A Bruising Encounter With Beastly Boris

Question Time on Radio Four today was full of the usual robotic and characterless politicians spouting the usual PC nonsense about how marvellous immigration and the National Health service is. At least today there was an interesting question, `do the panel agree that Boris Johnston is a nasty piece of work?’ Unsurprisingly the opinions were bland and unenlightening.

My own opinion, based on meeting him at a fabled Spectator lunch many moons ago when the Spectator was a hotbed of sexual intrigue and adultery, sheds some light on his character.

I’d expected to really like him and was looking forward to witnessing some flirty, non PC banter but oh… much to my surprise he was very short (not that I am remotely shortist you understand – I am only five feet five and Boyfriend on a Short Fuse only five foot eight and shrinking), but I’d expected Boris to be about six foot as he always looks so beefy on the telly.

Imagine my shock when I am introduced to a stocky, but none the less titchy chap barely any taller than me (OK, I’m wearing one inch heels). I’ve since realised that he looks huge on telly because he usually stands next to tiny people. He towers over his wife who must be about four foot. But I suppose it is quite normal for celebrities to be small in real life.

The height thing I could forgive (almost) but much worse, he had the coldest, most calculating and piercing blue eyes I have ever seen. I once lunched with Barbara Cartland (I was dating her grandson) and she similarly had the same kind of piercing blue eyes. She was tough but unlike Boris, she wasn’t mean.  

My fellow invitees were a witty and glittering throng, including glamorous lady war correspondent Janine de Giovanni, gorgeously attired in Chanel and high heels, James Delingpole and Rod Liddle who had invited me, and on whom I had a humungus crush.  

During the pre-lunch drinks I was introduced to Boris. As a staunch Green Party member, I suggested that the Tories should take up some of the environmental policies that the Labour Party had given up on (bear in mind this was many years ago, when there were still votes in the environment and way before the Cameron husky era). 

 

`YES!  Roared Boris, flushing with enthusiasm. `LET’S PUT THE CONSERVE BACK INTO THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY. MARVELLOUS IDEA’, he boomed.  

 

But then, quite suddenly my pearl necklace broke, and (thankfully fake) pearls splattered all over the wooden floor. `OH DEAR OH DEAR!’ he blustered, looking fearfully embarrassed like all my clothes had suddenly fallen off or something, before scuttling off towards the moth-eaten Spectator dining room.

 

Things deteriorated further over lunch. Boris kept booming on, like the most popular boy in school everyone was eagerly currying his favour, and were madly, exhaustingly, singing for their supper. All the men were sweating noticeably too. They were probably just as nervous as I was.  

As we sat down I turned to a tall, bland looking man on my left and enquired politely, `what do you do?’ (all my powers of conversation had quite fled).  

`I’m the editor of The Times’, he replied stonily. 

Feeling a little crushed, (the editor of The Times!) I turned to the gimlet-eyed man on my right. I discovered that he was Conrad Black’s hatchet man, (you see, it was a very long time ago) apparently very well known, but I had never heard of him either. 

Then everyone suddenly began talking about music, in a noisy, one upmanship kind of way. The music critic of The Guardian began explaining very loudly how Duran Duran, Abba and other previously uncool 80’s bands were now the height of cool.  

 

I heard my voice pipe up uselessly, `yes, I think Supertramp are fantastic, I’m sure they’re due for a revival any minute’.  

There was a terrible silence. It appeared that Supertramp are simply not, and will never be, cool.  It was like admitting to being a Daily Express reader. Possibly worse.  

I shrunk back into my uncomfortable chair and pushed around a great slab of raw meat that had just been placed in front of me. Fortunately the champagne was running like water so at least I could drown my sorrows.   

And then very oddly, did I imagine it? I felt a foot playing around with my shins. It was most disconcerting. The men on either side of me were showing no interest in me at all, and Rod Liddle and Boris Johnson had very short legs that could not have reached that far. Was it a cat, or a ferret?   

By now I hadn’t spoken for twenty minutes and I was desperate to return to the conversation whizzing around my head.  

But it was almost impossible to break in, it was probably a bit like the sixth form at a boy’s public school. Lots of very confident, clever, witty but rather unkind men, shouting and desperate to hold centre stage. Even the glamorous lady war correspondent had been mute for an hour, lapsing into a ladylike silence as the boys shouted at each other.   

Where was the famous Spectator flirting and louchness? 

Bolstering myself up with more champagne, I seized a lull in the conversation and jumped right in. I’d remembered reading that Boris had German blood. 

`Boris are you half German?’ I enquired conversationally.  

`NO!  I’m a quarter Turkish!’ he boomed, adding patronizingly, YOU’RE THINKING OF BORIS BECKER! 

I shrunk back into my uncomfortable wooden seat as his toadies sniggered unkindly at my gaffe.  

Now, Boris Becker is a six foot two inch, ripplingly muscled Teutonic SEX GOD. There was no way even I, with my terrible eyesight, could confuse him with the short, portly magazine editor across the table shovelling steak into his mouth.   

Half an hour later they were still discussing Boris Becker and broom cupboards when the coffee arrived and I was able to slip out unnoticed. I never did find out who was touching up my leg.  

So it’s fair to say, the charms of Boris Johnston have completely eluded me, so much so, that in the mayoral election I actually voted for Ken Livingstone (and I’m pretty right-wing, so that probably just about sums it up).


This is an excerpt from my new best-selling book, Letting Go of the Glitz, one woman's struggle to live the simple life in Chelsea, just out in paperback and available from Amazon and about 3 bookshops.

(I know it is fashionable to rail against Amazon for not volunteering to pay more tax than they are legally entitled to do, but they are the small time author's friend. You have no idea how horrible bookshops are to authors, so good for Amazon I say - at least they stock everyone, hurrah). And let's be fair, when you get your tax bill do you say, hmm, I think I should pay more tax than I have been asked for? No? Me neither.

 

Nutty Soldiers On

Both Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I are still floored with bad colds (bad colds mind, not flu, people often upgrade colds to flu but flu means one is bed-ridden and we are still able to totter about, just).

I am feeling knackered though, and am ignoring my admin mountain in favour of watching old documentaries of Rod Stewart and Britt Ekland on You Tube. Britt was on Piers Morgan last night, still looking good if slightly altered by surgery, but my God she was so beautiful.

