Monthly Archives: September 2013

Wig Maintenance Part II

Once upon a time, I used to wash my hair frequently, I will not say that I did it daily for that would be a lie, but I would wash it and it would be clean. I was not a fan of the process. For obvious reasons, I do not need to wash my hair at the moment. It is almost liberating. Forget washing and going, these days I can throw a wig on and hop, quick, and step it out the door. The mirror next to the front door facilitates this.

The problem with wigs is that even if you alternate between a few, you still have to wash them. If you do not wash them, they start to smell like dog, or a well worn coat which you wore whilst swimming in a sewer. Surprisingly, they can also greasy. Due to monetary constraints, none of my wigs are made of real hair. So, what is one to do with dirty fake hair?

The first answer is put it off. Leave them and pretend they will clean themselves. I did this for a good month.

The actual answer or answers is Google and Pantene. I used both. And let me tell you, as I stood over my bathroom sink, trying not to feel my back, it was perfectly clear that a wash they did need, if the dead fly was not evidence enough.

Many people, and I mean two people, have asked me how one washes a wig. Well, based on my two attempts, I give you some expert guidance below:

Step 1: Fill the sink with warm, but not hot water, ensuring that you put the plug in, otherwise the sink will not fill. Add shampoo. Any brand will suffice.

Step 2: Add brushed wig and get it wet. The water will make it wet. Use your hands for this. They too, will get wet. After a minute of prodding, drain the sink and admire all the dirt clinging to the bowl and wonder where all the grit came from. Take a photo or two.

Step 3: Put the sodden wig in clean water and prod some more. After a minute of prodding, drain the sink and admire all the dirt clinging to the bowl and wonder where all the grit came from. Feel slightly ashamed.

Step 4: Repeat steps 1-3 with conditioner, because the task at hand is mindless and easy, yet, technically, you are still achieving something you can blog about/work into a conversation when people have asked you what you have done with you day, that is more interesting than saying you drew a few Santa Claus’ on graphics paper whilst watching television.

Step 5: Place wet wig, now smelling of clean smelling chemicals, in a towel and gently pat. Or in my case, leave the towel and wig in the bathtub and forget about it.

Step 6: Leave to dry on a wig stand. Warning. Do not place on a low windowsill when they is a puppy in your house, as it will be mistaken for a scary threat and said puppy will get territorial.

Step 7: Wear and pretend you have real hair again when your nose catches a whiff of shampoo in the wind. The wig will appear to be brand new all over again, only this time, it will not smell like plastic. Feel super sexy. Get it dirty again.

There you have it. A lesson in life. Pictorial evidence to follow. Please note the colour. It is a clear example of my approach to cleanliness.

No need to thank me.




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Single Figures

In my post transplant world, I have rarely thought about that pesky thing known as my paraprotein level. In the months prior to my transplant I rarely thought about that pesky thing known as my paraprotein level, for I was going to get the transplant anyway.

My blood is stubborn and so is the paraprotein and no matter what drugs I was given, it did not want to fall that significantly, oh no, it wanted to plateau. Plateau. If it was not plateauing it was increasing with aplomb. The bugger.

Way back when, I was told that my transplant would not bring me the remission I so wish for, and that the pesky thing known as paraprotein would remain. I am pleased the Medically Trained People told me this, for it meant that I could block out all the white noise to the contrary. I was told, that given my pre transplant level, to expect something around 10. And that is what I expected.

Today, I opened my post to find my post appointment letter and discovered that my paraprotein has indeed reduced. The miracle did not happen and it has not reduced to nothing. Damnation. Obviously. It has however, for the first time since we discovered I had one, a fact that is important to point out because there was indeed a period in my life where I did not have one, my paraprotein level has fallen to a single figure. I am so used to the template of the summary letters, that I thought the formatting was wrong, until I realised that there was missing a digit next to the word ‘paraprotein’.

My paraprotein is currently 8.

I do not know how I feel about this. At a guess, I would say that I am relieved that it has fallen below ten and my transplant achieved something, and on the other hand, I would say that I was disappointed that I did not get a miracle.


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Share and Care

The land post autograft transplant, when one went into it with a paraprotein level of 20, is a strange, uncomfortable and rather traumatic one. I doubt that unless you have gone through it yourself, you are never going to really understand what it is like. I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that unless you are me, which is scientifically impossible, you would truly know what this period is like for me.

