Well I was never the sharpest, but I've only just figured out that it's not just the hair on my head that'll be doing a bunk. Ooer.
I spoke to my old boss, Skips, last night and she scared the shit out of me. (I'm glad, mind - I needed that kick up the arse.) She was diagnosed with The Bullshit in 2006 and gave me a no-holds-barred account of what a bitch it's going to be for the next few months. It reminded me of the conversation I had with her after she'd given birth, when I foolishly asked for all the gory details. (You should know that myself and Skips are two in a line of three subsequent former editors of the same magazine who have since got cancer. Begin a career in home-interest mags at your peril.)
I am far less concerned about next week's mastectomy than I am about the subsequent chemotherapy and radiotherapy (get me showing off with my new-found cancer lingo), and all the shitty side effects they entail. In many ways it's the timing that's riled me most. J, my kid brother, is getting married in October - slap-bang in the middle of my chemo. And, from what I've discovered, by that stage I'm going to be bald, bloated, barfing and seriously lacking in eyelashes. I'm supposed to be doing a reading for them too. Perhaps the registrar should introduce me with the line: 'What are the scores, George Dawes!' and a little drumroll, just like on Shooting Stars.