Excerpts of a documentary filmed of them both in 1976 takes me back to that blazing hot summer when I was twelve and the misery of surviving a childhood with my own Britt Ekland lookalike Mother. Heavens, no child wants a glamorous mother, it really is a terrible fate. I was studious and skinny, still am, plus ca change.

I never understand people saying that childhood is the best time of your life. I’m much happier at fifty than I was at twelve.

Some things remain unaltered, we had a beautiful fluffy sheltie then too called Tiffany (very seventies name), I don’t remember how she died but I don’t think any of our shelties lived past about twelve, which is why Nutty is doing so well to get to fifteen.

He is soldiering on, brave stoic little chap that he is. He is very doddery and forgetful and even if I have just stroked him he quickly forgets where I am and starts wandering around the flat looking for me. His mouth tumour means he still cannot drink and eating is difficult for him too. I spoon feed him his chicken into his mouth’s good side, it’s not that easy, bits of food fall out onto the floor (quickly hoovered up by the tiny dogs). He dribbles blood, pus and saliva and we have to regularly mop him up. It is undignified for such a clean little dog and he just doesn’t deserve it.

Yet he does not appear to be in pain, he wags his tail when we stroke him and he enjoys his walks at a slow pace, hanging out with and sometimes barking at other dogs.

I am keeping up with his pills and potions – a teaspoon of colloidal silver and seven drops of Dr Regweg homeopathic anti-tumour mix twice a day, a homeopathic pill three times a day, acopops anti cancer pills twice a day (formulated by Dr Dressler, the dog cancer expert), lastly, a shitake mushroom excerpt twice a day. Some of them I can mix in his food, but if he won’t take them that way I open the capsules and mix it up with water that is syringed into his mouth.

It takes time, but I have plenty of time and even more love for my old boy. I will do whatever it takes to keep him going.

A Picture of Nutty in His Pram

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I have come down with bad colds, unusually it is me that has a particularly dreadful `man cold', he is far more stoic and is still taking the dogs out three times a day in the freezing cold.

I meanwhile, am lurking at home, taking a battery of homeopathic remedies which are not working. I've just had an invigorating session of facial acupuncture, which I hope will repair some of the grief-strained ravages on my face.

The pram pictured is a recent acquisition, which Nutty (also a natural stoic) has taken to reasonably well. He is whizzed to Burtons Court (our local park) and then taken out for a gentle perambulation on the grass. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is much feted by the local dog-walking matrons du certain age because he is the only man in the vicinity, he has quite a fan club and on the rare occasions I can be bothered to accompany him I have to beat of hordes of them off with a stick.

But of course there are famously no men anywhere. I mean, one sees men everywhere, but one never hears of any of them actually being single over forty. Why is it that I know twenty attractive interesting women over forty and not one single man (there are a few knocking about admittedly, but they are usually `SFAR' (single for a reason).

Sometimes he asks, `why do you put up with me?' and I reply, `because I'm fifty and desperate!'
If we were to split up I might never have a sniff of a date ever again while he of course would be beseiged by middle-aged women bearing casseroles.

But he is Mr Wonderful at the moment, so calm and helpful. The Prozac has kicked in to marvellous effect. Maybe I should go on it too?

It Helps To Talk

Since I’ve entered the murky grey world of bereavement and grief, I am drawn to the experiences of others who are similarly grieving. Re. people’s strange and inadequate response to grief and bereavement, I read an interview with writer Julian Barnes who says, “Grief sorts out and realigns those around the griefstruck; how friends are tested; how some pass, some fail.”

This is an excerpt from an interview with him in The Telegraph.

Julian Barnes seriously contemplated suicide after the death of his wife, he has disclosed.

The author, a former Man Booker Prize winner, worked out precise details while grieving for Pat Kavanagh, his wife of 30 years.

In his new novel, Levels of Life, he writes for the first time about coping with her death from cancer, aged 68, in 2008, and attacks friends whom he believes were too cowardly to speak her name.

He describes Kavanagh, a literary agent, as “the heart of my life; the life of my heart”. He goes on to note: “Grief sorts out and realigns those around the griefstruck; how friends are tested; how some pass, some fail.”

He adds: “You might expect those closest to you in age and sex and marital status to understand best. What a naivety. I remember a 'dinner-table conversation’ in a restaurant with three married friends of roughly my age.

“Each had known her for many years – perhaps 80 or 90 in total – and each would have said, if asked, that they loved her. I mentioned her name; no one picked it up. I did it again, and again nothing. Perhaps the third time I was deliberately trying to provoke, being p----- off at what struck me not as good manners but cowardice.

“Afraid to touch her name, they denied her thrice, and I thought the worse of them for it.” Barnes, who has been known for more cryptic works, also admitted considering suicide after her death.

“The question of suicide arrives early, and quite logically,” he writes. “I knew soon enough my preferred method – a hot bath, a glass of wine next to the taps, and an exceptionally sharp Japanese carving knife. I thought of that solution fairly often, and still do.”
 

The distressing thing here is how his friends find it so difficult to even talk about his late wife. Yet talking about those we have lost, or just sharing our unhappiness and grief really helps. It is so desperately unkind and thoughtless to ignore the elephant in the room and not allow people to express their suffering and comfort them.  
 

I spoke to Teflon-dad today and he is also going through the same emotions as Julian Barnes. His wife, my stepmother, who he has known for over thirty years although they have only been married for three, has terminal cancer and has about six months to live. Teflon-dad is absolutely heartbroken, his teflon-coating has broken and he is as devastated as you might expect. I shall have to find a new sobriquet for him. We bond regularly over our shared anticipated loss, and the wonderful thing about all those close to me is that they accord me the same respect as if I were grieving for a child, not a dog.
 

I am luckier than Julian Barnes in that respect.  

Boyfriend On a Short Fuse Is In A Saintly Mood

Felt tired and run down today. I’ve felt quite well under the circs, but we haven’t had heating for nearly 2 weeks and it remains absolutely freezing inside and out.

I haven’t slept very well the last 2 nights which hasn’t helped. Funny to think that only 7 weeks ago I was happy in my ignorance, fretting over small things, not aware that the cruel bomb that my beloved dog has inoperable cancer was about to be detonated. Certainly the past seven weeks have been greyer and gloomier, coloured by this devastating news.