I spent eleven months working towards my transplant. Living within each cycle of treatment and managing my new treatment after the Bad Day, because I was working towards my transplant. The transplant was the goal, and prior to it, I had to get through my treatments, week by week. Now, in the post transplant haze, I am left waiting for something and I am not sure yet, what that something is. I have until November to wait. In November I will find out whether my next step is to do nothing, go back on to VDT/VTD or have another transplant involving a donor stem cell. I do not know what will influence which.

Right now, I do not have an outlook post November. I do not know what my life is going to look like post November. I still cannot plan a bloody holiday. Working towards my transplant, I expected normality after it, but reality says that this might not be the case. I knew it would not be a magic plaster, but it has not stopped me from being disappointed with the reality. I have known this for a while, but right now, it is finally sinking in that this still might not be over, this volume is going to be a tomb and there is a chance that this will go on and on and on, until I stop. When anybody tells me something different, like all will be well in a year, I want to scream at them and say that we don’t know that yet and let’s face it, I want them to shut up. I don’t do that of course, I put on a brave face and carry on until I am alone.

This period that I am in, feels different to anything I have felt before. I am acutely aware of everything that is bad about myeloma, not that there is anything good about it mind. I want to say so many things about how I feel, about my fears, but within My Network, with the exception of my family, I have not said anything because all the way through this marvellous journey, I have been strong and I have been stoic. I may have had the occasional blip, but, mostly, I have carried on with what I had to do at the time and I have never broken down. I have been told by the people employed by a charity to support people like me, that it is usual at this time, that people begin to struggle with the status quo and fret about the future. I am doing all of that, but it is isolating because nobody understands it. I am expected to be stronger. I am expected to be rational. Somebody said to me the other day that I am a victim of my own positivity, perhaps that is paying to much credit to me, but at times I do feel like that. My behaviour up until now, I suspect, makes it difficult for people to comprehend the struggle I am in. Not everybody wants to hear it. I had counselling the other day, and in these things I tend to have the occasional epiphany because I am not in conversation with myself, and I said that I am frequently being asked how I am, but I think few people actually want to hear how I am. They want me to be better and well. It’s too difficult to hear anything else and anything else goes so strongly against my character. What I feel hardly fits into a text message.

How much should I share anyway? I have lost an ability to know how much information is too much information? What are the costs of sharing? Big Sister pointed out that whilst My Myeloma is my own, it also belongs to others too, and she got me thinking whether my approach can be selfish? Is sharing selfish? I do not know how people feel about my diagnosis. Is saying I feel down enough? When does sharing personal thoughts become too much?

Do not get me wrong, some of my stoicism remains. Indeed it does. I am getting out and about and smiling after all. I am not constantly wanting to break down and talk about mortality, a stolen life, and infertility, but I want to feel like I am able to should I need to, and people will not run a mile if I do. I do not always want to talk about it either. For most of the time, I absolutely do not want to talk about it. I want to be to be able to say I feel let down, abandoned or jealous, without it being an attack on my character or a reason for people not to see me. I cannot help the thoughts, they do not feel like my own and I beat myself up over it. I want people to understand that and show that understanding to me. I do not need to chin up, it is not sufficient. I need the opportunity to talk. Again, I was talking to my counsellor and I surprised myself by crying whilst recounting a message I received from a friend, which showed some understanding and crucially, patience. I need patience too. In short, I want to be cut a bit of slack.

I fully acknowledge that this whole thing might not necessarily make me a hoot to be around. I get that it could be a chore. I get that I cannot articulate it and at times I may become a passive aggressive female dog. I get that this sounds selfish. I get all of it, but I need the slack. FYI, These fears are just some of the things I think about now. I am aware that this behaviour and talk may drive people away, indeed, I was warned of this fact. I am not going to talk about it over a post work drink, but it goes back to me knowing that I could if I wanted to, and it is from there that the isolation stems. Boom. Insightful.

This is what I need now. I need understanding, patience and slack. I have been assured that this will pass, it may even pass by November, who knows, I’m a strong gal.

The truth is, I am not strong enough to go it alone.

I don’t want everybody to become my counsellor, that would just be awkward. I want an army behind me. I have an army behind me, however, in this post transplant world, I have lost sight of who does what.


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With hair loss comes hair growth, unless you are an ageing man, have permanent alopecia or have had successful laser hair removal, but in the world of strong chemotherapy, hair loss almost always is followed by hair growth.

