I’d never get away with murder. My hair just gets everyfuckingwhere.

So after 7 weeks of radio my mind’s been blown, Catwoman’s hung up her whiskers and I deserve a medal for not stabbing anyone with a fork. 

No more fuckerty-fuck brain fucking for me. 

Ecstatic it’s over, but glum to say bye-bye to the gorgeous proton team.

The last days were exceptionally vile.  I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t tell which end needed the loo.

It felt like bad morning sickness. But I don’t believe in immaculate conception and my name’s not Mary so I know I’m not up the duff.

At one point I considered throwing myself out the bedroom window but it was raining and I didn’t want to die wet. 

Whilst I was Catwoman for 660 mins (33 sessions) and screwed to a table unable to move or speak I had plenty of time to contemplate.

I realised I’m now one of those ‘living proof’ types that demonstrates ‘anyone’s world can turn on a dime.’

For fucks sake, in January I was swimming in the ocean with a pod of frisky dolphins.

I’ve been enlightened and this isn’t the ‘canned’ bullshit kind of enlightenment.   This is real life shit.

When you have an annoyingly incurable thunder-cunt disease the best thing to do is look at the positives.   

You can always find some. 

Mine… 

Weight loss… Oh come on… I see you rolling your eyes… But seriously who wouldn’t love to shed their roly-poly love handles.

Presents… It’s like Christmas… Silk scarves, hampers, flowers, knickers, vintage fizz, silk pillowcases, huge industrial vacuum cleaner juice making machines and even balloons.

Friends…  Calling and texting daily to perk me up and make me laugh.

Visitors… OMFG this is the best. Loved ones staying and cooking and chauffeuring and walking mad-dog and making me laugh. It’s been the best tonic.

Haters… This has been a great way to filter out the butt-munching cunts that never gave a shit…  Luckily there’s not many. They think they’re champagne in a crystal glass but all they really are is luke warm piss in a plastic cup. At the end of the day they’ve lost me and I’ve simply lost time. 

Perspective… I had it all wrong before. I gave too much of a shit about irrelevant superficial bollocks. 

Poison… I gave up sugar as apparently it feeds cancer. It also appears to feed cellulite because mine’s almost gone. If that’s not a fucking result I don’t know what is.

Filter…  I don’t have one and fuck me it’s liberating.

The biggest one of all is Love… Love really is the answer. It gives you strength, hope, comfort and laughter. It’s the remedy for all aliments. And as Mr. Bryan Ferry sung ‘Love is the drug.’ He was spot on.

And true love doesn’t care what you look like. M loves me for who I am. He doesn’t care if I have half a head of hair and look half dead half the time. He loves me for what’s inside (and the English roasts I make him). He’s not anguished by my outside appearance. He isn’t just my rock he’s my world and I couldn’t have made it this far without him to drag me (by what hair I have left) through it.

So if there’s anyone out there wading through shit right now and needs help finding some positives…  Just buy a shovel and start digging ‘til you find it. 

Don’t fuck it up… dig it up!

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If life demands that you occasionally walk through hell… Then walk as if you own the goddamn place.

PART ONE

I went to a party… Uh-huh that’s right. 

I enticed the dog from my person with promises of treats. He still couldn’t assimilate why I’d possibly get out of bed at four in the afternoon. 

I crawled from my comfy duvet and pjs. Showered and considered shaving my pits, then decided ‘Fuck it, not like I’m wearing a strapless gown and I don’t have the energy to wave my arms in the air.’

I put on a real bra and not a sports vest. Covered my ever-growing baldness with a headscarf. Dressed in proper grown-up clothes (not sweats) and painstakingly applied a slathering of mascara and lipstick. 

I hardly recognised myself… It’s been so long since I’ve made any kind of effort to look remotely glamorous. Poor long suffering M. 

We then started our trek to the party venue… 

We strolled to the bottom of the garden, scrambled through various prickly bushes and ta-dah we’d arrived. 

In a dreamy gay pride garden soirée which happened to be playing my type of 80s feel good tunes Dépêche Mode, Erasure etc.

Annoyingly all the hot guys were gay… Actually they were all hot… Probs because they were all gay. Why is it all the hot ones always are?  Hope I come back as a gay man.

