Skip to main content
In the past, I have been known to make such bold statements as: "Nothing is more important to me than getting a transplant". However, with the start of Celebrity Big Brother this week, this is clearly absurd. Celebrity Big Brother is definitely more important to me than having a transplant. I have been a serious BB miser since the early years: the show has seemed tired and forced, with the housemates becoming increasingly ridiculous and the whole thing smacking of a cash-cow endeavour. This years offering, however, has seen me shamelessly backtrack. I have a tendency to get quite obsessive about bizarre things (Refreshers, certain people, The Olympics) and I am now regrettably stuck in the CBB quagmire.

This has led me to thinking about all the other things that are obviously more important to me that having a life-saving kidney transplant. Why has it taken me until now to realise their value? Why have I spent so much time needlessly blinkered by the desperate desire for a "vital" kidney transplant, when there are so many other delights fawning for my attention? In no particular order, these include:

1. Not missing an episode of Celebrity Big Brother
2. Kate Bush
3. Marks and Spencer's sandwiches
4. The ongoing search for the perfect foundation
5. My eyebrows
6. Going out on Saturday night
7. My bear, and whether he is warm enough
8. Learning how to play the guitar
9. Heat magazine

Conversely, there are things that are less important to me than having a transplant. In the interests of relativity I feel it is only fair to mention some:

1. Working out whether Wentworth Miller is, in fact, gay. Even if he IS straight, he is unlikely to ever be in Infernos and/or willing to sleep with me
2. Buying a hat
3. Learning to cook
4. Wearing matching underwear
5. Deleting the excess of early 90s dance music off my ipod
7. Coming up with ever more sneaky and ingenious ways of letting my ex-boyfriend know I'm sleeping with other people without actually having to tell him

So there it is. Having a transplant is not as important as sandwiches and celebrity trivia, but more so than cooked food.

I think it is very important to keep some perspective about the whole situation.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Postscript

You wouldn't believe where I am. You could guess, if you've seen the gratuitous images of my self-satisfied gurning face in front of an infinity pool on Facebook...otherwise you might find it hard to imagine the paradise in which I currently find myself. I am in Dubai. Bar Abby Clancey and the cast of TOWIE, is is not everyone's idea of paradise - it actually wasn't mine. It is exciting, exotic and fucking hot, but the skyscrapers and traffic, the desert and cultural  deficiency (not to mention the chavs that clutter up the Ritz Carlton these days, I mean honestly...) suggest you'd be hard-pushed to call it paradise. It is vaulted to utopian heights simply because, four-months after the transplant, I am here. My nearest and dearest suffered for seven years as I dreamily aired my wanderlust. Yet the reward of a post-transplant holiday seemed too extravagant a prize for which to yearn - wasn't a life free from dialysis enough? Wasn't having a drink when t...
2 comments
Read more

Moving on

My 1st post from my new digs! And I can't think of a better way to spend a fiver than on 24 hours worth of internet (so this might be the first and last post for a while...) As moves go - and I have done three now - it was incredibly straight-forward. With the help of Scottie (the Man who came with The Van), my brother (the older - younger had absconded to Birmingham for as yet unknown purposes) and Maisy (more on her later) I loaded up said Van in less than an hour then drove down to Clapham with ma bru (I have been watching Blood Diamond again) and un-pakced said Van in a remarkable twenty-minute burst, ably assisted by Adam and James who had no excuse as they can see my front door from theirs. I say "I" loaded The Van: I was actually summarily dismissed as too weakly to do more than shift boxes seven inches through the french windows. It was in fact Maisy who did most of the first-leg hard graft: she returned from her nineteenth trip to The Van to report that Scott...
2 comments
Read more

Run

I decide to go for a run. I decide to go because when I undress in front of the mirror all I see is my rotund belly and bulbous thighs. I grab at them and pull, as though I am trying to rip off the chunks of flesh. This, in contrast to the tired, dry skin on my face, etched with deep lines like carvings in rock. It has not recovered from the eighteen months when it was not nourished, but elsewhere fat is sprouting. I lace my trainers tightly. I don't know the time, I have stopped wearing a watch. I start running, and soon I am fleeing. It feels good: I haven't been able to run recently - thwarted by low blood pressure. Every rusty muscle is in movement, together, sliding back and forth in tandem and I feel slow but I feel fluid. I pull up from my core. I think I am the best runner you will see today because once I watched a tutorial on YouTube with Paula Radcliffe. I run alongside the common, not on the grass; I prefer the solidity of the ground, the heaviness that rises ...
1 comment
Read more