In some ways, this is a marvellous thing worthy of celebration so great, one goes out and buys a bottle of Pantene. Fantastic. In other ways, it is a hindrance and has one covering their face with a brown bag as they go out to buy Veet facial wax strips and new tweezers. If they are a female conforming to society’s expectations that is. Men might buy shaving foam.

I am not quite at the Pantene stage yet, but there is hair beginning to sprout from my skull. Prickly hair. I was told not to expect any growth for three months, so I am pleased with the prickles, which appear to be growing by the day by the nanometer. It totally looks like I have cancer.


My facial hair growth on the other hand? Well, put it this way, at this rate, I could soon look like Brian Blessed.

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Have you ever filled looked at a form and thought that you would rather stick a needle in your eye and eat a horse manure pie, than to complete it? Of course you have. Well, that is just the predicament I find myself in at present.

Having cancer, and a cancer that effects ones mobility so much that they once asked a stranger to tie up their shoelace, is not enough to qualify as ‘disabled’, nor does it automatically entitle you to all the money in land. The Government, it would seem, require evidence. Mountains of it. I have spent the last week finding out just how much evidence is required.

To make my life just that little bit easier, I wish to be officially classified as disabled and I would like financial assistance with my rent. I have long been a fan of the welfare state, and although I have some misgivings about taking even more of your money, I feel now is the time to cash in on your enforced generosity. I have a cancer with no cure after all.

The only snag in my planning, is that I am not eligible to your money. Well, my landlord is not anyway. During a productive meeting with the Macmillan benefits advisor last week, I discovered that I cannot receive Housing Benefit, because my half pay still means I have £71 per week to live on after rent and council tax. Please note the £71 does not include utility bills. So, with my hopes dashed of receiving an extra £5 per week, I decided to think of a glass half full and be thankful that I did not have to complete another form, which required copies of my bank statement, two pay checks, tenancy agreement, medical diagnosis, proof of identity, two utility bills and Housemate’s salary details. Tick.

The kind lady, who I eventually won over with my manners and smile forty minutes into our chat, did think I would be eligible for free healthcare services. I know what some of you not based in the land of mince pies, shortbread and Stilton, will be confused by this statement, as you may understand our wonderful NHS to be free. Well, dental care, prescriptions (except when you have cancer) and eye care are not free for all. It’s the recession. So, I was given a twenty page form to complete, which only required a pay check, a year’s bank statement, thorough breakdown of financial assets (this was brief) and a utility bill. Bar a copy of my bank statement, that bad boy was completed yesterday. Tick.

When it comes to being disabled, the bureaucratic definition is somewhat more refined than the general public’s might be, and the definition varies between central and local government. Again, I will reiterate that all of this is to make my life that little bit easier, so it may surprise you to hear that to obtain a blue badge and concessionary travel, I needed to complete and provide the following;

* A 36 page form claiming Personal Independence Payment plus three additional pages explaining my physical limitations, which if approved will mean that in some quarters, including cinemas, museums and theatres, I will be classed as ‘Disabled’
* A six page form to my local council requesting free travel, because getting national agreement does not qualify me as disabled because lyctic lesions in the spine does not an automatic disabled make
* An online form requesting a Blue Badge, I am told that my local council may not allow me this, if I have free travel
* At least one, if not two, independent physical assessments
* At least one medical professional to back up my claims
* Numerous medical documents including a list of medication

Yesterday, I spent much of my day preparing this information. It was mildy satisfying, whilst being completely frustrating at the same time. It is a well known fact that government is a well oiled machine, so it wold be no surprise that I found the forms and information confusing. I received one form in the post that came with a stamped addressed envelope to return it, but I was separately informed that the council will only accept it if I return it in person. I feel like this could be a trick. I applied for the PIP benefit over a month ago and I received the form last week, thank goodness it was not urgent. Fortunately, there is a PIP helpline, which I phoned twice and I when I asked what information would be required, I was told that the help desk person had not seen the form. So, that was useful.

I will tell you something for nothing, I am constantly heading things about ‘Benefit Britain’ and people taking advantage of the system, but in order for somebody to understand these forms, they must be a frickin’ genius and deserve whatever they get. Even the ones who warrant the reminder to complete the forms in ink, with their own information and those of another.

Personally, I do not understand why there are so many hoops to jump. The system seems to be designed so that the applicant is branded a liar and then has to prove their innocence. Living with cancer is just so easy after all. It feels like a competition. My medical ailment is worse than yours… Fact.

