Airborne Glamour

So now you know that I am in sometimes-sunny Sydney. Obviously I got here on 
an aeroplane but unless you’ve ever done it yourself you may be unaware of just 
what a long and arduous flight it is from the UK to Australia… even for brats like 
me who insist on spending every penny of their hard earned cash on a business 
class ticket (best deals: Trailfinders). Which was just as well because after 
Royston drove me to the airport at 99 miles and hour with AC/DC’s Highway To 
Hell blasting at five thousand decibels I needed a bit of a lie down.


But Lily is not one to be idle for long. After reading the in-flight safety card, the 
in-flight menu and the in-flight movie programme, I put my time on the twenty-
four hour flight to work on your behalf researching in-flight beauty. 


For several years now our travels have been blighted by airport restrictions on 
what and how much we can take aboard planes in liquid, gel or lotion form. So 
packing the right products for a long flight takes meticulous planning.


After a great deal of deliberation about what I couldn’t live without for a whole 
day I have devised the Chemo Chic In-Flight Beauty Bag:


Products classed as liquids that must be carried in a clear plastic zip-lock bag.

• Pai Macadamia and Rose dry skin cream: this is a richer moisturiser so works well to combat cabin-air dryness.

• MV Organic Skincare Energizing 9-Oil Cleanser: the queen of cleansers, it is stuffed with nourishing and beautifully scented oils.

• Pai Lotus & Orange Blossom Bio Affinity Toner: soothing, hydrating and it smells divine - spray on face, neck and hands every two hours.

• Pai Rosehip Bioregenerate facial oil: mix a few drops with the moisturiser for extra richness. Because of limited space I use the moisturiser/ rosehip oil mixture on my hands as well, rather than taking a separate hand cream.

• Comvita Propolis toothpaste: try to save an almost exhausted tube so you can roll it up and it won’t take up so much space in your zip-lock bag.

• Sample size of Organic Glam Oud perfume: Oud is the classic scent of North Africa. It’s intensely evocative of exotic travel so one squirt before landing will do the trick.

• Hurraw Night Treatment balm: with blue chamomile to keep lips soft and supple.

• Ilia Bang Bang red lipstick: a sheer lippy to restore some colour to the face on arrival. Can also be used as an emergency blusher.

• Vapour Organic Beauty concealer stick: in case of in-flight breakouts, blotchiness and the inevitable dark under-eye circles.

• Organic Glam black mascara: always essential.

Products not classed as liquids.

• Inika eye pencil and brow pencil: for a two second eye glammafacation.

• Crystal mini mineral salt deodorant stick.

• Silk eye mask (the aeroplane ones tend to be plastic backed and scratchy).

• Ear plugs.

• Soft scrunchy (for keeping hair tidy whilst sleeping).

• Pair of knitted Afghan socks with leather soles for padding around the cabin.

• Mini microbead pillow: squishes up to nothing.

Oh My Goodness Is That The Time Already?

I know! I have abandoned you and I’m sorry. Every day I intend to write a piece 
for Chemo Chic. And every day the beach and the sunshine beckon me away from 
my laptop. By the time I return with my hair full of salt and my brain befuddled 
with bliss it seems that the only realistic course of action is to lie on the couch 
and languidly eat a mango whilst Samantha makes us a nice cup of tea.


I’m in Australia, in case you hadn’t twigged. In a way, I’m having the holiday that I 
missed out on two years ago when Nick did the dirty and our 'dream vacation' all went lurching hideously sideways. I’ve spent time in Tasmania, visiting Mum, Aunty Noni and my cousins Fay and Matilda. The weather was sublime. We swam every day with the giant 
stingrays in the aquamarine water of the bay. Stingrays are gentle souls really, as 
long as you don’t step on them. They hear you coming and just glide ahead like a 
guard of honour. I spent a lot of time standing on Mum’s verandah watching 
them moseying around on the sand, doing their stingray thing. Tasmania is rightly 
famed for its food. We did all the usual being attacked by catching fish from Noni’s boat, collecting mussels and samphire from the rocks and raiding Mum’s garden every evening 
for salads, beans, peas, zucchini, potatoes, corn, kale…

Then it was back to the city to catch up with all my Sydney friends: Mandy and 
Tony, now deep into married life; Lulu; Jimmy and of course Samantha, Lyla, Lily, 
Felix the cat and Lola the one-eyed pug. Living in Watson’s Bay is as bonkers as 
ever. Thank the Lord.


And now so much time has passed by I’m at a loss as to where to begin the catch-
up. So I’m just going to start posting up snippets, going back and forth in time to 
try to fill in some of the details of the past six or seven weeks. 

Sitting in Limbo

I’m holed up at the Hyatt Regency Incheon airport, Seoul. The flight to London is not direct so Korean Air put their passengers up in a hotel overnight. It’s a terrific way to do the arduous Sydney to London trip: two daytime flights with a good kip in between to ease the fatigue. The last time I made this journey they took us to a hotel right in the centre of Seoul. It’s a mad town, full of noises, smells, flashing lights and people, people, people. But this time they’ve plonked us at an airport hotel. There’s not much to do. My cases have been checked all the way through to London so it’s hand luggage only. I didn’t think to stuff my bikini into my handbag so I can’t relax in the pool like the brochure guests. My room has a great view of the runway. Watching planes taking off and landing can be rather therapeutic.

The last twenty-four hours have been strange. I called Nick to say goodbye. You might think that was a love addict thing to do. You may be right. I didn’t want to depart from Australia leaving behind only a memory of bitter emptiness. Imagine how surprised I was when Nick suggested that he take me out to dinner. It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying.