But our lives and minds change shape to deal with the news and life goes on. I no longer cry every day, only as I’m going to sleep.

Spent all morning on dreary personal admin, searching for relevant car documents so we can secure our all necessary Kensington and Chelsea car parking permit. These things are worth their weight in gold and I have witnessed many tearful interactions with desperate K and C inhabitants, begging the harridan faced creatures who man the `car park shop’ for their permit. If for some reason you are not on the database you need to provide an arcane list of documents including a firearms certificate.

Oh, imagine living in the 60’s, and being able to park where you wanted, imagine how much less personal admin there must have been. We can only dream.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was blowing a gasket this morning. It has transpired that I may have shredded the car insurance document (I am not admitting to this mind), cue terrible rages. I quickly slipped him his Valium and peace was restored.

I called a dear old pal, R, who I haven’t seen for ages since she has been in India fighting her ghastly-sounding money-grabbing rellos. I meant to call her about Nutty but have felt so flattened I just hadn’t got round to it. I called and she was only round the corner from the dreaded Car Parking Shoppe where she lives, so we met in Wholefoods for a coffee.

To cut a long story short, the three of us (that’s her, me and Boyfriend on a Short Fuse) have decided to spent half the year in sunnier climes and half the year in London. I voted for Hawaii, Boyfriend on a Short Fuse for New Zealand and she is keen on Goa.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse at his most saintly, fetching water and coffees for us. All my girlfriends think he is wonderful. He is definitely in a better mood these days, the Valium is really working - or maybe the Prozac is kicking in at last.  

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse Calms Down with Valium Sandwich

This morning I discovered a small stash of Valium pills I bought off the Internet years ago, just in case I needed them in the event of Nutty’s demise. I took a Valium once and while I loved the way it took the edge off my anxiety, when it wore off I felt strangely tired and jaded. I suppose there is always a trade off.

Although I have thought about taking half a pill myself, I have been OK today. I am coping just about. Since Nutty’s cancer diagnosis I have been wracked with sobbing many times in a day and I never know when an emotional surge will come. I’ve stopped wearing mascara as there is no point. The shadows beneath my eyes are black enough without adding streaked makeup.  

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse veers from being loving and indispensable and shouty and abusive. I offered him half a Valium, thinking it would calm him down as irritation was fizzing out of his ears and nostrils. Almost instantly he was being sweet and kind. My God, I will have to order a shovel load.

After a certain age I think there is no point getting too hung up with special diets etc. If a pill or two helps you get through the day, why on earth not? Now Shouty and I are over 50, how many good years have we got left anyway? And look at Ronnie Wood, all the pills he has taken over the years and OK, he looks fairly ravaged, but he doesn’t look half bad for 96. And hello! What about Jo Wood? Glamorous and gorgeous, looks half her age and she has had her share of this and that (though not for many years according to her autobiography, which I thoroughly enjoyed, btw).

My God, sometimes I think it is hard enough just to stay alive, I think these people who give up caffeine, alcohol and chocolate or whatever must have nerves of steel. Isn’t life hard enough already? And how long do they really want to live for anyway? Think of being `good’ all your life and dying of cancer anyway. Nutty has had a wonderful dog diet for the past 4 years since we adopted him on my Mother’s death, and look what has happened to him. Organic veg, walks, love, love, love and still he succumbs to the beastly disease. OK ,he is 15 so one might argue he has to die of something.

Today I have cried twice I think. That is less than usual and my face is slightly less ravaged looking, although rather thin and drawn. Despite copious amounts of pasta with cream and butter I cannot put on weight. I wonder how these people on `special diets’ (about as special as a `special bus’ which is not very special at all), don’t fade away into the ether. Being thin after a certain age isn’t so great although women in the west are weight obsessed. You have to choose between your face or your body, so they say.

Back to the point in hand. We took Nutty to Richard Allport, the homeopathic vet, today. He is a kind man (although his prices are rather breath-taking at £80 a consultation), and one always leaves reassured, no matter how bad the prognosis.

When he came to the reception to greet us his expression was very grave, he later admitted, `I thought Nutty would be barely able to walk but he is just the same as always’. My God, he was probably preparing to put him down ,now I think about it.

Nutty was perky, tail wagging, curious as ever. `Yes the growth has got bigger since I saw him a month ago’, he admitted, ` but if you can syringe enough water into his mouth he could survive months like this…. From now on it is all about the nursing’.

Which made me feel better. The one thing I can do is nurse him, my diary is clear, all I have to do at the moment is look after him. That is Shouty and my biggest, most important duty. Nothing else matters more to us than keeping the Beloved healthy and happy and alive for as long as possible.

It was amusing driving to the vet. Usually Shouty is rule obsessed, in all matters of bureaucracy. He has a working class dislike of authority but a weird need to kow-tow to it too. Whereas generally I only follow rules I can see the point of, usually I get away with quite a bit because if you are nice to whoever catches you out, they usually let you off.

But on the way to the vet, he drives The Wrong Way Down a One Way Street! This is most unusual. It was a quiet street and no danger really and meant we got to our destination much quicker. But this was so unlike Shouty. Hurrah for the Valium! I cheered. Shame I only have such a limited supply. I am going to send him to the doctor to get some more, or the equivalent. It makes my life so much easier.

I welled up a few times in the vet and once this morning. There have been no bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, so it has been a good day (for my face anyway). Talking to Richard helped me collect my thoughts. I’ve been thinking a lot about bereavement and now realise that what I’m going through isn’t unique or unusual. Nearly every sentient person with a bit of a heart will go through one or several episodes of untrammelled grief (surely). Every day I read of appalling tragedies and those affected pulling through, somehow.

My night-time terror is that I will stay at this level of unsustainable grief forever. Like when I have toothache or cystitis (my two worst pains) I always fear that the pain will never be cured. But it is always is sorted. I know emotional pain is unquantified but I have to trust that one day Nutty will be dead but I will be living a good life, not slain by grief.

So tonight I feel philosophical (it feels like I have taken the Valium not Shouty).

But I am emotional and I don’t know when the terrors will return. Terrors of the unknown, of being unable to live without the creature I love more than anyone in the world. All that is uncharted territory.

