The Blind Truth

Postscript.

These blogs emerged from endless hours of storytelling with my friend Siobhain Santry, who's illustrated so many of the early blogs and the last one.

It's been a joint endeavour and I credit her with helping to create so much of the humour and the spirit around what I've wanted to say.

There's light and there's shade, in just about every situation we find ourselves in in life. Which has turnout out to be a helpful way of approaching things. Particularly living through the curveball that was breast cancer.

Even in the darkest of times, I've managed to see the funny side of how some events unfolded and get cross at what deserved to have a bit of fury thrown at it.

People are really extraordinary.

In my stories, I've touched on the very best and the very worst of us.

There are so many stories that I could've told. I've cried and I've laughed with the people I love, and sometimes at myself. There's nothing like laughter, but this doesn't neutralise the challenge of living with sight loss.

Life is not all 'ha ha hi hi', but even where it is deadly serious, there's usually some redeeming feature to be found.

If there was a mantra to get me through life, some of it would be unrepeatable but the parts I would share are:

- 'Map out where every clean loo is, for your comfort.'

- 'Get enough sleep.'

- 'Make the most of love and friendship.'

- 'Don't hang onto anger.'

- 'Embrace elastic.'

- And 'Take every opportunity to exercise your imagination in seeing the world from a viewpoint that might not be your natural position, because it is incredibly rewarding.'

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

Over the last year I’ve been plagued by my nemesis Anne Taylor. She pops up everywhere but has now met her match in the shape of that well known medical professional “Unauthorised”, who has dropped me a note to tell me it’s all looking good. This is one sorry chapter I’m glad to see the back of, along with Anne Taylor, impenetrable letters and being spoken to as your actual bonified half-wit.

There may be those who take issue on that final point and consider the a bona fide half-wit approach to be entirely reasonable. Needless to say, it’s a sentiment I don’t share.

To celebrate the closing of this saga, in favour of all round joy in life, The Dynamo and I took a road trip. She has fantasised about riding across France on a motorbike. The obvious flaw in this plan being that there would be nowhere to put the inevitable piles of junk, we would not be able to help ourselves from purchasing, in every local flea market we passed. The obvious upside of this plan being there would be nowhere to put the junk we might otherwise have come home with because we are incapable of resisting other people’s left overs.

I have fantasised about being driven down the Italian coastline, stopping at every undiscovered local cantina, for delicious locally caught fresh fish while the sound of the waves repeated in the background, and as the sun went down, strolling through the exquisite local medieval streets.

The opportunity for a road trip materialised in the form of a jaunt up the motorway to Manchester and a night in a hotel with no effective means of working the air conditioner, that I didn’t know was there, or opening the welded shut window, kept closed less I should hurl myself out of it and onto the parked cars below.

After a fine chicken supper and a restless night of overheating I was up with the lark and off to the RHS flower show Tatton Park. I’m not suggesting that the risk of shopping was reduced compared to the possibilities of France or Italy, because Manchester has it’s own delights, imported from market gardeners all over the country. Being buoyed up by a cup of cold tea and bacon roll was enough to get me to the long border sensory garden in which I had more than a passing interest as the sponsors representative, but not enough of an interest to propel me to the plant tent to shop.

The early bird, or so I was promised, catches the worm. The journalists in question were all safely tucked up in bed while I languished in the drizzle just long enough to work up a spot of grump. Then lots of journalists appeared at once and all the discomforts of an early start evaporated and the garden won a gold medal for it’s first time entrants. Then a photographer got me walk round the garden as if I was presenting Gardeners World. It’s a cringeworthy snippet. Then the Dynamo appeared, bags of plants in hand.

If you think we were finished, we were far from finished and in a bold move, we drove to Macclesfield, to a fabric warehouse, where we spent the rest of the afternoon cooing over discounted curtain fabric. The Dynamo came home with six meters of fabric she probably won’t ever use. I bought a cushion I don’t need, then we set off for home, stopping for an impromptu food stop at a motorway services, and ate food we didn’t fancy.

It didn’t matter that we drove to Manchester and back and not the Italian riviera. What was important was all the talking and laughing and pleasure of friendship, because nothing trumps love and friendship.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a cartoon Anna. She's dressed in her usual pink button down and blue jeans and is doing a stage bow in black heels, arms wide and raising a black top hat.

