Two simple ways to look at life: Happy happy happy dead. Worry worry worry dead.

‘You’re emancipated.’ M announced.

‘Cool, does that mean you’ll unshackle me and take the potato sack off my head?’ I replied.

He corrected his statement.

‘Sorry, I meant ‘emaciated’. You’re emaciated. Oh and you’ve got wrinkly old lady armpits too.’

I found these observations both complimentary and contemptuous.

Luckily for M my short term memory’s shot so I won’t recall such audacity tomorrow.

On another note, the first chemo wagon rolled into town 3 days earlier than planned. I’d postponed and procrastinated but eventually threw down arms and surrendered.

It’s been a grim experience.

Surgery – Walk in the park.

Radiation – Piece of cake.

Chemo – Goddamn fucking hideous.

And no intravenous fiddling-with for me. There’s only one toxic cocktail sanctioned to annihilate Bambi.

Firstly, don’t eat for 2 hours. Easy as no longer find joy in food.

Then dissolve foul pill on tongue and wait an hour.

Finish off with complex combo of chemical weapons.

Go to bed and trust you don’t spend the night puking shitting dying on bathroom floor.

Other distasteful side effects crop up.

Curious hallucinogenic dreams.

We were way back in time circa 1977. Sid Vicious was cleaning my kitchen whilst humming to God Save The Queen on the wireless.

M walked in and announced he’d sent a photo to Penthouse to be included on the Readers Wives page.

The image depicted me skiing off-piste in Zermatt, wearing nothing but a bobble hat and a pair of giant green knickers… ‘FUCK’ printed on the vajuju and ‘CANCER’ on the butt. Not altogether porn but unpleasant enough. Especially as in reality I struggle to get down a blue run.

Five days a month now of this stomach-churning fun and games for as long as my body (and mind) endures.

But as the saying goes…

Never say die.


If you’re happy and you know it, stay in bed. If you’re happy and you know it, stay in bed. If you’re happy and you know it, getting up will surely blow it. If you’re happy and you know it, stay the fuck in bed.

My godsons and their hot mama came to stay.

Oh how I love them.

But I was a frivolous hostess due to the fact that I believe my brain is missing in (mental) action.

Every day I tried to play and every day I failed miserably.

It feels like the sun’s shining around me but there’s a grey cloud directly overhead filled with dread and lethargy.

I’m so fucking tired all the fucking time. Brain tumour fatigue really fecking sucks.

So here’s an ambiguous question for anyone reading this?

What’s your wildest craziest fantasy right now?

Mine… A two week induced coma.

Then when I wake up that goddamn life-sucking cloud will have dissipated.

I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t had a brain injury to understand, because before Bambi I wouldn’t have remotely comprehended any kind of fatigue that couldn’t be cured with a double espresso and a family size Lindt.

I’ve spent the last week mostly horizontal. And when I do occasionally stand up it’s startling what tumbles from my person. Pens, nuts, water bottles, banana skins, remotes, hidden dog chews.

No one told me this was such an obnoxious enfeebling side effect of brain cancer.

‘And what’s the cause?’ I enquired to my Neuro this week. ‘Is it the gargantuan butt-plug sized pills you’ve got me on?’

Perhaps the universe is punishing me… But I don’t remember doing anything so terrible.

Maybe I was an evil mother-fucking cunt in a previous life and it’s payback time now.

Even my dreams are fucked up. Yesterday I dreamt I bought a new sweater and it ran away from me. So I went back to the shop and asked for a refund but the assistant said ‘Madam, the sweater would only have ran away if you don’t deserve to have it.’

Whatever, I might be Moaning Muggle Mrytle today but I’m truly sanguine at heart and tomorrow’s a brand new day.

All this extraneous shit crap bollocks will be replaced with splendid news, a stunningly sunny disposition and a large pocketful of rainbows.

Fuck cancer and its hellacious side effects.

Entering a phantasmagoric dream world

The week that followed is a blur now and I look back and wonder why I didn’t go to the ER sooner. I was having a ‘funny turn’ every other day or so and it was so surreal it didn’t feel real.

However, by the weekend I was reaching record breaking heights and by the end of Sunday I had managed to have 7 ‘funny turns’.

Thinking that Monday’s would be the quietest day in the ER (how wrong were we – it turns out everyone saves up there aliments over the weekend) off we went.

We dropped Reggie with our lovely doggy sitter and as I was explaining to her the purpose of my ER visit – another ‘funny turn’ managed to pop out of me. Feeling terribly flustered I stumbled back to the car and we headed west. Obvs I wasn’t driving.

I won’t bore you with the next 14 tedious hours!! But after a CT scan, blood samples, urine samples, more blood samples, annoying heart monitors and lots of ridiculous questions I was finally moved from my dubiously stained gurney in the ER and admitted to the hospital. I surrendered to my hospital bed at around 3am. Just in time to catch a fascinating documentary about the life of the fabulous rebel princess – Her Royal Highness The Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon.

I was told I’d be woken at 6 am by a team of highly trained technicians who would hook me up to a brain monitor called an EEG. That didn’t happen – at 6am I was woken up by a brown tray of brown oatmeal, with brown coffee and brown eggs. No thanks.

But then around 9ish a very nice man arrived with lots of machinery, sticky things and cables. A lovely nurse proceeded to stick the sticky things to my head with some sticky KY Jelly like substance. To say I looked like a beauty school dropout at this point is a bit of an understatement.

Whilst all of this was happening I was furiously requesting that everyone get a move on because as far as I was concerned, I still had a flight to catch back to London that night. I had places to go, things to do, people to see and no time for this unpleasant inconvenience.

HRH Princess Margaret