So, you know that news I was waiting for? Well, it turned out to be Bad News. News involving my mum and the selfish, rude, demanding cancer that keeps insisting on taking up more room in her body. It's like a bad flatmate, scattering its crap around the place with no regard for personal space and refusing to clean it up. Playing loud, horrible music in the middle of the night when all we want is a moment of calm, just one blessed second of peace and quiet and not having to worry for once. No such luck.
Fortunately the doctors in Edinburgh are good, the best. They have a plan. There's no way to get rid of this anti-social interloper for good, we can't just kick it out and lock the door behind it, but we might be able to find a way to live together in relative harmony. She is in their hands, and I am keeping positive, because she has no choice and neither do I.
Of course, the plan comes with a cost. So this afternoon, my mum and I are heading to the wig shop, NHS prescription in hand, for the third time in twelve years. I'm voting for a pink one this time, because why the hell not?
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