Was convinced I’d be one of those old boys who shuffles along the high street in a cap and coat regardless of the weather. Who loses track of time and looks suddenly and startled at his watch then mutters. Who, when he tries to speed up, resembles some mechanical object put together wrongly. Who doesn’t notice blobs of snot on his nose, spittle on his chin; has a vacant wateriness in his eyes and steadies himself on tables and chairs, as if against an increasingly fast-spinning, ever-more incomprehensible world. But obviously not. It’s a spot on my prostate: a hard, cancerous spot. The doctor and I traded best- and worst-case scenarios and hearing him articulate words with which I either wasn’t familiar or had certainly never associated with myself – ‘biopsy’ and ‘metastasis’ and ‘Finasteride’ – I decided to get flowers for Fliss on the way home: a huge bouquet with asters and iris and baby’s breath. Maybe cook a roast: pork, that’s always been her favourite.
What do You think about What She Left: Enhanced Edition?