Nutty Nearly Dies...

So much has happened in 24 hours...

Nutty had been OK all day but in the evening he lay down and tremors were going through his little body. I didn’t know what was happening and did some Reiki. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I got ready for bed and Nutty was still lying on the carpet.

This not unusual, but what was unusual were the tremors and the lack of response from him. I was in my bath reading the papers (oh blessed relief and escape) when Boyfriend on a Short Fuse calls me. Normally his tone is quite shouty but this time it was subdued and anxious.

`Darling! Come down now!’

So I scramble out of my bath, suds and papers all over the floor and dash downstairs. Nutty is lying comatose on the floor shuddering slightly, Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is hovering over him, frantic with worry. For the first time in seven years since we first met, he is crying. He is famously Teflon-coated and I am used to him shouting, but crying, never. My heart shifts in my chest and I can hardly breathe with emotion.

`I think he is dying’, Boyfriend on a Short Fuse whispers as I stroke Nutty's scrawny tawny fur and watch anxiously for the rise and fall in his abdomen. Then Boyfriend on a Short Fuse runs to the kitchen for a bottle of water and spoons teaspoonfuls into Nutty’s mouth. Within minutes Nutty is revived, his eyes open and he moves around. It is like Lazarus rising from the dead! He was dehydrated all this time.

What we didn’t realise is that his mouth tumour, officially known as a squamous cell carcinoma, has impeded his ability to drink. Normally his little tongue laps out constantly into his water bowl, but what we’ve realised is that he is not actually drinking very much at all.

And while only a few hours ago his tongue was trying to lap the water, now his tongue cannot leave his mouth to drink. I don’t know what has happened. So we spoon teaspoonfuls of water into his mouth and carry him upstairs. We get into bed and talk and talk and I cry a bit. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse has re-teflon-coated himself and is dry eyed again. I was very moved by his tears, sometimes I forget he has a heart but I do know he loves Nutty very much. Not as much as me, but he does love him so much.

While Nutty was comatose I prayed to my mother, to St Francis of Assisi, to Archangel Ariel the patron saint of animals, to make him better, to keep him happy and healthy with us for a little longer.

`Please let me be able to take one picture of him in his dog pram’, I begged. He looks so adorable in his pram, people always smile and chat to him as we wheel him past. If you don’t have a picture you can’t share the image with anyone and it would be lost forever.

And they answered my prayer!

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I were both absolutely shaken and devastated at this latest brush with death. Nutty has defied death many times, how many shelties live past 15? And yet, and yet… I believed he was immortal, that he would live to be the oldest Sheltie in the world.

I love Nutty more than heaven and earth and he depends on me for sustenance and love. So much is tied up in him, memories of my Mother, grandparents, Longdown where we all grew up (not that I loved Longdown at all as it had many unhappy memories, but still, there is emotion and history there). 

15 years of my life, a huge chunk, encompassing my mad it-girldom period, dizzy dazzling boyfriends, many flats, Nutty always a constant although I did not know him as I know and love him now of course as he was living in Guildford with my mother.

I used to spend the hours googling world’s oldest Shelties, and delighted in a Youtube video of a 20-year-old sheltie wearing a birthday hat and looking bright and healthy. Yes! That could be Nutty! With his organic, home-cooked diet of fresh poached chicken with pureed vegetables and spelt, interspersed with the odd morsel of lightly cooked venison mince I thought he would be indestructible.

And yet, death waits for no man or dog. I can’t hold off the inevitable, however much time or money and love I lavish. Nature will have her way.

Many times I have wished his cancer on myself. Let me have his cruel and gloating tumour sprouting in my own mouth like an evil discoloured cauliflower! All human ingenuity would be exercised in its removal…. But Nutty is just an innocent bystander. I do my best but we caught it too late…. Something I will always regret.

And so, eventually I crawled down into my own bed, reluctantly leaving my baby in BOASF’s room to sleep fitfully downstairs. At 4.30am I woke up and crept upstairs to check he was still breathing. Yes! He was! A miracle. One more day with my love. By now I had woken the Tinies who were jumping up and down (but not Teflon Boyfriend who is indestructibly asleep), they bounced downstairs with me and we all slept together fitfully till 8.30am.

Back upstairs, Beloved still breathing!

I hand fed him some poached chicken, Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I took them out for a walk then took Nutty down to the Blue Cross. BOASF met a lady in the park who insisted the Blue Cross offered the best vetinary care, `but don’t you need to be on benefits? I asked. Apparently not.

So BOASF whisks Beloved down to Victoria, peaking out of his little pram. I leave later and catch them up. BOASF is inscensed that I have joined them. `IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU ISN’T IT’ he rages in the busy street.

There is no point arguing with him when he is like this. Of course I want to be with my Beloved when he has his consultation but it is not to be. The receptionist insists that BOASF must have some proof of being on a limited income, which he does not have, despite being of limited means.
I drop off my donations (a nice dress and several books) and we go home. BOASF still raging about this and that. The waiting room is choc a bloc, heaving with ailing people and their beleaguered pets, waiting, waiting…. 2 hours apparently. I am relieved we must leave and go home.

I Cry So Much My Face Has Sagged - Will It Ping Back?

I have been reasonably calm, all things considered, over the last week. But facing up to the reality of our imminent loss is just too much to bear.

Sometimes I think Nutty will go on for quite a while, maybe even a year, but perhaps we are being optimistic given the fast growth of his tumour. I don’t know how long we have left with him. Weeks? Months? Nobody knows.

When the grief wells up there seems to be so many tears. The tears come instantly and once they start, I wonder if they will ever stop. I wonder if my face has changed, morphed into a different, sadder shape in response to it all.

 I am tapping into a bottomless supply of universal heartache. `Well’ seems an appropriate word, but it would have to be a pretty deep well, as the well of grief is limitless, deeper than the ocean and wider than the sky. At those times I am plugging into a collective misery of all mankind’s sadness, past, present and future.

I know I mustn’t be maudlin, but if losing my dog is breaking my heart how do people cope with losing children or even their whole families? Every day I read tragic stories and it is a triumph of the human spirit that the bereaved manage to put one foot in front of the other and carry on. I don’t know why people aren’t jumping off tall buildings every second of every day really.

