Skip to main content

Out and proud


Every persecuted minority needs an advocate, a figure head prepared to step out of the oppressed mass and fight the cause, challenge the status quo. Ours is Damien Lewis, and he champions the plight of the redhead. As my friend Daisy put it, he is the holy grail: a Fit Ginger, an anomaly so rare that he is made all the more special for it. We also have Prince Harry, and the beautiful Eddie Redmayne, not to mention Lily Cole, but none of these FGs portray a sturdy, burly, mysterious Marine in the brilliant Homeland, thereby exponentially increasing their fitness by a factor of 30.

The life of a redhead is a harsh and brutal one. I mean...I suppose it could be. I, personally, have never really been targeted. Once, during a French class at prep school, my classmates sniggered when I insisted my hair colour was "strawberry blonde" and not "rouge", but now my friends correct me whenever I attempt humorous self-deprecation and cynically refer to my orange hair (you probably have to be there) and that has been the extent of my teasing. Given the choice, I would have flowing blonde locks but I have never found the colour of my hair to be a particular hinderance. And whilst I'm shape-shifitng, I might also opt for some larger breasts and olive skin so I should probably just make the most of what I've got. I'm aware that I am one of the lucky ones: many Gingers have faced years of torment and discrimination, and this is why we need Damien. Have I also mentioned I fancy the hell out of Damien Lewis?

I feel much more self conscious for being a renal patient than for being ginger, but as a sub-sect, renal patients don't have an icon. The girl out of The Office had a kidney transplant, but she's not really famous or Lewis-y enough. I have to admit, whilst having a good-looking celebrity promoting kidney failure (acceptable alternatives would include Ryan Gosling, Daniel Craig, Emma Stone, Rachel McAdams - oh, and David Tennant) would help me come to terms with having it myself, I doubt that most other sufferers care. I'm weird about my condition. I would find it helpful to be able to follow the admission, "I have kidney failure" with the words, "but so does David Beckham!". Clearly, I'm not wishing kidney failure upon pulchritudinous film stars, but Damien Lewis would be welcome at the dialysis unit any time.

Comments

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...

The nights are closing in

The final step of my home dialysis journey (bleugh, journey...sounds like I'm on The X Factor) begins on the 22nd July when Nurse Carla will arrive with a sleeping bag and, presumably, some strong coffee, and sit on my sofa all night whilst I perform my first nocturnal session. It is the dialysis equivalent of hiring a wet nurse. During a regular daytime session, nothing should go wrong unless I have lined the machine carelessly with one eye on Only Connect and consequently forgotten to connect/un-clamp/tighten something pivotal. Dermot should behave, stay quiet and not do any of his ghastly alarm-yelping. At night, however, the chances of rolling over onto the tubes and occluding the blood flow, or the needles falling out and slowly bleeding to death, are much higher, what with all the concurrent sleeping I'll be doing; when this happens Dermot senses DANGER and screams at me. Undoubtedly, my first session with Carla will be seamless; I know from experience that it is only ...
I must have been the only teacher in Christendom (for "teacher" read: lowly teaching assistant) not forward to half term. I was kind of dreading it, in fact. Sure, I could sleep in until mid-morning and my clothes would be safe from paint and sticky hands for an entire week, but as the holiday approached, my anxiety grew: five days without (*dramatic pause*) routine. Routine. I cling to it like a leech because I've found I can just about manage dialysis as long as EVERYTHING STAYS EXACTLY THE SAME FOREVER. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I wake up, I go to work, I go to hospital, I stagger home, I eat and I sleep; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake and go to work, I arrive home and write, I go to the gym and get on with my live sex show on th...er, I have dinner and an early night. Without work, my carefully constructed regime is in tatters and all I have to orientate my week are the sessions at the hospital and, though I do enjoy my M and S sandwich, I don't re...