That's right. As the title of this would
suggest I am a paper addict.
I have
stumbled across the courage for elucidation, much the same as the style
of
the cowardly lion. Give me all sorts of paper by the ... bucket-load?
I am
especially fond of A4 Lined pre-punched paper (non-recycled for a smooth
finish). Admitting to my papyrus addiction is not something I have
flippantly entered into.
Presently I am without paper, resulting in a state of delirium tremens.
This
is characterised by my ability to process only the simplest of thoughts
-
things that, on a baser level, are almost instinctive. These include
trying
to stay alive by finding shelter, hunting for food and trying to find
a
mate. The latter is proving rather difficult at the moment because, as
those
of you with an addict for a partner will know, the withdrawal process
does
not suddenly transform us into God's most attractive creature. I think
it is
safe to say that God is trying to make withdrawing people as ugly as
possible, sort of like a mild Down's syndrome child, in the hope we don't
breed. There will be a two-page spread in Take a Break next week, I can
see
it now, "Don't let this addict species flourish, they can barely
take care
of themselves or fit their tongues in their mouths".
Unlike a real Down's syndrome child though, the withdrawing population
have
normal strength tongue muscles and do not have the selfless aid of
middle-aged parents. Parents who strive to ensure their only child looks
as
hip and trendy as all the other kids on the Dial-a-Ride bus. There is
only
one thing worse than seeing a Down's kid in a tracksuit and sunglasses
with
a smile on its face, and I will lead on to that momentarily.
I have wondered lately whether a child’s chromosomal quandry would
make me
any less likely to love it. Could I really stand 30 years of people telling
me how lucky I was to have a "special" child? Could I really
lie to a child
for 30 years? Could I honestly tell him I wouldn't have had him any other
way? Congratulating it when it manages to pronounce (almost correctly)
its
own name? I don't think I could do that to poor little Rudiger Miguel.
Even
I am not that cruel. He may be a Down's but they have needs too. Like
being
fed, watered, changed and taken to the hospital during our weekly jaunt.
I
think I would colour him in green and hand him over to science.
Forgive the nebulousness of this piece, I gather I am not alone in
"tangenting". Yes I did make that word up and no, it is not
a citrus fruit
you would enjoy during Christmas festivities.
On waking today (note the lack of specified timeframe) I remembered
something that I had written on my bedroom wall in the night. I had a
fantastic thought when I was wondering what to write for The Cheese.
I so
wanted to please him. Sarah and I even came up with a rhyme about The
Cheese
when we were walking her dog yesterday. I will not repeat the words uttered,
for fear of Sarah's wrath, but I will let slip that every word in the
composition rhymed with cheese (or please).
My "middle of the night" thought was that sometimes (most
of the time)
cancer patients relatives (the ones who write to magazines) really crank
my
yanker. Cancer patients are, I can only presume having yet to be one,
in
pain sometimes. They do well, in my opinion, to put up with laying flat
on
their backs in a clean, fresh hospital room being pumped full of
mind-altering, pain-killing drugs. It can't be easy and I understand
that...
these are NOT the personages I am troubled by.
I can't help but take issue with the relatives and close friends of
the
aforementioned afflicted. They love to have a pity party on behalf of
the
unwell. They love to write letters to magazines on behalf of the unwell.
They love, most importantly, to make money out of the unwell. I include
a
forged letter to Take a Break magazine.
"Dear Sharon,
Please put my niece Jewlie McCohen and her son on the throne this week!
Fitting them both on the throne won't be a problem as chemo has caused
Jewlie to drop to the same weight as the average stump-tailed macaque.
She
has been very poorly with a life threatening illness recently and has
received treatment which can work in some people but not in others (the
results of whether it works are, I'm sure, based on whether you are a
good
person and keep focused on beating your illness). I just want to give
her a
shout out and let her know that her son spoke about her every day she
was in
the hospital. "When is Mummy going to die?", 15 year old Freddie
would often
pipe up. When he wasn't piping up or shooting up he was jacking off,
but he
never forgot to take his mum grapes each day. I read last week grapes
have
cancer-killing properties and so Jewlie has now ceased to receive her
usual
treatment and has moved on to red wine and brie with grapes. She is a
MASSIVE Chico fan and so has kept a positive mental attitude. This seems
to
be helping her through. I am asking that you donate my fee for this letter
to a well-known cancer charity, in the vague hope that you will not have
read this far and will issue a cheque to the address enclosed.
Greta C. Rodriguez, Ashby de la Zouch."
The made-up response to this by the Ed would probably contain the words
"brave", "beating the illness" and "don't let
that bastard cancer grind you
down".
My on-the-spot response to this would be that
I WISH PEOPLE WOULD STOP ANTHROPOMORPHISING THE HUMAN BODY'S DEFENCE
MECHANISM. BEING POSITIVE DOES NOT HELP ANYTHING OTHER THAN HELPING TO
KEEP
YOU POSITIVE.
If a letter should have been written in to Take a Break in the first
place,
it should have been to say
"Well done Chemo, come and do your worst. The body I've mutated
in belongs
to that of a manic depressive who finds it hard to stay positive for
long
spells. Wanna fight about it?
Lym Phoma, Thyroid Gland Road, Lymphatic System"
I wonder if each time I smoke a cigarette if I remain positive, cancer
will
avoid me. Here's hoping. If not I will stock up on A4 Lined pre-punched
paper (non-recycled for a smooth finish) and get writing some sympathy
letters to every chick-lit stuffed 'zine in sight.