 

Calm After the Storm

Things have calmed down since our beastly contretemps on Thursday. When push comes to shove, neither of us wants to end our seven-year relationship. And as usual after one of our episodes there is a peaceful lull. We are part of each other’s lives now, whether we like it or not, and I’d rather be unhappy with him than unhappy without him! Although that does sound rather defeatist.

Generally it is OK, he is on a short fuse, but what can you do? As long as I am happy and my writing is going well I can cope with it. He went on a Buddhist course for a few days, I was so impressed, and it has made him more respectful and calmer.

Nutty is doing OK. His cancer doesn’t seem to affect him too much in himself, he seems to enjoy his life as usual, wags his tail when stroked and runs about in the park. The occasional bark which oh so lifts my heart! Every time he barks I wonder if this will be the last time. I see him summoning up his strength when he does, I imagine it takes quite a bit of energy.

He has been eating well. This morning I mixed up his Lily’s chicken with fresh poached chicken, veg, and at lunch time I let him finish off my very rare venison burger and egg, while this evening he had the same as breakfast. Preparing his supplements is quite a job too. In the morning and evening he must have a teaspoon of colloidal silver, seven drops of homeopathic tincture, a homeopathic pill three times a day, one anti-cancer supplement and a shitake mushroom pill twice a day. Pluse we wash his mouth out three times a day. It's not easy to get him to take the supplements. He will sometimes if he is hungry and I hide them in his food. Otherwise I open the pills and sprinkle them on his food.

I Drink a Little More and I Cry a Little More

Much of the colour has been sucked out of my life but I still enjoy a glass of champagne. Very much. When the witching hour arrives (6pm on the dot) I dart to the fridge, unearth a bottle of whatever is open, grab a glass from the cupboard and oh what a relief. Pop, fizz, pour. Ah, relief.

I'm not hung up on the time. Sometimes I will wait till 5 minutes past 6.

Usually a bottle will last 3 days, which isn't bad. Or maybe it is. I really couldn't care. I was teetotal until I was 30 and didn't have much energy back then and often found socializing pretty dull. SInce I have embraced steady, moderate drinking I get fewer colds, have more energy and every evening a great treat awaits. How I love my fizz.

But since Nutty's diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma (oral cancer) I drink a little bit more ... and I cry much, much more. My drinking is still controlled but a bottle will last me just over 2 days, which means on the the third day I finish a slither in the bottom of the bottle before opening a new bottle. At times like this I wish I could drink even more to be honest, oblivion would be heaven, but it goes against the grain to do anything exessively. Except cry of course, I cry excessively. All the time. At the drop of a hat.

Later in the evening, when things have calmed down, I sit on the stairs and drink up the sight of Nutty. He slowly perambulates towards me before sitting down with a sigh at the foot of the staircase.

I suck out the beauty of him as if the next moment will be our last. My beautiful, beautiful boy, who I love more than anything else in the world. How lucky I am to have found such love although the thought of losing it tears my heart apart. My heart is choked with tears, it feels like a big wet bomb bursting out of my chest, about to detonate at any moment.

We watch each other for a while before I turn away and walk up the stairs to bed. He follows loyally behind, click, click, paws against the wooden floors, before sinking gratefully onto his fluffy rug and falling asleep.

When I wake up in the morning his mouth will be thick with matted blood and there will be a trail of crimson drops on the stairs.

We Visit the Oncology Clinic and Have a Fearful Row

Another stressful day at the coalface dealing with Nutty’s cancer.

We set off at 10am to drive to deepest darkest Essex to the VRCC, the largest dog oncology centre in Europe. We got there in good time for the appointment despite heavy traffic, only to be kept waiting for forty-five minutes…how these medical places like to show how busy and important they are by keeping one waiting!

Eventually we saw the vet and he was sympathetic and thorough. He was quite young though, I’d prefer an older, more experienced person. I was quite surprised that he was very keen to perform quite radical surgery, which would see very little change from £6,000. I don’t care about the money, I would pay twenty times that if Nutty could be helped to live a longer, pain free life, but I am reluctant to put an old dog through such radical, painful treatment.  

So while I was initially excited that there was some treatment available, when we thought about it later and talked it through with other people, we were not so sure. He is a very old dog and to put him through big surgery that would see part of his jaw being removed… before that he would need a general anaesthetic to have a biopsy taken to find out what kind of cancer he has and how far it has progressed.  

Richard the homeopathic vet, the conventional vet and everybody else think the surgery route would be wrong, in fact all of them discounted it as completely out of hand given his age and the amount of stress and trauma he would be put through.

And the prices at this place! For a fifty minute consultation (with no reduction for our forty-five minute waiting time of course!) £204.

Luckily I can afford it, but most of the people at the clinic didn’t look at all flush and several were morbidly obese. It’s ironic that London is stressful and polluted but its inhabitants look far healthier than they do in the country. Unless they have pet insurance (and insurance companies famously loath to pay out for anything at all), I wonder how on earth they manage to pay these fees.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse always says it is all about money, money, money with these people, and I know it is. This is my most profound brush with the `caring’ professions and has made me see that while practitioners may go into it for the right reasons they soon end up being mainly about money.

A, my psychic douser is a prime example, I keep returning to see her because she is usually spot on, but goodness, she is mad about money. She charges £80 which is fine as she is very good, but when H, who is low income and in desperate need asked if she could pay half this and have less time, A refused. Eventually I had to say to A, `look I will make up the difference as she really does need some health advice’.

And then there was the time I broke my ankle and she very kindly as I thought at the time, lent me a healing machine for it. No mention about any fee for this. I called up two weeks later and asked if she needed it back and she said no. I returned in a month later and she says, `that will be £200, £50 a week’. Over the years I have visited hundreds of times and sent friends to see her. Yet once when I forgot my appointment she charged me full whack, even though she works from home and is not paying a clinic rent by the day.Yes, incredible! But she is good, and generally a kind hearted person, just a bit tight. No one is perfect, especially not me, but meanness is so disconcerting.

I faced the same thing with Richard, the homeopathic vet. When I returned from the oncology clinic I was desperate for advice about whether to take Nutty for surgery. Understand that I have already consulted him about six times and paid over six hundred quid. The receptionist said he was free and she would ask him to come and talk to me.

