It's a dreadful thing to admit, but I'm almost (almost) getting used to all the kindness I'm being shown at the moment. Not that the people around me aren't normally kind to me (I think we've already established how fortunate I am on the friends-and-family front). I'm sure I've mentioned before that, on my better days, I joke that breast cancer has so far felt like having a birthday every day. I'm continually getting cards and presents (today I've taken down the get-well cards and replaced them with birthday ones), my friends keep baking delicious things for me, I'm rarely off the phone or email, there have been wonderful gestures from people I've not even seen for years, and I've not been without fresh flowers since the day of my diagnosis. And, cancer aside, how wonderful is that? This kind of continual pampering is difficult to get your head around, and I fear its going to turn me into Veruca Salt. When all The Bullshit is over, will I have become a horribly spoilt, me-me-me brat like one of those awful kids on My Super Sweet 16? Or will I just be relieved that this episode is over and glad to get back to my normal life? (There's that phrase again.)
Speaking of horrible MTV brats (and normal life), earlier this week I spent a really happy afternoon giggling on the sofa with Busby. While drinking green tea, eating biscuits (ginger, obviously) and talking rubbish, we devised a plan, inspired by an afternoon-long MTV marathon of My Super Sweet 16 (I'm becoming obsessed), to make my birthday next year, well, super sweet. Party-wise, this year's celebrations will have to be on the tame side (theatre tonight, then tea and birthday cake with some mates tomorrow). At the moment, dare I say it, quiet time with my nearest and dearest is looking far preferable to dancing my patent heels off in the 100 Club. (Christ, am I really only 29 or actually 79? Perhaps my next wig should be a blue rinse.) That said, I'm continually worrying that I'm missing out on all kinds of brilliant nights out while I'm cooped up in my cancer bubble (my mates assure me it's not the case, but I'm not sure I believe them) and, until this week, I'd been fretting about the lack of a Big Birthday Night Out this year. But really, what's so special about turning 29? Nada. 30's the big one. And, all being well, by this time next year I'll have a lot more to celebrate than just the big 3-0. So Busby and I are staying true to our Virgoan selves and planning my shindig WELL in advance. With a little help from the pampered princesses on MTV.
We've learned from excessive MTV viewing that there are rules to having a Super Sweet birthday party. For starters, I'll have to gain about three stone and squeeze myself into a heinous slutty pink dress that squeezes my boobs together in a way that cannot be healthy (I will, of course, have perfect boobs by then (or, at least, one perfect boob and one natural boob). I'll also have to force my folks to remortgage their house in order to buy me an Audi (which will, of course, come wrapped in a huge pink bow). Busby and I will have a pyjama party in which we sit on my bed and eat Doritos while compiling a list of people to invite and people not to invite (entitled 'friends' and 'losers'). I'll stand outside the gates of my school where I've gathered together all the lucky invitees (and a few from the loser list), then call out their names over a megaphone, with a pause for dramatic effect when they share the same first name. ('Sarah... Jones! Here's your invite. Sarah... Williams! Here's yours.' Meanwhile the camera pans over to a grumpy-looking Sarah Thomas.) At some point during the planning process I'll need to have a strop at my Mum (probably when she tells me my dress is too slutty) after which she'll cancel my credit card and I'll call her a bitch in front of a shop full of people. I'll spend weeks pestering my Dad (sorry, Daddy) to book a performer for his little princess, on the understanding that anyone less than P Diddy will make my party lame and leave me embarrassed. I'll tell my party planners over and over that 'this party is all about me' and 'it's really important that this party is remembered forever' and I'll throw a tantrum when they can't get me perfectly white horses for my grand entrance. And, despite being married (that's not a juicy enough story for MTV), I'll invite my school crush, give him access to the VIP area and then cry when I catch him making out with another girl (I'll get security to throw her out, and he'll come back grovelling when he catches sight of my super-fly Audi).
Or, we could just do it like the UK version and have a chav-fest in a church hall with cheese and pineapple on sticks and Chesney Hawkes booked to perform. Actually, is it the chemo drugs or does that actually sound like a much more fun option? Anyone got Chesney's number? Daddy, pleeeeeease? (Just for the record, Dad, I'm joking about Chesney Hawkes. What with all the success on the ginger-gifts front, I'm starting to think I should be careful what I wish for. But if you happen to have Dave Grohl's number...)