Flold

I’ve just had flu. I knew it was flu because I'd had it in my twenties and it was characterised by the same lead being poured into all my limbs, even my fingers, and particularly my head, over a matter of minutes only to realise that if the house was burning down, I’d have to pray the hubbie was up to a fireman’s lift because I couldn’t move my body, not an inch.

The first time it happened I remember my mum peering at me through the living room window as I sat stock still on the sofa on a fiery hot summer’s day in the long university holidays, sporting the entire home’s stock of blankets. She was wondering why I hadn’t answered the door, used her key instead, took one look at me, asked me to put my chin on my chest and when I could, said, in her indomitable matter-of-fact nurse’s voice: 

Oh, that’s ok, I thought it might be meningitis. It’s just flu.

Just flu? I said, goodness! This was worse than flu!

Flu’s bad, she said, people call a bad cold, flu. But flu is flu, a bad cold is a bad cold.

I remember thinking they needed a better name for a bad cold. Because a bad cold can feel really, really horrible can’t it? But a cold can be anything from a sniffle to confining you to your bed and preventing you from work, so when it’s a bad cold we feel the need to call it something else so that we at least get some sympathy - AKA hot water bottle, Lemsip and a pass out on the dishes – and our manager doesn’t think we’re being pathetic, worse, skiving. For what it’s worth, I do believe the RIGHT thing to do is to stay away from work when you have a bad cold because nobody, but nobody wants to catch your cold so it’s kinder to the rest of us, and you’ll get better quicker, if you give yourself some TLC. Ok? You’re allowed.

How about colflu, flucol, flueyold or, flold. Yes! If you have a ‘flold’ then you are allowed to go to bed without putting on the washing before you go, your team will understand that you didn’t respond to that email and your boss will absolutely insist you don’t set foot anywhere near the office. Sorted.

This post isn’t a veiled appeal for sympathy by the way. I am currently in that post poorly-ness wave of euphoria, where it was almost worth feeling so bad, to feel so good in comparison. Almost. No, it reminded me of one of my questions I have running around my brain that never gets answered: where do these words start? You know, words like ‘peng’ and ‘sick’, or,‘dordy’ (threw in a Newark one there – I’m happy to say that my memory of being 14, and my diary corroborates, was that most things in life were, ‘dordy’) and even, ‘cool’ – that came from someone, somewhere, sometime. 

It’s the words that already have a meaning which bears no resemblance to what the speaker would like them to mean, that I wonder about. Who is the first person to say them and how do they end up being global? I mean, I understand it in the practical sense, a la internet et al, but how does one teen say something’s ‘peng’ in a little country village in deepest darkest Sussex for example, only for it to end up on the lips of a rapper in America? How did one person decide that using a word which described something pretty gross such as ‘sick’ would be a great way to describe something being ‘great’, and then manage to convince everyone else to feel the same?

I realise some of this is generated through the influence of idolised celebrity, but celebs aren’t getting up in the morning and thinking: Hmmm. What new word could I come up with today that, within weeks, will be universally understood by everyone under twenty?

Are they?

Well, maybe it’s our turn to make a mark on the Oxford English Dictionary. What word do you think should exist, but doesn’t…yet? Maybe it's a word only your family knows, or one you misspoke as a child but that makes so much more sense your way...

Meanwhile, my sympathies if you have had the misfortune to develop a cold, flold or flu this winter, and I hope that we all manage to beat off the gremlins going forward.

Stay well, folks!

Your Personality in Your Hands

The road through Cancerville was a little rocky last week. However sure I was that I didn't want to use the much documented Cold Cap, however prepared I felt for my hair falling out; the speed with which it all disappeared was shocking. In three days it was pretty much gone. What feels like chunks of your personality falling out in handfuls can only be described as distressing. The seventy year old, uncannily reminiscent male I glimpsed whenever I had the misfortune to catch myself in the mirror, a reflection in the window or glass of a cupboard door – I never realised quite how much we see our faces through the day – was not a sight which gladdened my heart.

My indoor headwear of choice (thanks Susie!)

But, like those before me and those who will unfortunately follow, I have come through the other side and am starting to embrace life with a bald head. A very cold, bald head.

Now I feel able to say to anyone going through this, or holding the hand of someone who is, don't feel you have to pretend that losing your hair is OK, because it isn't. You don't have to tell yourself you look better bald, unless you do. But do remember that hair loss due to chemo is only temporary. For some little understood reason, hair often starts to grow back in cycle four of chemo, not weeks after the end of the final cycle which I'd imagined. And that means that in six small weeks, we could be seeing some tufts of new growth and wondering what colour the baby hair will be. (Anything but Silver Fox for me, please.) Will it be curly or straight? If I get the additional chemo curl, I'll have an 'afro', something which would gain me great kudos with my teenage children. If I go straight, finally I'll have the sophisticated-together look us curly haired mops can never quite pull off. Alas, I fear suave sophistication doesn't come as a package but a first impression of decorum wouldn't go amiss.

Going out for the first time with my wig on felt like I was wearing a sandwich board to broadcast the artificial nature of my head covering to all. But it doesn't anymore. Wearing a Buff, a sporty headscarf, to the gym felt like I was screaming, Caution! Very poorly person on treadmill! Albeit in reality, some people smiled, others gave me a hug and most people didn't notice.

Nonetheless, I did hibernate for a couple of days while I re-adjusted. It's just how I like to cope with things. So I retreated to my office and did my part in the judging of the 500 Words 2014 children's short story competition, hosted by Chris Evans and Radio Two.  This is the second year I've judged and again, I immensely enjoyed the experience. Every one of my batch of 34 stories was entertaining in an amusing, exciting or poignant way but, similarly to last year, I noticed a common factor linking the stories to which I awarded most marks.

I decided to blog about this in the hope it might help our writers of the future move forward not only with their writing generally but also in this and other competitions. I've posted the blog separately here: Psst! Young Writers! Here: Psst! Young Writers! and would be grateful if you could direct your young folk over there if you feel it could be of interest. I explain the categories used in judging the stories and also include some links for other short story competitions for young writers.

As for my writing, alas I didn't make the long list of the Bath Novel Award. But my short story, A Life with Additives, was read during A Roof over your Head, an evening of reading and music organised by the wonderfully altruistic writer, John Taylor  an event which raised in excess of £470 for the homeless charity, Shelter. And so I class that as a great week for writing.

And the pain of last week's hair loss feels a lot further away.

Have a great week!