Life on the list

It occurred to me the other day: you know who I'm like? I'm like Batman. Since going back to work, I have been living a double life. I haven't told anyone at work about any of the kidney stuff and bar the kiddies' incessant questioning about my scars and the "bump" in my arm, there is no reason for anyone to know. My working day ends at 1, so I finish school and go on to the hospital with no-one any the wiser - and that's how I like it. Firstly, my illness in no way impinges on my ability to do my job and secondly, when people find out...they kind of look at me funny. So at school, I'm Bruce Wayne: benevolent, charming, discreet (admittedly, he was a lot richer than I am). Come 1:30, however, when I arrive at the hospital, I'm Batman, ready to begin my secret life of dialysis. The similarities between us are multiple. We both drive a car: Batman has the Batmobile, and I have a four year-old silver Ford KA. We both have to conceal our secret lives

I am being punished for being right wing and Middle Class. It was bound to happen at some point, and today it finally did. Not only have the Tory's been forced to dilute their sensible tax cut provisions and "schools revolution" with wooly, half-baked Lib Dem policy, now The Times has turned against me too. Sunday is often my favourite day of the week. If I am not hungover from the previous night's drinking, or swollen to the size of a mud hut - from the previous night's drinking - I like nothing better than to go out for breakfast with Maisy, maybe go for a run and then settle down on the sofa and work my way through the papers. On Saturday, it is always The Guardian. I tell people I read The Guardian in spite of my aforementioned right-ish tendencies because I like to get a balanced overview of the news. The real reason is that I really like The Guardian magazine. As The Guardian is not published on Sunday (bloody Socialists, no work ethic) it is always The Ti

Before I arrived for dinner at his new flat on Tuesday evening, Adam sent me a perfunctory text asking,politely, if there was anything in particular I fancied eating, by which of course he meant: you'll eat what you're given and you'll like it. I'm really not fussy, I replied... as long as it doesn't include spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, potatoes, dairy, nuts or shellfish. By which point, Adam was wishing he hadn't asked. For those of you especially au fait with the molecular make-up of food (most of you, yes?), it will be obvious that those foods I listed are all either high in potassium or phosphate. For renal patients, these seemingly innocuous substances have the potential to be lethal because no kidneys equals no toxin excretion, which consequently causes a build up and ultimately leads to bad things, like heart attacks and crumbling bones, though hopefully not at the same time. It is no secret that in the past I have struggled with the limitations on m

My sessions with My Lovely Pyschotherapist prove to be an ongoing source of helpful advice and insight. I spent an hour with her earlier this week and talked at her solidly for the duration. We breezed over my feelings about my illness and apprehension about my upcoming birthday (3rd on dialysis, 18 months on the waiting list, concentrated feelings of loss uh huh, yeah, whatever) and moved on to the prevailing and far more interesting of my love life. Or should that be, lack of love life. Anyone unlucky or stupid enough to have answered the phone when I rung any time over the last couple of months will be aware that I have managed to get myself tangled in a tricky situation with My Housemate: we were seeing each other until quite simply we were not, and within that space of time I developed feelings for him which I am now trying to shake off like a dog with flees. It would all be fine if I never had to see him again, but he resides in the bedroom next to me and I tried walking aroun

Yesterday, I had proof – if ever it was needed – that I am not as smart as a five year-old. Despite my painstaking attempts to conceal my fistula with a series of carefully orchestrated (and may I say, sartorially impressive) ensembles, the kiddies at school found it. Friday marked the end of my second week in my new job as a teaching assistant in a primary school in East London and so far, so wonderful. I go in five mornings a week and work one-on-one with T, an adorable little girl with Down Syndrome, though my purview extends to helping out with the other children as and when needed. Despite their seemingly endless wails of, “Rwwooooosy, he said he wouldn’t be friends with me/play with me/that I was a baby…”, the kiddies are a joy to be around: they are bright, funny and curious. They particularly enjoy being near me; any qualms one might have about invasion of personal space should be left at the door between the box of skipping ropes and the drinking fountain. They hold my hand;