“How did you dye your hair that colour when it’s so short?”

“This is my natural colour,” I said.

“Nahhh. No one has hair that colour.”

“I do,” I said.

“What colour was it before you had chemo?” she wanted to know.

“This colour. This is my natural colour.”

“Well it looks dyed,” she said before heading off to take her pick of people to chat to who really did have dyed hair and had the good grace to be honest about it.

Our convenor called us to order and we started the introductions. I always feel it’s a mistake not to offer people some kind of guidance about what we might need to know about them, but this being a “moving on from the you know what” session, everyone felt able to reveal all kinds of information about themselves.

Lots of people opened their remarks by explaining who they were married to and what a really terrific husband they had been, except that they could not help but think they might be getting a bit bored of it all by now.  I don’t want to sound unkind about this but I fear they could be right. The truth is that I feel much the same about it all. I’m more than a man down.

Conversation inevitably drifted into territory about the meaning of why. “Why me?” In my view it’s just rotten luck. But I was not prepared for explanations that ranged from kettle crisps to a glut of organic vegetables.

The why is not the tricky question but what to do about it is altogether a harder ask. We wouldn’t have to wait long for the myth busting NHS dietitian who unfortunately was running a week late. Fast forward a week and she was able to debunk our fears.  A glass of wine was never safe and could not be recommended, but everyone accepts that ultra processed food can be a necessity. Needles to say, I put my hand up and did not ingratiate myself to anyone for holding a contrary view.

In the event we were offered a masterclass on how to make a smoothie, I would defiantly leave.

“And now,” announced our NHS dietitian, we were all off to the kitchen for a demo in how to make the ultimate smoothie with lots of yummy fruit, whose molecular structure would be irrevocably altered by the blender.  I put my hand up and put it down again before absenting myself from this portion, or should I say, slurry, of the agenda.

The following week we were all introduced to the concept of exercise by a former army instructor who wanted to give something back.  He wanted to give rather more back than I expected and without a blush, claimed an increased survival rate of 20% for ladies who could work up a sweat. I put my hand up and then though better of it before sitting down.

Week three also saw the arrival of the large print questionnaire, thoughtfully printed over the top of the regular questionnaire so utterly illegible. Never mind, our medical student volunteer would read me out the questions. I answered them all, and not in hushed tones because if there is one thing I am sure of, it’s that everyone wants to know how often other open their bowls, have intimate relations, feel depressed, binge eat, binge drink, take the wrong or right type of drugs, or experience feelings of frustration. I’m not being cynical.

I never went back. I realise that I am in the very lucky group that may not be through the treatment, but in my head, I’m moving on. I’m not looking over my shoulder but straight ahead.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

My friend Sceptic Tank thinks that a house should be minimal. I think that a house is not a home without stuff. The stuff I like is not the stuff she likes. My old creaking furniture is one thing but why would anyone who can’t see much want to fill up their house with china?

It’s a good question and weirdly, I know the answer. My house is full of the china of my long dead realities. This is the reason I am so attached to it. Every morning I pour milk into small jug that my Mother bought in a Cornish craft shop during a summer in which we rattled round south west England in a camper van singing endless renditions of “There’s a Hole in my Bucket.” I remember the moment, and every morning, when I take the jug out of the cupboard, a warm feeling washes over me.

If a single jug can do this, imagine what an tea service has to offer.

I know the answer to this too, having spent many wasted hours arranging Granny’s tea service on a shelf that is just the right height in just the right spot for all to admire but me. Not being able to see it, in it’s prime position has done nothing to dampen my desire to maintain it, keep it relatively dust free with the handles and patterns angled in just the right spot.

All this sentimentality does not stop me from moaning about the amount of maintenance that is involved, and how boring it is to spend hours carefully washing china. Every time I put it back on the shelf, I congratulate myself for a job well done and forty years of careful custodianship since the said china passed into my capable hands without a single incident.

Smugness is not an attractive characteristic at the best of times and there are many ways in which I have speculated about getting my comeuppance, ranging from a House fire to burglary. I had not considered what unfolded, although upon reflection it was always on the cards.