Now, after all that form filling and ink, I have to take a trip to a photocopier, and then wait, and do a physical assessment and find out more about a mystery taxi service and try to recover from my transplant. Tick.


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Precautionary Measures

As I try and get on with the meaning of life, I am ever aware of the fact that I now have to take certain measures to ensure that I am not struck down with hysterical diarrhoea again or a bad bug of bad bugs. Post transplant, I am ever aware that I have to be cautious when it comes to all things germ related. I can confirm that this is caution is tedious. Everywhere I look, everywhere I go and everything I do represents potential danger. So imagine what it is like in London.

If I am not careful, I could develop a complex. If I am not careful, I could experience something that is less than pleasant. It’s a catch 22.

The caution is not from the unexpected (, a stem cell transplant does compromise one’s immune system after all. Everything I read prior to my transplant told me that my immune system is now pants.

Wash, wash, wash, they said. Be clean, they said. Avoid disease, they said.

* Wash your your hands wherever you may go, before you do anything and after you have done it
* Do not put anything dirty in your mouth
* Do not go abroad for 12 months
* Only eat food that is dead of all things, not just the obvious
* Do not eat reheated food
* Do not let somebody sneeze into your mouth
* Do not lick the seat of a public toilet

The list goes on and on of course. And on. Fortunately for me, and I am trusting their judgement on this, my Medically Trained People are not as rigid as my Internet research implied. I am back on the raw cherry tomatoes for example and that is a marvellous thing. If I think that is marvellous, imagine what I thought when they said I could go abroad, not too far, three months after my transplant date. On this subject, I am playing it by ear.

I do not know how much of a threat coughs and sneezes actually are to me. My bloods are back to normal, but I swear at ten points in my recent history, I was told to avoid the coughs and sneezes for they spread diseases, but then just the other day, I was told that I was being needlessly cautious.

The dilemma!

There is a part if me that wants to be overly zealous, and live in a plastic bubble of cleanliness forever and ever and ever, and who disinfects after and during every encounter with Bruce. The other part of me wants to stick two fat fingers up and myeloma and my transplant and suck down a dozen oysters in rebellion.

In reality, I am doing neither.

I cannot help but see a threat to my health in almost everything now. As a thumb sucker, this new approach to cleanliness, is cumbersome to say the least. I stroke the dogs, I was my hands. I come in from the outside, I was my hands. I just lurve washing my hands. I carry antibacterial hand wash in my handbag. I really do. I draw the line at the face mask, despite having some hidden in the mess that is my bedroom,

If it was just my hands, that would be one thing, but it is not. Germs do not restrict themselves to hands. In my life to date, I have very much thought that exposure to germs is a good thing. I have not licked any toilet seats, but when it comes to food, for example, I have always thought that a little bit of germ exposure builds the immune system. Unless I was catering for somebody, I would never was my fruit or veg, well, apart from the leek, for those things are muddy. Now, if I want a strawberry or currently, the overly priced fancy cherry tomato, I have to wash them and dry them to eat them. My current preferred method is the sieve. A sieve? I just want to eat them. I have never understood people who wash an apple and then dry it in a hand towel. I understand now, they had all undergone immune compromised treatment as well.

I may have accidentally tasted a few prawns a weeks so ago, and reheated a soup, and ate some cold meat, but prior to doing this I did wash my hands. A day later, I experienced some unpleasantness from the bowel. Was it just a coincidence or did my lack of willpower let me down? We will never know, but the paranoia ruined the experience of eating these things in the first place. The propaganda worked. I was suitable scared and now for the foreseeable future, I will have to be sensible. Yawn in my face why don’t you.

More excitement is to come. I have to have a flu jab. The question now is, when does this have to stop? Can I have a follow up question? Okay. When is enough, enough?

And if you have managed to reach the bottom of this blog, I think the word count alone is a testament to my anxiety, either that or I need an editor… I clearly am a sucker for the propaganda.


As for now, be clean little ones. Be clean.


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Anybody who is anybody knows that the main requirement to be cool, with It and on trend when you are a single 29 year old, is not going out and about and experiencing the world, but is a desire and the necessary time to complete puzzles by yourself. Yes, puzzles. The puzzles can be a jigsaw, a sudoku or something that you can find in the latest edition of Puzzler, but ultimately, they must be something one uses as a time consuming form of recreational escapism. Modern technology allows this trend to be followed via the tablet, or in the case of the even cooler kids, the iPad. This really is what people mean when they refer to ‘gaming’; logic puzzles. When one has a genuine urge to input numbers or find words, in an attempt to escape their woes, they automatically becoming an intriguing and marvellous being.