Our gorgeous host greeted us with cocktails and we partied hard… For 45 minutes! 

Now usually M’s the last man standing at a party… It’s his thing. 

So when I tugged his arm, looked up at him like a lost 5 year old and said ‘I need to go home now‘ I was slightly taken aback when he said ‘Ok.’

This guy’s a real diamond geezer… Of the ‘Cullinan’ kind.

We got home and I promptly passed out for the next 15 hours. 

I might not be gay… But I’m proud. Proud I got my butt up and out for the first time in 3 months!

PART TWO

Furthermore the 15 hours sleep didn’t pass without enlightenment. 

It turns out that when we die we don’t actually go to heaven or to hell.

Au contraire… we go to a tent. 

I know this because I died (in my dream) and found myself in a posh festival yurt wearing a voluminous pink tu-tu. I could hear David Bowie performing Jean Genie on the main stage. 

There was a genie in the yurt, he wasn’t in a lamp, he was floating on a magic carpet. He curled his index finger, with long pointy nail, in a come hither way and whispered ‘Honey, sit over here and rub this.’

So I did. 

He then boomed ‘Make a wish little girl. Whatever you wish is my command.’

I asked ‘May I have my hair back please?’

His response ‘No can do… But you can have dinner with 7 dead people!’ 

Hmm this was tricky but I chose Elvis, my amazing grandparents, Bob Marley, Aristotle, Salvador Dali and Brad Pitt.  And not just because I figured they’d have a plethora of drugs between them.

The genie responded ‘You can’t have Brad, he’s not dead.’

So, I very sweetly enquired ‘Oh, umm well can’t you just make him dead? I do have a brain tumour after all.’

Then I woke up. 

I must stop watching Killing Eve. 

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.

Technically I’m a brain cancer virgin but I feel like I’ve been on the game forever.

I met with the radiology team and I’m now confident I could pass my O-Level physics.  I failed first time.

Proton or Photon..  I had no idea what either was. I know what a futon is but apparently it’s not related.

Proton is better than Photon I know that much. And I know this because doc drew lovely descriptive pics for me.  Proton is aimed at just the cancer and has no exit point. Photon, not so tempting as needs an exit..  It also fries more healthy cells.  I can’t afford to lose more precious brain cells!  The downside to Proton is possible permanent hair loss..  But what would I prefer..  Hair or brain cells?  It’s a no brainer.   (No pun intended.)   I may be trending the comb-over. 

So the obstacle is the minefield of negotiating with US insurance companies..  They don’t like to fork out for Proton but my fabulous docs assured me they’d fight it.  If it doesn’t happen then Photon it is..  That, or I could just stick my head in the microwave for a few minutes every day.

They also told me I’d need to be fitted with a special kind of mask.  I requested the Spiderman kind… they said they’d consider it.

Every doc I’ve met post surgery has congratulated me on how well I look.  And it definitely wasn’t a chat-up line. 

I don’t look sick, but inside my head is in trauma. So a life lesson I’ve learnt recently..  We seriously have no idea what kind of awful fucked up shit people are dealing with in their private life’s..  So we just need to be kind..  Simple! 

Oh and a final observation for today..  People who refer to cancer as a ‘journey’ need to shut the fuck up.  Unless you plan on taking me on a five star first class vacation to the Maldives please don’t say it.


‘A naked woman in heels is a beautiful thing. A naked man in shoes looks like a fool.’ Christian Louboutin

Lately my life’s become a set of fucked up life changing events separated by intermittent snacks and naps. 

Hence a little snack I had yesterday ended up going a bit Pete Tong.

After devouring a bountiful amount of fine Swiss chocolate I retired upstairs for a nap.  

It’s true that I’ve always been a person who wants to do a lot of stuff most of the time..  

But lately I find myself trapped in the body of a person who wants to do mostly fuck all most of the time.   

So I was surprised when en-route to my bed I randomly had the fancy to re-organise my shoe closet.

Perched on the floor whilst dispensing unwanted footwear to charity bag..  That old familiar déjà vu feeling wafted over me..  

Memories of dancing shoes, workout shoes, party shoes, fuck-me shoes.. there’s stacks of memories in shoes.  