I heard her explaining the situation to him but she returned to the phone saying he couldn’t talk now but could I book in an £80 telephone consultation with him on Monday morning! Certainly nothing is for free with these people. She and I then proceeded to chat for a while and she very generously gave me ten minutes of her time without charging me(!) and actually offered me the best advice I could hope for.

She said wait till Monday as this was not a decision we should rush into lightly (and what good fortune retrospectively that the surgeon at the VRCC could not do a biopsy that day which they usually could, as the clinic was unusually busy). If they had been able to fit Nutty in I would have gone for it, imagine that! A general anaesthetic from which he might not ever recover or be the same again.

So my poor old boy had a three hour round trip to Essex in the car for this. But I feel it helped us and him in some way. I must try everything. But it is hard to make decision on his behalf. If it was me, and I was old and ailing I might well say let me live out my days without intervention. Surgery is frightening and there is no guarantee it will extend his life very long and may cause him pain… but maybe he is already in pain, although Richard and psychic douser say he is not.

When we returned Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I reached a boiling point of hatred and irritation with each other. He was quite nice and patient today and during the drive not too shouty or abusive. I am so grateful, I could not do all this without him.

We arrived home and I wanted to order more dog food and do a 101 administrative things but he insisted I accompany him walking the dogs… you see how co-dependent we are.  I agreed to keep the peace and during the walk he gets stressed and shouty about something. So I started imitating his rather unattractive oiky whiney voice (below the belt bI know) and he shouts some more then stomps off to his flat.

I thought that was it and I would have a few days of peace, which I was rather looking forward to. Then I come back and the door is open and he is still here. He wanted to talk and was very thoughtful  and reflective. It was nice to talk. I don’t really want to split up now, just have more time to myself.

We talked for about an hour and he said at first that he didn’t fancy me anymore either, this despite the fact that the day before last he had attempted to seduce me when I was getting dressed. `Any man would have’, he explained. `a slim blonde dressed in nothing but high boots a bra and a corset..’ Then he tried to get us into bed again but I just couldn’t be bothered. I’m glad he is interested but I am so tired and stressed sex is the last thing on my mind. He was trying to get some reaction from me by saying that perhaps we should split up now…. then he quoted the Buddhist letter he picked out randomly years ago when we first started going out, `this life time, this is your one true husband’ etc. He is quite whimsical like that.

I could see he wanted me to start crying and say darling, we are meant to be together and drag him  off to bed. But I was more clinical (I am only emotional about my dog, rarely about my boyfriend, but I am English after all).

Although I do not want to split up I would like him to be here half the week. When he is here it is nice that he walks the dogs, but there is a lot of stress as he has the TV on constantly from 5-11pm and makes a mess in the kitchen. He is faddy about food and makes a terrible fuss if he can’t find a clean plate. He uses endless clean plates instead of washing up as he goes along. He doesn’t like me being on the computer, cleaning my teeth, having a bath, washing or having the radio on in the kitchen. He is moody once in bed and rarely wants a cuddle though at random times demands sex. He puts me down, tells me endlessly how impractical I am, and gets in a strop because I have not worked out how to dismantle the dog pram.

And yet… and yet… seeing him standing over me in the dusk in the sitting room, I could tell he didn’t want to end things. To give up seven years of real love and real passion. I pray that happier times lie ahead. The vestiges of love are still there.

I Am Now A Full Time Carer

I am doing OK, but oh so tired of the grief, the fear, the despair, the tedious day-to-day efforts of caring for a very sick creature.

I am cooking for Nutty twice a day, preparing all the supplements, this in itself not difficult but it’s hard sometimes tempting him to eat. Often I hand feed him which he likes and I enjoy being close to him and having the physical contact. I try to embed it in my memory so that when he has gone I can remember.

I love the way his little warm tongue licks my hand so gently, persistently and trustingly. He is like a little bird taking sustenance from his mother. I am just back from taking them all for a walk, which I really dislike, always have. It is easier now Nutty is in his pram, but today the pram veered all over the place, it was only on the way back that I figured out one of the brakes was on.

Nutty is as perky as always. Barked and galloped about gravel park today with the Tinies. Now I am poaching him his chicken before preparing to meet up with C and S, two of my oldest and nicest girlfriends, a long awaited treat as we rarely get together these days but love it when we do.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse has been out all day visiting his youngest son. Oh I hope he returns in a good mood. It’s hard enough coping with all this without dealing with him too. He was OK this morning though.

My Stepmother Tells Me She Has Six Months To Live

This morning I am at home on the computer researching for Nutty. There is a big cancer clinic in Essex which sounds good. although I must accept the inevitable that he is not getting any better and that the beastly lump is getting worse.

I have been in tears quite a bit. I called Jo Body, the aptly named dog physio, who uses laser and massage to help his stiff joints to cancel her next appointment. I explained his condition.  

`I don’t know if you’ll ever see him again ….’ I trailed off. After all, stiff joints are the least of his problems now. It choked me up that her happy visits will draw to an end. It’s the end of an era for me, for Nutty, for our happy life. Like King Canute I am trying to fend off the inevitable. My heart is bloated with tears and fear. Other times I am calm, efficient, almost buoyant, which must be the mind’s reaction to a crisis.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is moody as usual. Spends night and day railing against EDF who are over charging him for electricity. He is more vexed by this than anything, I think Nutty’s condition just a blip on his worry list.

He shouts for me all the time to help him on the computer, sending and scanning documents via email, but I haven’t a clue which makes him even angrier. I have arranged for saintly D to come up and help him but still he insists on struggling through it himself. He really has a very mean side to him and I wonder why he stays with me when he so obviously finds me completely useless. Oddly enough he still seems quite keen on sex and is disappointed at my lack of interest. If only he could see that his constant belittlement of me completely takes away all my desire for him.  Sometimes there are glimpses of his good side, but these are increasingly infrequent.

Sometimes unexpectedly he will be quiet and kind and apologise for shouting at me and promise not to do it again. But he always breaks the promise. I think I do still love him but the bigger emotion I have now is fear and wariness. I walk around on eggshells trying not to get on his nerves. He finds lots of things I do irritating (cleaning my teeth, washing, typing and yet he does all these things in front of me and doesn’t expect me to be irritated - I’m not, these things are daily life).