I am not going to lie to you, I am just one of these people. The cool people.

I like to escape. Imagine my surprise then, when one day no so far behind us, in an attempt to not think about my situation, I decided to complete a word search and came across a naughty word I was not intending, nor wanting, to come across.


It’s a bloody epidemic. Before you know it, it’s everywhere. Everywhere.

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I have been back in London Town for seven whole days. An outsider, or in fact, anybody who does not live inside my brain, may think that I have been overjoyed by this development in my recovery. Progress. Progress and independence. “Yes”, I have heard people say.

If I am honest, I am ambivalent to it. I see the progress, especially physically and I love being in my flat, but most things just feel flat or a pretence. Any fanfare I imagined did not happen, and the whole thing just feels like one big, fat, tormented, anticlimax. Nothing changed. I do not know why I imagined or hoped my return to be a miraculous return to form, but it is not. I feel exactly the same.

Prior to me having a date of return, I was desperate to return to my life in London. Absolutely desperate. As the date approached however, anxiety appeared in my life. And I mean real anxiety. Could I look after myself? Who would look after me if I couldn’t? How was I going to fill my days? Would anybody even notice? Would Bruce remember me? And so my internal monologue went on. Life before transplant seems quite different to the one before, and in the weeks after my transplant, I felt more and more like a forgotten treasure. The metaphor does not quite work however, because I am not sure if a treasure can have social anxiety and feel anger, fear and loneliness. That is what my transplant did for me. Do not get me wrong, I felt and feel absolute unconditional love in the lands they call the Fens, but I felt and feel disconnected from my life in London. That disconnection has only mended slightly within my current geographic proximity. I have no idea how much of this feeling is real or perceived. On Monday, my return day, my feelings were in a word, overt. Overt indeed. I had a long, and when I say long, I am talking more than two hours worth of crying. It might have been four. Four hours of snot, tears and doubt.

I opted to come back of course, in spite of the tears. I reasoned that the reality could not be as bad as my fiction. I have been saying and thinking a lot this week that I need to rip off the plaster. I need to put myself in ‘difficult’ situations to prove to myself that they are not difficult at all. Every single time I have done this, I have seen that it is not as difficult as I thought, but I do not feel like I have garnered the satisfaction I should have done from doing it.

I was very kindly reassured on my first day back that I could take care of myself. This was a correct assessment. I may have forgotten what buttons to press on my remote control in the dark and had to remind myself just how many steps it takes to get to the toilet in the dark without hitting a wall or a bike wheel, but the rest of it? I can just about do the basics.

Physically, London is doable. I have had a few close calls. Yesterday, I was in a Tesco a bus ride away from home and I genuinely thought I would not make it back. I told myself off and hopped on the 38 and then lay down for 15 minutes, in anger and with pleasure in equal measure. On Thursday, I had to get a taxi because I thought that I would not make it to the end of my street on foot, let a lone to the hospital. On Wednesday, I fell whilst asleep making soup. But then, on Tuesday, I walked for fifteen minutes by myself and did not get tired (right away). Last night, I had a bake-athon punctuated with regular rests of course, but I did it by myself.

Outside my front door is scary, I cannot escape that yet. Outside, people cough on the bus and think they are more entitled to a priority seat than I because they have grey hair. Outside, people expect me to put my smiley, happy, coping face on. Outside, I have to do the roadshow. Outside my head, people do not understand, no matter where I am. It’s just harder to hide it here.

I do not wish to mislead you. I can still laugh and converse, it just feels subdued. I am subdued. The EJJ is subdued and that continues to be an infected mosquito bite.

Now, if you excuse me, I need to go rip off another plaster.


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Endurance Tests

Cancer is an endurance test. One thing I have learnt since my diagnosis, is that to enable good health and a continuance of life, one has to put in the training and endure all the shit cancer throws at you. You get your rest, take your supplements, work out the brain, set targets and hope that you will reach the finish line intact.

Eleven months or so ago, when somebody told me they were planning to do an endurance test of their own, I thought I would have long finished this particular test of my own. Long finished. That has not been the case. My test goes on and nobody know when that will finish and that fact makes us all sigh. Sigh.

