A little boy of my acquaintance upon whose birth certificate the ink is barely dry and who introduced the phrase "done and custard" to my vocabulary, has been diagnosed with a type of cancer that apparently only attacks children.
The bastard thing only attacks children. How un-fucking-fathomly evil is that?
If it came for me – pushing 60, morbidly obese, diabetic, osteo-arthritic, can’t remember what I had for breakfast*, thinks exercise is for people whose brains don’t work – I could tell it to come and have a go if it thought it was ‘ard enough. An outward display of defiance while secretly shitting meself.
But the little lad who it did manage to summon up the courage to have a go at must spend his third birthday undergoing chemotherapy, while still managing to smile for visitors and trying to wind his mummy up.
Makes you vary between angrily asking “what kinda god …?” during the daylight hours and praying at night to the same god that he be made well. Cognitive dissonance they call it. Bloody appalling I call it.
*My GP assures me it's not Alzheimer’s. But this is the same woman who still believes me when I tell her I’m definitely gonna diet.
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