I was nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen sink, drinking a tomato juice, when Clive the cat appeared and threw himself down at my feet, or more accurately, on the hot pipe next to them. He yawned and stretched and I stroked him with my toe. All was well in the world.

Suddenly, Clive was sitting bolt upright. I knew what he had in mind. I was reasonably confident that not even he, who has so often picked his way with delicacy through my junk, is going to see this through, but he does. In an instant, he’s leaping towards my heirlooms, all four legs outstretched. Lack of spatial awareness does not deter me, and I head him off as if I am defending a high hoop shot for my country. It’s a good job I wasn’t, because I missed, and he landed, like a high-performance explosive, on Granny’s china.

The sound of exploding china and the ensuing shouting might have been enough to bring the neighbours round. What it actually yielded was a nice video of Clive settling in for a tummy rub in their kitchen. Even Bob, who tends to linger outside, ventured inside, possibly eyeing up the potential for new digs, and new servants, after my explosive behaviour in the face of what was entirely reasonable cat antics.

The china is now repurposed as plant pot drainage. I’m saving on washing up but cherishing my memories. Bob and Clive, aka Smashy and Nicey, have forgiven me and we are getting back in the groove.

It’s a good job I know my place in the pecking order.

END

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Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

The Grand, is obsessed with cars. He lamented the lack of cars in this house. He’s not bothered about reverting to the use of my bus pass, but rather the lack of toy cars to be lined up on the kitchen floor for me to break my ankle on.

In this desert of motoring delights, he was extremely impressed to watch a large black car pull up outside his house to whisk me, and my suitcase, away to my next fun packed appointment. I know this because he immediately reported the event to his Father, my Son, on his return home from work, a journey made on a bus. He would have been beside himself if he had seen what had happened next.

After a fun filled afternoon, another large black car turned up to drive me to within a matter of feet of my sofa, a spot I was already dreaming of.

“Ma’m,” said my driver. “Ma’m, this is your time. You just relax now and enjoy the journey.” I lay back and shut my eyes.

“Do you need a phone charger Ma’m?”

“No thanks. I’m all sorted,” I said.

“Do you need water Ma’m”

“I’ve got some, but thankyou.” Then I settled back.

“That’s right Ma’m. This is your time now. You just go ahead and do your thing.”

“Thankyou. I think I’ll just go to sleep,” I said.

There was a very short pause.

“Ma’m, are you quite well?”

“Just tired. I think I’ll have a sleep,” I said without so much as a twitch.

“Well this is your time now Ma’m. You just relax.”

I didn’t reply.

“I can see you are tired, so you just go ahead Ma’m,” he said.

There was a very brief pause.

“Do you do this journey a lot Ma’m?”

“I usually take the train,” I mumbled.

“I can see you are tired. Is that why you are taking a car? Or are you unwell?”

“I’ve getting over cancer,” I snarled.

There was no pause at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that Ma’m. My dog has got a kidney infection. If anything happened to him, it would be a tragedy. People are people. They get sick. They die. I tell you what Ma’m. I love that hound. If anything happened to him I don’t know what we would do.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s not all about me after all I thought.

“Thank you Ma’m. I appreciate that. We’ve had him since he was a puppy. He’s not even old.”

I reflected that I don’t see myself as old. He might think I am old and so there is not a lot of tragedy in a spot of cancer, but from where I am sitting I should like to think my odds are better than his hounds.

“I tell you what Ma’m, every day, I measure how much he drinks and how much comes out the other end and every week I take him to the vet. He’s costing me a fortune but I love him. Do you have family Ma’m?”

“I do,” I said, thinking about the Grand, who refused to give me a kiss goodbye since I was leaving and not arriving. “I’m just going to have a sleep.”

“That’s right Ma’m. This is your time now. Take no notice of me.”

“I’m closing my eyes,” I said.

“You do what you need to do. It’s your time now Ma’m. You must look after yourself. I expect that your family would want you to do that. If anything happened to my dog, I don’t know how we’d go on. You just relax. I’ve got this.”

I stayed stoically silent. I’m only human after all.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

Now that I am feeling less nauseous, I’m trying to get through the jobs that I’ve been putting off for months. These range from emptying the waste paper baskets and relieving them of old banana skins, to making sure I’m up to date with my pension contributions.