I’m reading Jo Wood’s fascinating autobiography about the emotional abuse she endured at hands of her ghastly husband Ronnie. As she says, after a while you just get used to it and end up walking around ion eggshells, trying to keep the peace. I know I have to be strong, at the moment I am just an enabler, allowing him to show his darker side with no consequences. No wonder he is so depressed all the time.

Elusive-eco-brother emails me to let me know about our poor stepmother’s terminal cancer. I rang her last week and had a lovely chat with her. We bond over our various impending dooms, share some black humour. It is hard to know what to say, the important thing is to say something, to mark this dreadful time with kindness and sympathy. I know people sweep death under the carpet but you can't. She is buoyed up with morphine, thank God for it. But we agreed it is the people left behind, me, Teflon-Dad, the bereaved, who really need some sort of drug to get us through.

She and I haven’t always got on so well over the years, as on some level she distrusted my close bond with Teflon-Dad and various other things. However she is a nice lady and has made him happy, which is the main thing. She has about six months left. I wonder if she and Nutty will die at the same time? Maybe they will be granted longer?

I called eco-bruv back and astonishingly (because he does not do phone calls) he answered and I told him about Nutty. I am glad I have him for support in extremis, we are not in each other’s pockets but I do know in crisis he is kind of around.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse Drives Me Up The Wall..Again

Today I emailed Dr Dressler’s Dog Cancer website for advice.

`Dear Dr. Sue, my illuminating Dog Cancer Survival Guide along with Dr's Dreslers's acopops (a cancer fighting supplement) have just arrived in London courtesy of Amazon, and I am finding the book very helpful in coping with Nutty, my 15 year old Sheltie's recent diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma in his mouth. Unfortunately we discovered this growth quite late and my vet does not recommend surgery as it would mean removing too much of his jaw. He is in amazingly good form, enjoying his walks, does not appear to be in any pain and has a good appetite. He is just the same as always. However the tumour is one and a half inches, is now growing out from his lip, and is now visible when his mouth is closed. Although I understand that it is difficult to give advice over the Internet I wonder if you know of any good oncologists in the UK who might be able to help? He is taking apocaps, shitake mushroom extract, colloidal silver and a homeopathic supplement and I have changed his diet. I must be realistic but I want to do all I can…etc, etc’.

This site was set up by a vet and an oncologist. It is full of good advice, scientific and holistic. I don't know if they will reply, but I have to keep trying.

I just keep researching. I know the Internet is full of useless advice but at least one can find out something.

Just back from a very enjoyable BUAV (British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection) event at the v exclusive (so exclusive there was no number on the door and I was wandering around for 20 minutes in the freezing cold trying to find the darn place) Loulou’s, Robin Birley’s club. I met the very distinguished proprietor Mr Birley, petting his beautiful greyhound. `Oh, now I wish I had brought my dogs!’ I exclaimed, by way of greeting.  `Yes you should’ve, we love dogs here’, he replied in strangulated tones, not looking at me as he spoke. My rare interactions with the upper classes make me realise why I have settled down with my dear old shouty Himbo (aka Boyfriend on a Short Fuse) who at least can look women in the eye without deep shame.

I was delighted to meet up with Caroline, the Green Party vet/animal spokesperson (as they will insist on saying, instead of the less PC spokesman/woman – or even just `spokes’). I like her more every time I meet up with her at these animal `dos’. She was terribly kind when I explained about Nutty and recommended some good clinics to try. I talked to Michelle, who runs the show and another girl, who runs the fundraising, who I really liked.

They are extremely keen for me to donate again, I have held off for a while because they are not open about their funding. There is absolutely no transparency at all and I was getting bad feelings… a shame as most of the people working there are so dedicated and amazing, but there so much weirdness around their accounts, which are `dormant’ according to Companies House. They are not a registered charity because, as they say, they are a campaigning organisation. Yet the RSPCA are desperately political and still have charitable status, similarly other anti-vivisection organisations have charitable status (EFMP and the Dr Hadwen Trust are just two for starters), so I fear some obfuscation is going on.

They were very nice and tried to explain that they didn’t want to be too open because then people would see how small they are (which is a good point), but then again, they might get more money if they were more open. And no matter if they are small, people will still come to them for comment and quotes as they have all the facts, figures and are a respected source.

And even if they do have very little money coming in, if it is staffed by lots of volunteers that would explain how they can run things efficiently on limited funds. I don’t understand why charities are not more open about their funding. If investors want to invest in a company (look at the detail small businesses must go into when they apply to the Dragons in Dragon’s Den for funding) they examine the small print. Yet when we want to give to a charity we are somehow just expected to throw our money into the ether and hope for the best. Human nature being what it is, I don’t think that is a very satisfactory state of affairs. 

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was pretty moody much of today. He has spurts of being lovely and then he starts up again. Tonight I come in and he is quite nice then starts shouting when I am hand feeding Nutty and then get up for a moment leaving Nutty’s plate on the floor.

`Don’t leave the plate there so the dogs can get at it!!’ he shouts, `and why have you left the Bendicks mints out, the dogs have got into them and there are wrappers on the floor. God you are so stupid you can’t even fold up the dog carrier’. This in reference to my inability to fold up the dog trolley.

He can be so loud, so foul. God he is horrible. I am getting quite poisonous too. `You are too short, you’re poor, you’re hardly Mr Bigshot. What have you got to show for your life? Nothing!’

He was quite subdued after that, a miracle. Maybe I have hit a nerve.

As I was getting ready tonight he was haranguing me about something or other. Then when I was togged up, I said do I look nice, and he obviously thought I did, `do you want to come to bed for cuddles?’ he asks. `No,’ I replied and kept putting my make up on. He looked a little crushed but he is pretty thick-skinned.

It’s awful the more he shouts at me the more I stick in the boot. We know each other's weak spots. I am fed up with our relationship and if it wasn’t for Nutty and feeling lonely by myself, I’d suggest time apart. I always felt a frisson with him, even when things were bad. Now I’d just like to shove him out of the window. 

..................

My new book, Letting Go of the Glitz, one woman's struggle to live the simple life in Chelsea, just out in paperback and available from Amazon and about 3 bookshops.

Nutty's Cancer Seems To Be Getting Bigger Every Day

I coped better today and haven’t cried until just now while researching cancer cures on the Internet.