And then it happened.. I experienced a pre-surgery-parallel-universe-out-of-this-goddamned-world seizure.  

Proof that I’m a hardcore hypochondriac..   And never do anything half ass. I also didn’t have any canine rectal valium at hand.

An urgent call was made to my gorgeous angel friend (aka my surgeon’s PA). 

She expedited hospital action where a nice man with a shiny beard rolled me into the CT for a swift scan. 

Next up.. Blood works and ouch.. Turns out it was Nurse Nancy’s first day and I was her first ever patient but luckily she had some deliciously distracting tattoos.

Home to await results. 

CT confirmed brain’s looking dope* post Bambi and my blood’s made of sterling stuff.   

*I’m reaching out to younger audience hence use of this new word preferred by teenagers to express excellence.

So there’s a little hiccup in the remedying of my ailment ..  My cocktails require spicing up.. And I need to abstain from all caffeine and find a new vice!  

Luckily one of my favourite vices is flying in on a jet plane in a few days time. 

If you’ve never seen a pair of toy poodles chatting to each other in French – you’ve never dropped acid.

Honey go put the kettle on – this one’s going to take a while.

Today felt like a day at the Academy Awards.

The results were in.   And waiting for results is a bit like waiting to find out whether you’ve won an Oscar or not.

I even decided to get proper dressed for the big event.  Gigantic pants and baggy sweats really weren’t going to cut it today.   It felt good slathering myself in Tom Ford and slipping into a little silk cami.  

The drive west was smooth. M has had to revise his driving style from deranged bedlamite to plain-sailing slow-lane chauffer in order to cater to my need for seamless gear changing due to wobbly brain issue.

Arriving at my doctor’s office we were escorted into a private room to await the entrance of the chief.

Time for a quick selfie in big examination chair to share on WhatsApp group with my girl gang back home.

Soon my two new favourite people in the whole wide world entered and we got down to business. 

Results were dispensed and I was given the all-inclusive synopsis of the invader of my synapses AKA Bambi.  

It had been concluded that she was a rarity who had mutated from a few pretty pink star shaped cells. 

I guess at the end of the day – if you’re going to get a brain tumour – what more could a girl ask for than a limited edition, sparkly one.

Then we got back to the important matters of English literature.. My brain surgeon is a literary treasure trove and the fact that he quoted Tolkien and my blog in the same sentence.. Made me feel extra special.

The ride home was fairly benign until suddenly an enormous real life Bambi ran into the road. Oh dear!! M slammed the brakes.  How paradoxical..  I’d never want to annihilate a pukka Bambi.

So next up is a spicy little cocktail of radio and chemo.  I have no idea what this entails.  Is it comparable to mixing acid and ecstasy – I can draw on a past experience for that one.

Finished off the day with my love, my friend, the biggest plate of sushi and the teeniest glass of fizz.

I felt so giddy with optimism that when the UPS man arrived with a package I took it from him and said ‘Thanks, love you. Bye.’

‘We’re only here for a little while, and you’ve got to have some fun, right?’ Burt Reynolds said it!

After this little blip in my tiny role on Earth.. I’ll never be afraid of any fucking thing ever ever again.. Apart from if I have to fly economy class of course. 

I don’t think I’m even timorous about dying anymore.  Not that I plan on expiring any time soon.  

And as a wannabe royal Sikh and ardent lover of dhal..  Mainly because some of my most special besties are Beautiful Sikh Dhal Goddesses..  I have a philosophical curiosity about the subject of reincarnation. 

I’ve been studying Reggie (aka Mr Fluffy) intently this week whilst he’s been dogging on my bed lap. 

You see, I’m convinced he’s the reincarnation of Burt Reynolds .. And the numbers add up.

Burt passed September 2018 and Reggie arrived November 2018.   Just enough time for everyone to re-group and recharge their batteries. 

Reggie definitely has Burt’s seductive racy brown eyes and spunky sense of fun. And of course he’s a totally devoted PUSSY LOVER

And on another note Friday is big bitch results day for Bambi and either she’ll be gaining a PhD or getting flushed down the loo with all the other undesireable body parts.  

Burt and Reggie