really show-offy kind that you see those leathery women in their sixties wearing while jogging over Chelsea Bridge in rush hour). Up close, mind, it looks like something that could have had a previous life on my nan’s washing-line. It’s off-white (naturally, it doesn’t come in any other colours) with wide straps and nondescript flowers embroidered onto it, the like of which you’d normally see on a naff B & B bedspread. This bra is all the proof you need that the medical world just ain’t used to dealing with breast cancer in twenty-somethings. It is the anti-sexy. Poor P’s already got bollocks like cricket balls and, with this lingerie look, it doesn’t look like being remedied any time soon.
*
‘BLIMEY, YOU’RE POPULAR, ain’tcha?’ said my cheery postie, handing over a wedding-day-worthy pile of mail at my front door as she had done most days since people started hearing about The Bullshit. The recurring birthday I’d joked about with Smiley Surgeon was showing no signs of slowing, particularly since I’d been home from hospital, and I struggled to keep up with the baffling tidal wave of niceness that was heading my way.
I couldn’t believe the kind of things people were doing for me. Sending huge packages filled with things that might help, flying from abroad to visit, sorting out a car service to take me to and from my hospital appointments, calling Charles Worthington’s PA to find out who he’d recommend to be entrusted with my pre-chemo, lop-off-the-length haircut …
ah-may-zing
stuff. I was half expecting to see my name on a blimp, in a newspaper headline or on a scoreboard at the baseball, Ferris Bueller-style.
It was all so staggeringly lovely – and a massive help to boot – but I struggled to figure out up to what point should I accept it? It’s not like I wasn’t milking my position when I had the chance, mind you. In fact, I was fast coming to realise that this illness seemed like the perfect excuse for absolutely any kind of behaviour whatsoever – and I was going to use it. Someone reluctant to give way on the road? I’d pull out first anyway: ‘Fuck it, I’ve got cancer.’ One slice of pizza left? ‘Fuck you lot, I’m having it – I’ve got cancer.’ It may have been a hopeless case of sifting for gold in a pile of dog poo but you’ve got to grab your fun where you can in times like these. But sometimes, even despite my enthusiasm to exploit cancer for all it was worth, the treatment I was receiving from other people was just so overwhelming that I felt compelled to make it stop.
When I’d question their kindness, they’d tell me that they were doing it because they loved me and that, if I weren’t so nice in the first place, they wouldn’t want to bother. But I worried that, actually, they’d got it all wrong, and that their spectacular efforts were wasted. Because the thing is, I’m really not always that nice.
I can be a real grumpy/selfish/bitchy/lazy/stubborn/sensitive/manipulative/cheeky cow when I want to. I got the hump when Princess Diana died and ruined my eighteenth birthday. I hardly ever make a brew for my colleagues. I once used someone’s office for a purpose other than work. I’m late for EVERYTHING. I’ve taken refunds on clothes that I’ve worn. I’ve cadged more fags than I’ve bought. I bunked more uni lectures than I went to, and made up poor excuses to get my deadlines extended. I continually correct people’s grammar, and carry around a red pen to scrub out rogue apostrophes on posters/menus/birthday cards.
I lie as well. I’ve been known to do it on my CV, but it’s mostly in situations where I know it’ll embarrass the arse off someone. Like the time I told P that OutKast were from Pontypridd, not Georgia, then watched as he tried to persuade other people of the same. Or when I called my brother in a rage, incensed that the New Year Honours list included a knighthood for Vernon Kay, in recognition of his charity work. (Sir
*
‘BLIMEY, YOU’RE POPULAR, ain’tcha?’ said my cheery postie, handing over a wedding-day-worthy pile of mail at my front door as she had done most days since people started hearing about The Bullshit. The recurring birthday I’d joked about with Smiley Surgeon was showing no signs of slowing, particularly since I’d been home from hospital, and I struggled to keep up with the baffling tidal wave of niceness that was heading my way.
I couldn’t believe the kind of things people were doing for me. Sending huge packages filled with things that might help, flying from abroad to visit, sorting out a car service to take me to and from my hospital appointments, calling Charles Worthington’s PA to find out who he’d recommend to be entrusted with my pre-chemo, lop-off-the-length haircut …
ah-may-zing
stuff. I was half expecting to see my name on a blimp, in a newspaper headline or on a scoreboard at the baseball, Ferris Bueller-style.
It was all so staggeringly lovely – and a massive help to boot – but I struggled to figure out up to what point should I accept it? It’s not like I wasn’t milking my position when I had the chance, mind you. In fact, I was fast coming to realise that this illness seemed like the perfect excuse for absolutely any kind of behaviour whatsoever – and I was going to use it. Someone reluctant to give way on the road? I’d pull out first anyway: ‘Fuck it, I’ve got cancer.’ One slice of pizza left? ‘Fuck you lot, I’m having it – I’ve got cancer.’ It may have been a hopeless case of sifting for gold in a pile of dog poo but you’ve got to grab your fun where you can in times like these. But sometimes, even despite my enthusiasm to exploit cancer for all it was worth, the treatment I was receiving from other people was just so overwhelming that I felt compelled to make it stop.
When I’d question their kindness, they’d tell me that they were doing it because they loved me and that, if I weren’t so nice in the first place, they wouldn’t want to bother. But I worried that, actually, they’d got it all wrong, and that their spectacular efforts were wasted. Because the thing is, I’m really not always that nice.
I can be a real grumpy/selfish/bitchy/lazy/stubborn/sensitive/manipulative/cheeky cow when I want to. I got the hump when Princess Diana died and ruined my eighteenth birthday. I hardly ever make a brew for my colleagues. I once used someone’s office for a purpose other than work. I’m late for EVERYTHING. I’ve taken refunds on clothes that I’ve worn. I’ve cadged more fags than I’ve bought. I bunked more uni lectures than I went to, and made up poor excuses to get my deadlines extended. I continually correct people’s grammar, and carry around a red pen to scrub out rogue apostrophes on posters/menus/birthday cards.
I lie as well. I’ve been known to do it on my CV, but it’s mostly in situations where I know it’ll embarrass the arse off someone. Like the time I told P that OutKast were from Pontypridd, not Georgia, then watched as he tried to persuade other people of the same. Or when I called my brother in a rage, incensed that the New Year Honours list included a knighthood for Vernon Kay, in recognition of his charity work. (Sir
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