I spent a long time looking in the mirror this morning. Pat’s been doing the morning school run since I started chemo, which is very nice of him. Before any of you imagine me lying in bed of a morning, enjoying a lightly boiled egg, fresh coffee and a pain au chocolat whilst the children quietly leave for school. Dream on. It just means I can shower after they’ve been thrown out the door, moaning about children’s rights and how bloody UNFAIR everything is. When they are Prime Minister (that campaign will be a fight to the death), things will change. They won’t make school last so long. Weekends will be 4 days long. No homework. PE every day. Given that their policies are very similar I did suggest they could work together, they weren’t keen.
Anyway, this means that I have Time To Shower. In peace and quiet, if I remember to close the bathroom door to stop our weird spaniel sneaking in and licking my ankles. Fair warning to anyone who might stay with us, close the door.
So, I was staring in the mirror thinking something looked odd. Apart from the bald head and chubby steroid cheeks. I look…lopsided.
My right eyebrow has thinned out more than my left, and in true Sod’s Law style, it’s not just thinning, it’s shortening from the end nearest my nose. I’m about 1.5cm out of synch. Symmetry really is a big factor in how you look, those magazines aren’t lying. I need to find a beautician who can draw my brows in, but gently. I’m not keen on the fuzzy felt look so popular right now, especially when my fringe is no longer here to soften the look. Any of you any good with a light brown Sharpie? Sharpie seems good, nothing washes that off, I have 2647586 white school shirts proving that point.
I don’t need this right now. Son 1 is rowing on Saturday. In a regatta. The regatta rules sent me into a flat spin. There are dress codes (no specific mention that women must have hair and eyebrows, but they might think that’s a given), picnic pitches to buy (just a bit of grass, the picnic is not included) and men must be in suits. Pat is IT, he doesn’t wear a suit unless he’s going to an interview or a funeral. His idea of smart is a t-shirt less than 10 years old. I seriously considered loading the boat with bricks for the time trial, or making him take the weird spaniel as cox. That dog weighs a ton when wet.
We got a reprieve, since #1 is a para-rower he gets to get in his boat (there’s a term for that but I’ve forgotten what it is) from the other side of the river, where it’s not all muddy and stuff. That means we can stay in the non-dress code area. Thank you son with wobbly legs. This rowing thing is a learning curve, and I’m grateful for the chance to watch and see before having to dive in. Not actually dive in, I’m fairly sure that would be frowned upon (especially if I wear The Wig, and it floats off down The Thames). Stay away from the Prosecco, stay away from the edge, grow hair and eyebrows, is my to-do list for the next one. If he doesn’t sink in this one. Oh, “Don’t shout at me mum”. No shouting. The potential to fuck this up and really annoy Son 1 is immense, I might need some Prosecco just to take the edge off.