Neither of these activities have much to offer when it comes to any form of gratification, be it long term or instant, so I thought I’d start with a spot of furniture rearrangement. I moved my desk to the other side of the room where it would sit much better and would not overwhelm the viewer with its arrangement of dead computers that are so long in the tooth they are no longer supported. Then I moved it back again and called James, who is the IT support man.

I called James, not because I wanted him to rationalise the computers, but to restore the wi-fi to a working system. Since I moved the desk across the room and moved it back again, the wi-fi didn’t work. Then I had a hoover round and put all the bits that had dropped of the desk during the move, in a drawer for future repair.

There was no putting it off. I called the National Insurance support line to get my eighteen digit code number, that I would need in order to make the National Insurance contributions that I needed to pay to get the best value out of my state pension. I must say that I felt pretty pleased with myself for managing to pass the identity authentication test. The National Insurance helpline was experiencing a higher than average number of calls but someone would be with me as soon as possible.

Then I clamped the phone between ear and shoulder and set about going through the pile of papers that had accumulated during various surgical and medical procedures, that needed filing. Then I got bored and threw them away so that no one would have ever known that I’d just emptied that wastepaper basket. Then I sat down and waited. I put the phone on speaker and a booming voice, on repeat, told me that they would be with me shortly. I could not remember how to turn the volume down but went with it and stayed on hold. I stayed on hold for so long I began to wonder if this was really a well-oiled scam masquerading as a government department. An hour elapsed so I knew it definitely was a government department. I waited a bit longer and then the fully charged battery on my phone went dead and I got cut off.

Charged up and ready for action I called the NHS, published number, for the consultant I’ve found who knows about radiotherapy and skin without pigment. The number didn’t work. I called his private PA who gave me his NHS PA’s number that was the number for another private clinic. They gave me the right number.

The NHS voice activated call handling service sounded like Fenella Fielding and didn’t like my early attempts at saying the word “operator”. I changed tone. It liked my impersonation of Fenella, and put me through to an “operator”. He put me through to a messaging service. There was no one to answer the call because of staff shortages and messages were not always monitored. I reverted to my normal speaking voice and left a message anyway. His PA called back and gave me the number for his private PA, whose number I already had.

The BF FaceTimed for a chat. I bore my teeth at her and spouted venom. She made sensible suggestions, then I bit her head off and told her I was too busy to chat.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I’ve been called some choice things in my time. I don’t suppose I will ever be privy to the full range.

The Son, who was a Red Dwarf fan, hit upon the idea that henceforth his Mother, should be known as R’mere. In his mind, this was the perfect response to his love of the lead character Rimmer, known for his intergalactic adventures, and the French for Mother. He was rolling down the side of a snow-covered French slope at the time. I like to think it was an idea born of affection but suspect it was more affectation. It stuck.

I once received a letter addressed to Mrs Attila. I may be fierce, but surely I’m not that fierce. It turned out to be a best effort at Mrs A Tylor by someone who couldn’t spell. That one stuck too, for the duration of my job.

With form in answering to so many different names, you’d think it would not bother me, not to be called by name, but it does.

Since my adventures in the Big C began, I have learned to respond to “lovey” and “my darling” and “dear” and “my lovely”. While I think it is not meant unkindly, it annoys me, because I always feel as if I’m being spoken down to. it’s also often accompanied by a blessing. “Oh bless you,” a nurse might say as she strokes my arm. I’ve not been shy about saying I’ve come for the cure not the blessings and it’s not always well received.

What really gets on my goat is not being called by my name. I don’t mean the “lovey” stuff, but the imposter that seems to accompany me wherever I go where the Big C is involved. She’s a woman called Ann Taylor and I’ve tried just about every tack to shake her off.

I’ve tried ignoring her, but this only results in more confusion. I’ve tried saying “That it could be me but that’s not my name.” I’ve flagged it could be worth a second glance at the paperwork in case they mean me, and usually this is enough to do the trick, but last week I disgraced myself.

After pointing out that my name is Anna Tylor, I was told to “sit in that chair” and informed “I’m going to give you a chat Ann.” The chat, was not a chat like any chat I have ever had. It was more of an interrogation, in which my cane, that was resting on my lap, and my name, not to mention the tag on my notes that says I’m proper bonified blinky, were roundly ignored. It doesn’t matter how close you wiggle the paperwork. I can’t read it. That’s when I disgraced myself.

