ish life… Well for 2.5 weeks anyway.

Next week the motherfucking toxic chemo bandwagon will be rolling into town to start the next chapter of thundercunt cancer treatment.

Bring it on bitch.

‘Vaffanculo Bambi!’ My Italian friend taught me this word in 1977.

So the Gods spoke to me!  Well actually they didn’t..  It was a call from the insurance company.

I got the green light to start radiotherapy and I’m scared.  But Up and Atom!  Ahaha. 

So I made a snap decision as to which fuckety fuck fork path to take.

I then hopped a 5-bar-gate and skipped straight through the field that ran down the middle of both paths. 

I might be trespassing but this field seems like the most direct route out of here.

Radiotherapy combined with less aggressive alternatives, ketogenic diet and a handful of supplements for now.

And we’ll cross the chemo bridge of mass destruction in a few weeks time.

I’ve had to weigh up the pros and cons of course.

Radio Pros.. Should kill off Bambi’s baggage and cause appetite loss (goodbye middle age spread). 

Keto Pros..  Goodbye middle age spread.  

Radio Cons.. Possible permanent hair loss.  But one less thing to fuck with in the mornings.

Keto Cons..  Lots of faffing around.

The BIGGEST pro right now though.. I’ve been approved for Proton Beam Therapy. 

Some of you might think  ‘What the fuck’s that?’   That’s what I’d have thought a few weeks ago.

If I’m describing it in car terms (and this is my theory based on extensive googling) Proton is like the Bugatti Super Sport, whereas the other option, Photon, is more like your every day tried and tested, generally reliable family sedan. 

Even though I’ll be wearing my Catwoman mask I feel anxious thinking about the laser beam penetrating my brain. 

I’m also not particularly keen to lose my hair to be honest.  But luckily it’s not turtleneck season so I won’t look like a giant tallywacker.

But what are my hairless head options?

Daenerys Targaryen wig, Hermes silk scarves, beanies, hoodies, paper bags – only ones from Sloane/Bond Street of course. 

Human hair wigs give me the creeps. It would feel like wearing someone else’s knickers.

And will I look more radiant as each radiation day passes? 

I doubt it.. I’m probably going to look like a burnt slice of toast.  That will get the buzzards circling.

Agh why are there no really good side effects to medical treatments or medicine bottles.. Why don’t any of them say WARNING: May cause extreme sexiness.

So the best I can do right now is surround myself with love and fuck cancer!

Luckily the Cheshire Kitty Cat is arriving first-class on a jet plane next week and she’ll be here to purr at me for the first week of radio. 

The Chesire Kitty Cat and Me – 2 years ago today

You should see the shit I DON’T post. Which sits in my folder entitled ‘I find this hilarious, but some uptight fuckers won’t.’

OMFG we watched the BBC2 TV show ‘Surgeons’. They documented a brave young man who had similar brain op to me except this poor boy had to be awake throughout so they could monitor his speech.

I’m so fecking fortunate I was asleep as I don’t own the strength of character to have been conscious while they fiddled with my brain. 

I most likely would have ‘william shatner’d’ my Tuesday pants (although I don’t actually think I was wearing any at the time). 

Later in the show he was given his prognosis. He had a Grade 3 malignant tumour and was informed he couldn’t be cured but his condition would hopefully be controlled. Same as me.

I felt sad for him, as he was only 20. And he will now be feeling just like me..  Like someone is permanently holding a gun to his head. Although luckily, also like me, he did have a very handsome, talented and emphatic surgeon.

But I’m 52 soon and even though I’m sure I’ll still have a full and fun life ahead I don’t have my ‘whole’ life ahead like he should have.  

Obvs there’s things I still need to do..

A. Skinny dip with Brad Pitt
B. Frolic with gorillas in Rwanda
C. See my lil’ boy star in a Tarantino movie

Luckily this lovely chap had an amazingly supportive fam’ and that means so much when you’re in a serious life threatening fucked up situation.

If you found yourself in this position and were on your own with no support it would be a double whammy of really shit luck.

I know I’m incredibly lucky in so many ways. I have so much loving support from so many gorgeous people around the world.

And it turns out.. You never really know a man (or woman) until you get a brain tumour and he/she has to stop everything to take care of you for a while.

Short of having to wipe my ass M has done everything for me over the last few weeks.

It’s not easy physically or emotionally when you suddenly have to care for the person who’s the centre of your world.

