This was an enterprising poster I saw in the window of a house in the North Laine, Brighton a couple of summers ago. Little did I know then that I would know exactly how the small owner and the voodoo doll would feel.
When I saw the oncologist I recommended he try a course of chemo, just to understand how it makes his patients feel. I also told him that if I died, I would haunt him. Poor man, he didn't deserve the wrath of chemo woman.
All the chemo is finished now, so I should be better?
Tell that to the mouth ulcers and the constipation. The heavy breathing should win me the elusive Bafta alone. And since starting Tamoxifen I think the springs in the sofa have gone. The Housewives of Orange County don't have these problems... Daytime telly has taught me so much. I will ask the surgeons to forget the breast implants, they are so last year. The housewives are having breast reductions now and cheekbone implants. I wonder if you can get that on the NHS? And I know all about decluttering, (GUTTED) refurbishment, (my flat pack home) and am almost friends with permanently-pregnant Sarah Beeny and her maladjusted mansion. (I bought a huge house and need Channel Four to pay for it).
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