If you are about to have your breast eradiated, you want a bit of back chat. I bet that even Ann might have questions. “Will you listen to me,” I finally exploded while I explained in a not very calm way, that I am a real person with feelings and needs and a name and was sick to the back teeth of being treated as an admin task or a slab of meat or being ignored.

All of this clearly had the desired effect because the very next day I was asked my name and when my turn came it was not my name that was called. “Darling” she said. “I’m speaking to you.”

“My name is not Ann or Taylor,” I said.

“Doctor’s waiting,” she said as she stroked my arm. “Come on Darling,” she said as if she wanted the dog to hop down from the sofa.

“And it’s not Darling” I barked.

END

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Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

Vans are a contentious issue. My friend Malc had a van for nineteen years that he loved, until it got squashed between a Chelsea tractor and a small lorry while he was in it. My friend P loves her van, and so do I. It’s got it’s own shower and heating and it’s not bad for a slumber party on the beach. That said, when we slumbered on the beach, someone set fire to the caravan next to us and I ended up standing about in my pants and a T-shirt that was never meant to be seen in public, while the fire brigade put out the fire and the police took statements. P offered everyone cups of tea, and we were rewarded with some probing questions about how long we had been homeless for.

The proliferation of vans that seem to have appeared of late, are not the type that you could holiday in, but they are the type of van that could be implicated in someone getting squashed. Unlike Malc, there would be no need to sit in it and wait for impact. It would be more of a question of trying to navigate your way round it and hope that you no one runs you over.

The home shopping explosion, of which I am a guilty participant, has spawned a breeding programme of silver vans that say things like “thrifty” and “nifty”. They are neither of these things. I shan’t labour the obvious costs of fuel prices, but I wonder what is nifty about a van parked on the pavement at a busy intersection. It certainly isn’t the driver.

My legs hurt from my recent brush with prescription drugs. I was concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other when I came to the spot where I generally cross the road, a minute from home. “Nifty” was parked across the corner, with the door open, leaning against his van having a chat on his phone. My only options were to walk out into the middle of the road in order to check for traffic, or climb over the top of his van. I asked him to move his van. He shrugged his shoulders and explained, “What can I do? I have so many deliveries to make.”

“You can back your van round the corner and park in a parking bay.”

Then he got back into his van and left the door open and carried on with his phone call that entailed a lot of shouting.

“Can you at least close the door so I can get past?”

No, he could not, but what he could do was to wedge his foot against the door so that the pavement was blocked. Did I mention I had cane in hand?

“Go round,” he ordered.

“Close your door and let me get through.”

We were in a stand off and this was more likely to turn rotten pretty quickly than the vegetables languishing in my fridge. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I just wanted to go home.

I’d like to say that I took photos and reported him to some authority somewhere, who used the information in a dawn raid, to finally apprehend one of Interpol’s most wanted. In a twist of injustice, I found myself walking round the back of the van and out into the moving traffic. All I could think of was the pain in my legs and putting one foot in front of the other in the slow dash for home. Then he shouted at me and I shouted back. He might have had the manners of a van driver, but I have the language of a lorry driver and offered up that well known British directive.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

Food is the new obsession in my life. I’m always cooking it. I don’t always eat it. Sometimes I give it away. Sometimes, I am ashamed to say, it goes to waste. Waste is a sin in my world of zero food waste tolerance. I pride myself that nothing goes to waste.

It is with some pleasure then, that I am able to bring together twin interests of hot and spicy food and the desire to cook everything in my fridge, before it goes so far past it’s sell by date that it has managed to walk itself to the compost.

There is nothing you can’t do with a blender, an onion, some garlic and ginger and any one of a number of spice combinations to turn the laziest of vegetables into the most delicious of meals. There is a recipe for everything online, if only you look hard enough, and in an effort to express my huge thanks and great regard for members of the A Team, who are my counsellors, my personal shoppers, my nurses and the very best of friends, I have been keen to share my rotten vegetables with them in various hot and spicey sauces.

The Old Bag didn’t flinch but she did turn a blush shade of pink. “Phaal?” she asked. Here I want to be clear. She wasn’t checking to see if I thought my own curry creation was foul, but whether it was hotter than a vindaloo.

