“Gone for yet another run,” the note says from my brother. It’s propped up against the bathroom mirror so I can’t miss it.
No-one can accuse us of not at least trying to keep in shape. “I’m in shape: round is a shape,” as it says on the attached photo.
Have caught the sun a bit on chest: for the first time in three years have the faint outline of a white vest-top on my skin with a light tan around it. Admittedly, the tan is so subtle that no-one else will notice it, but still. Even have a very faint watch mark on my wrist.
Have conflicting feelings about this. It is nice to have a bit of a tan, of course. Look healthier and maybe a bit less fat. But can’t help thinking “had so much radiotherapy and it didn’t work, still have cancer all over my chest” and “stayed out of the sun last year and the year before and still have cancer in my skin.”
“Can’t expect messages from Seb everyday asking how I am, when am having a lovely holiday and he’s at home writing a dissertation,” I say to Mum as I sit at the table in the parental room, eating my bean sprout, cucumber and romaine lettuce salad.
“Exactly,” Mum says. “Why do you always have to criticise my outfits in the blog?”
“Those pom-pom shoes are peculiar. Can I have a bit more wine please?” I say.
“No, you had far too much at lunchtime,” Mum says. She’s still wearing the aforementioned turquoise, fuchsia and lilac skirt with white top. She looks lovely.
“I only had three glasses at lunchtime,” I say, spreading cottage cheese on my cracker and putting some beetroot on top of it. The white and purple make a satisfying picture.
Right, am dragging fat cancerous self to lift some weights.
Happy Wednesday everyone!
*1988. By Hugh Pentecost. Murder mystery.