Life on the list

It turns out that hopelessly pining away for an operation that may or may not come or work is less fun than it sounds, which is an interesting development because a few weeks ago it sounded totally rad. But hey ho, on we go in the shadow of the Transplant That Never Was, and I have decided it is time to get myself a Thing. Henceforth, my Thing is going to be what I Do, because what with the pining and the self-pity shelved I’m going to have some free time on my hands. To Do my Thing. Which, after a careful elimination process, I have decided is going to be Baking. Baking is the lonely girl’s fetish. It is an activity that requires no additional human support thus making it ideal for me because all the additional humans in my life actually have social lives that involve leaving the house. Baking has the extra benefit of producing (theoretically) edible treats which you can trade with aforementioned others in return for their friendship. Everyone gets a brownie, everybody wins. My...

Tuesday 19th June I barely know where to begin. After almost three and a half years on The List, after almost four and a half on dialysis, my phone rang. I had lived out this moment in my head countless times, but in the early hours of last Friday morning I finally received a call from one of the surgeons at Guy's: "We potentially have a kidney for you," said Georgius in his jauntily accented English (I would take a punt on Greek). You could tell from the way he spoke that he was smiling. "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," came my eloquent reply. After we discussed some semantics, I hung up and flew down the hallway to scare the shit out of Maisy by bursting into her room and announcing the news. I'm glad I did though, because it was she who booked a taxi, level headed to the last, whilst I flapped around in my bedroom throwing random items into a bag and haphazardly applying Laura Mercier eyebrow pencil. Then I rang my family, waking them each up in turn: first, m...

Another day, another dialysis session and yet another sterling BBC3 documentary on iPlayer. No-one was eating junk food or recounting their SAS days, admittedly, but it was incredibly thought-provoking nonetheless and it left me feeling reflective. And pretty terrified. The program was about young people who are "secretly" homelessness: unable to live at home for whatever reason, they are sleeping on friends' sofas or in hostels, only one perilous step away from being on the streets. No permanent address = no job; no job = no income, and no income means no money to pay rent for that pivotal proof of residency, so it is a vicious cycle. My terror did not devolve from the thought that it could be me. The reality is I am unlikely ever to find myself in that situation. I have good relations with all my family, and I know they would put me up were I in need of a bed. I am well educated and have experience in the work place, and whilst the job market is volatile, I work in ...