I winced at all the horrible pictures and sad stories which triggered off my grief. Darling Nutty was so lively and sweet today but last night he wouldn’t settle. I went to bed but he was wandering around, clip clop on the wooden floor. After 20 minutes I gave up -  this is a regular pattern with him - and put in my ear plugs and left him to it. Eventually he usually falls asleep in the hallway.

About 7.45 I woke up and the Tinies (my 2 Bichon Frise) were clamouring at the gate and Nutty was up and about. It’s nice that he is lively but he is an old boy who needs his sleep! I put him up on the bed for a bit... he doesn't mind it for a short while and enjoys scratching and nudging the sheets around. Later I noticed that he had drooled blood onto the sheet….. later I soaked it off.

The growth appears to be a little bit bigger, growing outside of his mouth. But online I see pictures of people with horrible growths from hands and heads, still alive…. better growing up and away than into the body perhaps? If it continues to grow out and away is that better?

His appetite is as good as ever and he is bright and loving and lively. What a beautiful dog he is. How much joy and pleasure the little man has given me over these years and I love him more than any other creature in the world. Will I love anything/anyone as much again? I do hope so. Life without this devotion to someone else would be very dull.

It's interesting that the people you think will support you when awful things happen are not necessarily the ones that do. Sometimes the most charming and charismatic people do not make the best friends. In my experience it is the people you might sometimes groan a bit when they ring, who long term hang in there. I’m thinking of J and R who I have at times taken for granted, but at least they answer the phone, ring, stay in touch. Certain friends who shall remain nameless haven't responded to my devastating (well devastating to me anyway) news or desperate phone calls. And yet others have. So the support is there, just not always from the areas you think it will come. Best not to judge (lest ye be judged) etc.

Beastly beastly cancer. I am spending so much time preparing Nutty’s food, supplements, healing, chanting….. surely it will work, surely his cancer will diminish. I will never give up on him. I blame myself , I should have looked in his mouth earlier. How I wish I knew then what I know now.

I have come across this very helpful US dog cancer blog written by a Dr Dressler, www.dogcancerblog.com accompanying his excellent book about dog cancer, which has just arrived. 

This is a quote from a grieving dog owner from the site;

`We can’t control everything, even our best efforts aren’t enough sometimes.

`I read a quote once that said – “ I did the best I could with what I knew how, and when I knew better I did better”. That quote helps me sometimes when I remember about over vaccinating, putting spot on flea products, giving all my dogs crappy dog food, neutering them very young… I didn’t know better then and was told that was what I should do, so I did. I learned from my mistakes and once I knew better, I did better. We can’t change the past though, so don’t ever beat yourself up for listening to another about giving all the vaccinations and everything over the years. Nobody can say for sure if she would have gotten this type of cancer anyway, even if she wasn’t vaccinated. I know of a Boxer right now that wasn’t vaccinated at all (maybe as a puppy only), ate a more expensive kibble and raw food most of her life and is only 8 years old and was just diagnosed with Lymphoma'.

It helps to know I am not alone.

 

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse Drives Me Up the Wall

Ten people came to chant for Nutty today! Every time the doorbell rang I had a surge of happiness. I means so much that people care and I know they do. Admittedly we did spent nearly half the time chatting but we did a fair bit of chanting too. 

Meanwhile Nutty is as perky as ever. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse took all the dogs to his parents for the day, which is his weekly fillial duty, and gives me a nice break. I was so happy that on his return Nutty sat in the kitchen watching me, waiting for his meal, just like old times! I gave him fresh chicken and chicken from the chicken soup with veg, olive oil with his supplements. He wolfed it down.

His mouth does look a real mess though. The tumour seems bigger. I just hope that because it is growing outwards rather then inwards it means a better prognosis. But who knows. For now he is happy and comfortable and that’s what matters.

We had a horrible night last night. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse incredibly bolshy. I was knackered but he insisted staying up late to watch a noisy film then Match of the Day. But if I am cleaning up the kitchen (my life basically) and have the radio on he storms in and pulls out the plug.

Other things that drive me mad, he uses a new plate for every tiny thing so we run out of plates and the dishwasher is over loaded. If a plate has a speck of dirt or water on it he has a fit. Yet if he is mopping up wee, poo or Nutty’s bloody saliva dribbled on the floor, he will use a kitchen cloth or kitchen mop without telling me, which is then inadvertently used to clean up the kitchen. Go figure. I’m surprised we haven’t died of some terrible lurgy by now (although I am hardly Queen of Clean and pride myself on ingesting a certain amount of germs, but there are limits). He made me take dogs out last thing, which is fair enough as he always does it, but he had spent most of the day watching tv and I had been running around, chanting for nutty, emailing, doing admin…. Finally, when it is time to relax in the bath with newspapers I must listen to his caterwalling TV.

Why do men watch so much TV? It's like a drug to them. I know two men who got rid of their tellies because they were unable to ration how much they watched.

Anyway, eventually he turns off downstairs TV and comes upstairs only to turn on upstairs TV. We are scratchy with each other. He is saying what a good film is on the TV, and I am saying, `oh I have seen it at the cinema, why don’t you ever want to go to the cinema?'

And then later he gets at me for being mean for not paying an extra 200 quid to stay in a holiday cottage on the sea as opposed to the one inland. And this was seven months ago. It sounds so petty recounted. Anyway, we have a slanging match and I storm to bed saying `I wished I had never met you’.

Even though today he is very calm and nice I sometimes wish we had never got together. I had a good life before, a column in a national newspaper, lots of friends. I never felt lonely like I sometimes do now. But we are together and that is that. I don’t want to go it alone and when things are calm it’s perfectly nice. No I don’t feel the same frisson but there is still the vestige, an imprint of something. We still fit together well when we dance, the trouble is, we never dance anymore.

I realised yesterday that we are together to finish up some sort of karmic debt, maybe something uncompleted which we will finish this lifetime. We are quite incompatible (although sometimes it is fine, we had a nice dinner the other night), and I really don’t understand how we have stuck together or what the secret of it is at all. It was never my choice but I just got sucked in without wanting to, and once I was sucked in I fell in love against my will  and that was that. But he can be sweet, every Sunday he visits his family and is very filial. Far more filial than me I am afraid.