Brenda’s Unfortunate Record #32


How fitting that this year, for once the bank holiday fell on the first. May Day indeed, in every sense of the word. You’re damn right, and we’re all fucking screaming it (at least on the inside). Overboard or not, this ship’s definitely sinking. 

I’m so done with it though. The tedium of defeat. Fuck them. Like seriously, fuck them (well maybe not actually, I doubt they’d be much fun). Week after week it feels pretty flippant to bang on with my personal anecdotes when everything around is going to shit, but at the same time, do we really need more voices piping up? Do you really need to know my political take, sit through more bloody commentary? I ain’t gonna say anything new, am I? Everyone and their goddamn opinions. Pffffff … I feel like I’m being redundant right now. Why am I even typing this? Well because of what i said before, that need to acknowledge said shit-show before turning the spotlight back on errrrrrrr me? *insert emoticon*

On that note … aside from Fucking Mayday etc etc etc, nearer ‘la casa’ it’s been a right ‘unfortunate’ week too. The cat’s got cancer. Yep, the little (big) one, my three year old Rudi who I’ll bore you with at the slightest mention, has a basketball-sized tumour in his liver. He’s gone all yellow and with the big patch of fur they’ve shaved off, he looks a bit like a bagpipe. The prognosis ain’t good but he’s none the wiser, still eating up a storm and walking about with his tail held high. So long as that keeps up I’m keeping my fingers crossed. We’ve been referred to a specialist. Thank god he’s insured. 

I found out on Friday, was naturally hysterical for a few hours but have now settled in to the idea. Sick world, sick cat, sick sick … sure why not. As my sister pointed out, ‘you’re really unlucky with pets, aren’t you? I wonder if it’s something to do with you?’. And she does kind of have a point. D’Arcy D-Nut was the first to go. A hyper thyroid condition left him marooned on the kitchen table for a whole summer before we finally did the deed. And then there was Foo. He was only eight when the vet diagnosed him with stomach cancer. It was December 30th 2013 and I spent New Years Eve lying in vigil on the settee. When we took him on his death march, I remember running into some saucer-eyed acquaintances, still revelling in the auld lang syne …

‘Oh my god, your cat’s so cute!’

Half of me really wanted to kill the vibe, only I stayed shtum and within the hour, Foo was no more. 

If it is me, surely we’d have to extend that thought further and question why so many of my nearest and dearest have developed auto-immune diseases too (I’ve never asked myself that, honest). Imagine if I really was poisonous. Get close and I’ll eventually kill you. We could wheel me down Downing Street, or better yet, plop me in Eton so I could dish out dinner to the next generation. Forward thinking, right? Bah. As much as I like the idea, I’d be reluctant to give myself that much credit.

So where does that leave us? This week’s been shit but there will be shittier. The cat’s got cancer but he’s still alive. And do you know what, so am I. So fuck it, chin is up. ‘To life, to history repeating and to interminable clichés'


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