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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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The Cottam Room

After a period of mysterious wonder, yesterday afternoon, I was finally able to discover what The Cotton Rooms, the hotel, is like. I can say, that it is much better than I thought it would be. Fancy. According to the Receptionist, the hotel or, as I like to view it, the half way house, is to the standard of a four star hotel. I believe it is indeed a four star hotel, the only difference is that it is full of sick people and their carers, with an essence of community spirit, and it is all free. Everything is free. Free, free, free. Thanks NHS. The care you provide is just marvellous.

x

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Sweaty, obese cancer chic

When Big Sister and I walked into the small lobby yesterday, we were quite impressed. I am positive, absolutely positive that my first impression was heavily influenced by the air conditioning. I bloody love air conditioning, especially when it is 30 degrees outside, and every crevice is leaking.

We checked in and received a royal tour and escort to our room. This place is equipped with a lounge, dining room with two microwaves, laundry services and air conditioning. Did I mention the air conditioning? Myeloma is a small price to pay for comfort in this heat. Our room was huge, with a delightful view of the BT Tower. Unfortunately for me, it was the only room, where the AC had decided not to work. It was warmer in there, than the outside world and I made the rather unpleasant mistake of sitting on one of the leather chairs. You can imagine what happened when I stood up…. I hope they have disinfectant. And so, after a few visits from the handyman, we were transferred to another room. Essentially we were downgraded to a room half the size overlooking the Macmillan Cancer Centre. It had to be done; there was no other option. I do not think a body would want to stay in a fifth floor room, in central London where you cannot open any windows, with no air conditioning, let alone a person gong through the fake menopause. I need cool air, I’m a big girl after all.

The rooms themselves have everything a gal could want. I have wifi. Yes. I have a DVD player to go with my big TV. Yes. I have a fridge. Yes. And finally, a safety deposit box for EMan. Yes, Yes.

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The breakfast isn’t bad either. Big Sister was most impressed by the fact she got a full English as well as me. I think she was less impressed by my insomnia, nor me waking her at 06:30hrs in a panic because I thought she was dead. Thank goodness we have separate beds. I wonder how Mamma Jones will fair this evening, will she appreciate the Piano soundtrack at 01:00hrs?

I am still cannot see how my transfer will work, and not knowing when it will happen makes more difficult to comprehend. How much do I unpack? How will I get to the hospital? Might I actually have to call an ambulance? Nobody knows. As nobody knows, I am just going to try to go with the flow.

It may be nice, but there will always be one place I would prefer to be. Soon, soon.

EJB x

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