Life on the list

"Your bump," said one of my pupils last week, "is really, really (deep breath) really, really, really big." She is not wrong. In fistula terms, mine is certainly huge: a bulging, pulsating, tortuous monstrosity that snakes right the way from the crook of my left arm up to my shoulder. Unfortunately, I am now so accustomed to the sight of it that I have concluded a cardigan sleeve is enough to render it invisible; I am like a child covering my eyes in the belief that when I can't see the world, the world can't see me. Consequently, I am always taken aback when people point and stare (or make insouciant comments, as the kiddies are wont to do). However, with the onset of summer and the temperature rising, disguising it under layers of clothing is becoming untenable and I can't pretend it isn't an issue anymore. I have two options: expose it and draw an array of looks that range from the mildly curious to the outright appalled, or keep my unseasonable ...

Before I begin, I should point out that I do know I have nobody to blame other than myself. Perhaps the French...no, mainly me. It was the pear cider that did it. On Saturday afternoon, Coops and I sat in Soho Square amongst a plethora of very good looking young men drinking pear cider and soaking up the sunshine. As soon as they remove your buggered kidney, the doctors teach you two things:  1) alcohol is de-hydrating and will make you thirsty  2) the sun is de-hydrating and will make you thirsty. Having imbibed a couple of ciders, I subsequently sweated it out in the staggering afternoon heat and proceeded to make-up for the shortfall by gulping down too much water (plus, over the course of the weekend, a glass of wine, a three course meal and McDonalds' cheeseburger). As a consequence of all this gluttony, I squelched into dialysis this afternoon three kilos over my dry weight. Tipping the scales at 51.8kg came as no surprise: I could feel the fluid and I saw it in...