Everyone asks M ‘How’s Sarah doing?’ And luckily most people also ask ‘And how are you doing?’

It’s important to not forget the burden of the poor bastard who’s stuck with walking the dog, washing your knickers and loading the dishwasher every day.

After all, how was he to know that a drunken game of spin the bottle and a one night stand in Bermuda 15 years ago was going to end like this!

me and mr incredible


‘You only go around once, but if you play your cards right, once is enough.’ Frank Sinatra

I was just thinking the other day that there has to be some benefit to having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour.

Then it suddenly dawned on me. If you play your cards right you get to join an elite circle.

And so I’m now a member of two exclusive clubs. And they each come with a gold card. One’s called the Cancer Card and the other’s called the Brain Tumour Card.

When you carry these cards you acquire many benefits. They can get you out of almost anything and come with no pre-set spending limit.. It’s just like having a black Amex.

Toting these cards can excuse you from virtually any social obligation you don’t fancy attending. Lunches, dinners, parties, weddings, walking the dog.

All you need to do is flash your card and you get an instant ‘out of jail’. It works for almost anything.

‘Oh I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday/anniversary/christmas card but I’ve got a goddamn fucking brain tumour and I can hardly even recollect my own name or walk in a straight line.’

It’s also great for getting what you want. So when M’s watching sport or some monotonous long-winded-shit history program on the television and I come into the room and say ‘Can we watch something else?’ His response is ’But I’m watching this!’  Then I retaliate with ‘But I’ve got brain cancer!’ Works like a dream every time.

Or when another package lands on the porch from The Outnet or Lulu Lemon I get ‘Don’t you have enough stuff?  Do you really need more?’ I can answer this with ‘Why would you say that? Are you suggesting I might die soon?’

So to anyone who’s eligible for these ‘members only’ cards, enjoy it’s easy access, instant approval and great benefits!

No credit history?
No job?
No photo ID?
No problem!

Don’t leave home without it!

Footnote: There are many ways to play your cards.. I have particularly fond memories of a game of strip poker in Bermuda circa 1994. My guru and me were shrewd enough to each put on 12 pairs of knickers before the game began.

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.  

Friends are like boobs.. You get big ones, you get small ones, you get real ones, you get fake ones.

One of my bestie’s from Bermuda is here to stay for the weekend.  Yay.

It’s not a secret that we fell out a few years ago.

Then I heard she had cancer and was so upset.. I got in touch.

We made up and we made a plan.

She was going to Philadelphia to have her breasts removed so I planned to go visit her.

We hadn’t seen each other in four years and I wasn’t sure what to expect. She’d already been through chemo and surgery by the time we reached her.

I was apprehensive and had to take a deep breath before entering the room.

But there was my frail little friend sitting in a monstrous blue pleather chair with no boobs, no hair on her head and with an uncanny resemblance to Mr Magoo.. but prettier.

We hugged and cried and hugged and cried and then I said ‘We need to break you out if here’.   Astonished, she replied ‘I CAN’T go out.. I CAN’T walk and I DON’T have a wheelchair.’ 

Not put off by the plethora of tubes poking from her vest.. (she did look like a suicide bomber) I answered ‘Nonsense’ and promptly turned to M and asked ‘Please find the nearest hospital and acquire a wheelchair.’

So off M and husband went to pilfer some wheels. They returned an hour later with a ‘borrowed’ hospital issue chariot.

I wrapped my friend in blankets and off we went to pound the streets of Philadelphia. It’s handy having someone in a wheelie when you’re in Zara.. You can pile clothes on them while making crucial decisions.

Also we discovered it’s easier getting a table in a busy restaurant when you have a bald headed person who isn’t too proud to play the cancer card.

At some point we accidentally joined a gay pride parade and it was entertaining spinning her around to the music with lots of colourful, friendly people filling the air with love and positivity.. and the sweet sweet smell of marijuana.

The only curious thing about the weekend were the strangers who felt it appropriate to randomly stop us and pat my friend on her bald little head and say ‘God bless you.’

Well firstly it was obvious she wasn’t a Labrador and secondly.. How did they know she wasn’t a goddamn atheist!

Now it’s my turn to be the patient and she’s flown across the ocean for me. Usually our weekends are consumed with vast quantities of alcohol but this weekend we’ll have to make do with vast qualities of mutual love and Netflix.

Incidentally, many years ago she represented her country in the Miss Universe pageant. She was beautiful then but she’s even more beautiful now.  She hates it when I tell people this.