Tomorrow, it is the Ironman Wales. Wales is a country in the United Kingdom FYI. I won’t tell you all about it again, because I already did that once before (, when I asked you for your money then. In short, Neil will be swimming, cycling and running tomorrow to raise money for Myeloma UK. It is an endurance test indeed, especially because his wife has just had a 15 day old baby.

So, right now, to assist similar people who are currently on the endurance test that is myeloma, I am asking for your money again.

Oh, and good luck Neil!


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Once Upon A Time There Was Moisture

Once upon a time there was a girl. The girl had hair as dark as night, and hips as wide as a HGV. A minority of people across the land considered her to be beautiful and vivacious. She was confident and content. She would walk the cemented pavements of her kingdom with her held high high and her lips adorned with paint. After dark, she would do both with added liquid gusto.

One day she became unwell, the kingdom mourned and the girl was given a combination of various magic beans, in a variety of shapes and sizes from a number of different fields, from the local apothecary. Disheartened, but not defeated, the brave girl took the beans when advised and hoped. She hoped for happily ever after.

Slowly the pills took effect… Firstly, she was driven to dream more frequently than once upon a time. She then sacrificed her hair as dark as night to the Wicked Witches of Doxorubicin, Cyclophosphamide and Melphalan. Her skin grew scales from the topic her head to the ends of her feet, and her finger nails cracked resembling an artexed ceiling. The small, white beans called Dexamethasone, gave her an overwhelming urge to eat. And eat she did.

The girl had comes to terms with what had happened, and still she walked the cemented pavements of her kingdom with her head held high and her lips adorned with paint. To keep the head held high, the girl ensured that whilst she was on the streets, she dressed like the princess she was and oozed elegance by enhancing her natural beauty with marker pens and crayons, even when she wore denim.

One day, whilst visiting a new land, mysteriously called “Bourne”, the girl, dressed in a print of a jungle, explored the town centre. She entered a parlour of sorts, referred to by the locals, as the stationary shop. It was a treasure trove of paper and stickers. There were two ageing ladies working behind a counter as white as snow. They greeted her with a smile and a head tilt. As the girl looked at the Manila envelopes, a strange sensation came across her, she felt like she was standing at the crater of a volcano. Despite her cosmetic disguise, a red colour appeared on the surface of her skin. It was strange, but it was familiar for she had experienced something similar, previously. “Oh no”, she whispered, “I am going to get wet”.

It started at her head, then slowly progressed downwards, stopping at her upper thigh. The girl looked up, and there were now two more people in the shop buying pencils for their young; the girl’s head fell. It fell due to the weight of the moisture that came out of every pore on her head and face. She attempted to shield it with her hands, but any attempt was worthless. Puddles formed in the fat roll in the back of her head. She reached for a handkerchief from her leather satchel, which she used to blot the beads of sweat until the handkerchief stuck to her brow. As the warm liquid dripped down her neck, the girl could not stop it from protruding out of her dress at her bosom and down her back. As the paint melted from her face, she began to cry tears of black. It would not stop. For ten minutes the girl stood in the shop, wishing and willing the spell to end. When that failed, she wished to be invisible. She stood in front of a revolving fan, pretending that she was inspecting the colour photocopier and still it did not end. It lasted an eternity.

As it subsided, the girl walked at great pace until she came across a bench, for she was in great need of a seat. As she in the shaded area between a bin and a phone box on the A15, she caught her breath whilst hoping she could be saved by Prince Charming. Prince Charming would not mind sticky thighs, she thought. Hopefully not. Prince Charming did not come, this is only Volume I afterall. So the girl attempted to rehydrate.

In the hours and days that followed, the sensation reappeared, frequently, regardless of whether she was in her log cabin, hidden from the kingdom, or not. They occurred in her sleep, when she was sitting, when she was standing, at least ten times a day. There was no rhyme nor reason to their appearance and frequency. It prevented the would be princess from donning a wig.

Her confidence suffered. The girl became concerned about engaging with her public. She smelt like a potion of oranges and onion. An occurrence became an inevitability. She knew they occurred because of one or more of the magic beans, she also knew that she was experiencing something more suites to the evil step mother, but there was nothing to be done, apart from sweat it out. The girl knew she had to wait to receive more magic pills to make them stop. She longed for a return of dryness.

It was still to come. Happily ever after had not come for her. Not yet.

And so, the girl decided to education those of her kingdom, that excessive sweating was not necessarily a result of obesity. It can be menopause. Fake or real. Nobody knew.

The End

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