I got called ‘pretty’ today. Well actually it was ‘pretty annoying’ but I only focus on the positive these days.

I really wasn’t ready for half the shit I’ve been through lately but clearly thought I was built for it.   

Then I got to week 5 of radiation, and I really wanted to be taken out… Not on a date…  But by a sniper.

This feeling of being fucked 22 hours a day is tricky to elucidate. But it’s how I imagine it would feel if you took a massive hit of heroin, but didn’t get the rush.

However, enough self-pity. I have a fairytale to tell.

So most Cinderella stories only have one fairy godmother. But I have FOUR.

And there are no evil motherfuckers involved in this tale. 

Just like Cinderella, I was having a shit day, although not on my knees scrubbing the floor…  More like on my knees with my head down the loo.

One of my gorgeous besties happened to call. Let’s call her Kim. 

She probably regretted phoning after my 3rd round of tears and overly descriptive info on the fucked up fucking side effects of radio.

But then I got tired of sobbing and we chatted about my trip home and the ball I’m attending.  I fretted that I had no idea what to wear to this soiree.

It’s not that I have nothing to wear.  But I’m different now. 

Pre Bambi I’d love an excuse to wear skin-tight gold sequins or any snug style of evening gown that involved spray tans, fuck me heels and backless, strapless, pushy-up sticky wings to perk my tits up.

But most women know that wearing this paraphernalia isn’t painless, it’s goddamn donkeywork.

I don’t have the energy for this shit at the moment. I doubt I could even knock the skin off a rice pudding right now.

So I sent Kim images of easy-to-wear dresses for critique.  But soon realized they’re ‘so not me’ and I just couldn’t bear the thought of looking like fuddy-duddy fanny. 

Then I came across an angelic goddamn fucking expensive beautiful easier-to-wear gown and thought ‘Hmm I could wear that and still feel fabulous in it’.

I shared it with Kim and she agreed it was heavenly.

At this point I needed the khazi again so said I’d call back later.

I promptly went off to ‘see a man about a horse’, returned, checked my phone, and there it was.

An email from the dress company we’d just been looking at telling me my order was on its way.

Umm, well I know my brain is slightly fucked right now but no one told me that buying fancy gowns and then forgetting I’d bought them was a side effect. 

The phone rang.  It was Kim again.

Look,’ she said ‘We wanted this to be a surprise, but I knew you’d buy it once you got off the porcelain bus, so I had a quick chat with Kourtney, Khloe and Kylie and we wanted to do this for you. We bought you the dress!’  

For a split nano second I was vexed, then I cried, then she cried, then we both cried, then we laughed and I told her a zillion times how much I’m in love with her and my other fairy godmothers for doing such a gorgeous thing for me.  

(Well I’d be in love them anyway, whether they’d bought me a dress or not.)  

I’m still totally overwhelmed and I am so blessed to have these breathtakingly extraordinary babes in my life.

All I need now is a crystal carriage, 8 Arabian ponies, some hot coachmen and a Prince Charming.

Oh no wait, I’ve already got the last one. M.

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Karmasutra: When life fucks you in all kinds of creative ways.

I’ve realized something curious lately.  I find it relatively painless to say I have a brain tumour but virtually impossible to say I have cancer.  Why is that?

Cancer is such an unpleasant word.

I’m not saying ‘brain tumour’ sounds poetic or alluring. But telling someone you have a brain tumour is a little like declaring you have crabs or chlamydia.

The shock value is mildly entertaining due to the gulps and gasps and the lack of clichés available. 

Whereas with the word cancer there are many vexing metaphors.

 For example:

‘Oh poor you, you have a long bumpy journey ahead of you!’

Or

‘Oh poor you, you need to be a warrior and fight this battle!’

These violence and journey clichés are questionable to me.   

After all, this isn’t Game of Thrones. 

What if you knew your cancer was terminal yet everyone’s telling you  ‘Be a warrior, be a fighter’…   Surely when you’re teetering on the edge of your own existence you’d feel you’ve failed because you know for sure you’re losing the mother-fucking stupid goddamn battle.

On the upside of brain tumours… Most people know fuck all about them so you don’t get so many clichés.

It’s especially advantageous to spell out exactly what tumour you have as many have long Latin sounding names and this adds to the theatrics of the moment.  

Technically mine’s not called Bambi, her real name is Anaplastic Astrocytoma, and she’s a rare one, it’s guesswork even for the experts.  

But one thing I know for sure…   Shoving 2 sticks of unsalted butter and a pickled onion up my ass will not cure me.

Obviously this is just my personal view and I’m sure there are some out there who find my taxonomy objectionable. 

But that’s ok because ‘Ego irrumabo non facio.’ 

(That’s pidgin Latin for ‘I don’t give a fuck’.)

In other news I’m counting the days until I get a month’s reprieve between radio and chemo.  

I’m going to board a jet plane and head home to Blighty for 3 weeks. Against some of my doctors’ recommendations but again… ‘Ego irrumabo non facio’ as my body requires M&S food, country walks, country pubs, London and the Sunday papers. 

Oh and there’s quite a few faces Catwoman is desperate to lick. 

MY HUSBAND CALLS ME CRAZY… BUT HE WAS THE ONE WHO MARRIED ME!