“I couldn’t tell you,” I said. It was the truth. It made me sweat but didn’t taste of much other

than a burning sensation. At this point, even a fire in the mouth was a welcome relief after chewing on cardboard for the last few months.

The Old Bag told me she’s once played a game of bluff with a friend who ordered a vindaloo. She’s decided that if he could do that, she could manage a phaal. She couldn’t. She and I were playing chicken all over again.

If the truth be told, what we were really playing was “Aubergine”. I know the aubergine has never had much of a profile when it comes to games of risk, but there is a first for everything. It’s like a game of Chicken because both diners eat their way through the aubergine in its accompanying fire, without swerving from the task, until one gives up and the other emerges triumphant, or they both simultaneously capitulate and avert spontaneous combustion, or in the worst of all outcomes, polish off the lot and suffer the outrageous consequences in which both emerge as losers.

The stupefying impact of the aubergine produced no winners. The Old Bag may have had her vision blurred by the heat. If she did, she never said. I would not admit to any consequences myself, but did eat yoghurt as any accompaniment, in an effort to quell the flames.

It’s a cruel irony that chemo and the accompanying regime of steroids makes you fat, and yet I have reaped none of the pleasures as I have grown to resemble the Sister’s garage minus the plants growing out of the roof. Never mind, “That’ll put hairs on your chest,” one of the elderly relatives offered up, by way of bigging up the aubergine. Setting aside the novelty factor, a hairy chest would be the final insult given the state of my otherwise baldness.

I keep reminding myself that however others see me, in my mind, I am trying to be the heroine of my own story here, and I have to do whatever that takes. If I can beat the Old Bag in a game of Aubergine, that’s good enough for me.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

A tasty meal is like the hunt for Red October. I just have to keep going with the drive to hit that sweet, or in my case, that hot spot. Not everyone shares my ambition but I keep going, undeterred by the disappointment of having no taste buds and little saliva left.

“That is the hottest chilli you will ever have. You just need to shave a tiny bit off and that will do you,” said the log man as he handed over Jamaican Bonnet. I couldn’t help but wonder if his booming voice was born of too many chillies. He is the loudest person I know.

“Wonderful,” I said, gripping the bag.

“Good girl,” he said and headed off towards his wheelbarrow.

One good turn deserves another, so before I went to chemo, I knocked up a cheeky little soup, made out of leftovers, with just a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic. I thought I was rather modest in my ambitions, but not only did I outstrip my own expectations, I stripped out the lining of my lucky recipient’s mouth, oesophagus and stomach.

I don’t know why some people pick at their food. I’m full of steroids, which is like being in training for Fight Club. I’m always hungry and always casting about for things to do or eat, or a sparring partner at three in the morning when everyone else is asleep. That is everyone but toddlers, who are hopeless at having meaningful conversation, when they are busy fighting their own battles with sprouting teeth.

While I wolfed down the said soup, my chum took mouse sized mouthfuls until she declared she could not eat any more. “Are you feeling alright?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s not that.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s a bit on the hot side.”

Now that I come to reflect on it, a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic are subjective measures. I could just have easily said, a quarter of a Jamaican Bonnet, a fistful of salt, although I tried my best not to over salt as I don’t want to silt up my veins, a teaspoon of cayenne, a root of ginger and a bulb of garlic. Apparently, this is too much. What is wrong with people?

It’s a good job I don’t have a sweet tooth because processed sugar is discouraged. It feeds my middle-aged fat cells, stimulates my hormones and works in direct opposition to my avowed ambition to kill the “you know what”. That said, I wonder why it is that every time I go for chemo I’m offered a biscuit in a plastic wrapper. I’m using the term loosely here. That’s the biscuit not the plastic wrapper. While it might give a passing nod at wheat, there is nothing else in that biscuit that resembles food. About the only thing it has going for it is preservatives, which I might yet need to fall back on if all else fails.

I wonder why it is that when sugar becomes the enemy it’s so freely offered by those who preach no sugar. “It’s because that’s all we have to offer,” said the nurse.

I’d happily rustle up a vegetable curry with just a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt , a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic for those of us who spend Thursdays plugged in to a drip. I bet none of them would pick at their food.

END

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