Despite my miserable state of mind I am still swimming every day. Sydney’s March weather has been utterly glorious: sunny, warm and breezy. Samantha and I are bathing at Nielsen Park. When alone, I put in serious lengths: backstroking, breaststroking and freestyling up and down inside the shark-netted swimming area. I wear flippers in the hope that the increased resistance will help to build up my leg muscles.
But this afternoon, Samantha and I are simply floating about and gossiping. What are we gossiping about? Other people’s lip jobs. Fat Russian men on the beach. Milla, the mad leg waxer. The same things everybody gossips about. I find it a delight to be idle in the sea on a sunny Sydney afternoon, talking about anything but Nick.
I have been assiduous about applying the factor 40 and wearing my rashie. As we towel off Samantha looks at my long, lily white legs. “You have to get at least two drops of sun on your body before you go back to London,” she says. “Well I think my toes may have a bit of a tan,” I say, looking down. And there, at the end of my right foot is a sight I have been hoping I would not see. Nearly five months after the completion of the Taxol chemotherapy, my big toenail has started to come away. It turned black back in November. Since then I have painted it over with fluorescent pink nail varnish. But now it has split right across, about halfway down the nail bed and it is lifting off completely.
Just in time for Mandy and Tony’s wedding tomorrow.
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