So on Sunday night, full of nerves, I wrapped my new hair in a pink skull headscarf and headed off into a balmy Sydney night in Samantha’s 1976 Alfa Spyder, with the top down. I stopped for two young women at a zebra crossing. As they passed in front of the car one of them shouted: “You look fabulous.” That gave my self-esteem a boost. 


I met Nick at Fish Face in Darlinghurst, one of my favourite Sydney restaurants, apart from Tetsuya’s, of course. As the name suggests, Fish Face serves fish: fresh and imaginatively prepared.

Nick was nervous too. Our conversation was bumpy. I cried. At one point it seemed that Nick was going to get up and leave. But we both managed to drag ourselves back from the brink of anger or emotional disintegration and navigate back into calmer water. Then another surprise: Nick offered to take me to the airport. I gratefully accepted.

Back at Watson’s Bay, Lyla was still up, packing. Tomorrow is a big day for her too. She’s off to camp. “Camp is just unhygienic,” declared Lyla. We all had a chamomile tea and turned in.

A few fitful hours later I creaked out of bed to do my final bit of packing in the dark. At 5.15 a.m. the doorbell rang. Nick was as good as his word. As Nick loaded my suitcases into his car Samantha and her eleven-year old daughter Lily arose and made cups of tea. Lyla managed a brief appearance at her bedroom door, “Goodbye Lily. Love you,” before tumbling back into her sleepy nest. She is thirteen after all. Lily handed me a homemade card. Inside it was a touching poem that she had composed herself. With welling eyes we all hugged. I will miss Samantha and her family a great deal. They have been unwaveringly kind and generous to me in one of the most difficult periods of my life.

In the car I read Lily’s poem aloud to Nick. Tears streamed down my face.

Checking in was the usual bustle. Nick and I had a final coffee. I smoked a last cigarette outside and then it was time. Unexpectedly, Nick grabbed my hand and held it. And I felt relaxed, walking across the concourse hand-in-hand with Nick, the man I have hated. At the security gate I turned, “Well goodbye...” I started, then stopped. Nick was crying. In that moment all my pain, anger and hurt of the last months evaporated. Standing before me I saw the real Nick, who I have loved so much. I held him in my arms and he wept.

***

I landed in Australia four months ago full of joy at the prospect of camping, swimming and languid days of love. I ended up broken in a rehab. Yet I feel like the lucky one. I’m still here and I still have dreams for my life. First I must get the cancer tests out of the way. Then I’ve got work to do, writing Chemo Chic – the book. I still plan to move back to Sydney, my childhood home. And I hope that one day I will meet a man to love and be loved by, to share the beauty, the terror and the wonderful adventure of being alive.

***

Lily’s Poem

Dear Lily,

We don’t want you to go,

You make our household glow

We’ll miss your smile and laugh.

We love you so much,

You have a very special touch

Felix and Lola will miss you too,

Goodness Lily we’ll miss you.

We hope you have a good time in London,

Being with you has been lots of fun,

We really enjoyed the swimming,

Good luck with your fabulous writing.

So thank you again for staying with us,

And thank you for your kindness,

We’ll miss you and hope you have a good time,

We’ll see you again soon but to us it will feel like a longtime.

All the love in the world from Lily, Samantha, Lyla, Felix and Lola xoxoxoxox

We love you and miss you!

Another Country

I am reading Another Country by Nicolas Rothwell. Strange to say I used to know Nicolas, many years ago in London. In the author photo on the back of the book he looks unchanged.

I once wondered what had become of him. Now I know. He moved to Darwin and became an outstanding writer. An Englishman, Nicolas Rothwell writes about Australia with expressive clarity and a deep, emotional understanding of this land that is a joy to read. Another Country stirs my heart. It excites my mind. The stories make me yearn to travel in this ancient place as much I can in the short time that I am to be here. I want to find a partner to participate in the adventure to come. Who might I meet in Sydney?

If nothing else, Nick has been instrumental in my coming home to Australia. I thank him for that.

My recent experiences have left me shaken but not broken. I am determined not to allow myself to become bitter or untrusting in the future. I don’t yet know who my new lover will be. But I do know two things for certain: that he will be a man who knows himself and that he will have a connection with my country.

Mum's Manicure

Mum is showering me with T.L.C. When she’s not making me a cup of tea, she is rubbing my back with liniment or slipping hot water bottles into my bed.

Today we are off to Bream Creek to see Mum’s masseur, Debs. On the way we stop off at a roadside barrow selling organic cherries and organic apricots. I grab a bag of each, and stuff the money into the honesty tin.

Snacking on the luscious fruits we drive on through Marion Bay, a strange settlement. It is mostly shacks built by the side of salt marshes that stand behind the breathtakingly beautiful Marion Beach. There is an eerie end-of-the-world quality to this hamlet, perched between the wild, deserted sea and the strange, flat marshes.

We pass a flock of black swans. How odd they must have seemed to the first Europeans to walk in this land. By the shore there is an old cemetery with graves dating back to those early settlers.

Debs lives on a high hill with panoramic views of the coast. She is a practitioner of Ka-Huna massage, a skill, it turns out, that she learned from my aunty Lily in Queensland. Ka-Huna is a full body massage that originates in Hawaii. Debs works up and down with firm sweeping strokes of her forearms. In the past few days I have experienced the return of severe neck and shoulder pain. It is a tension that I haven’t felt since before my breast surgery. As my body relaxes I begin to cry. I just don’t know what kind of therapy can heal the sadness that I feel.

Back at home Mum offers to give me a manicure. She strips off the chipped nail varnish and then sets to work with one of those magic buffing blocks, first sanding back the ridges and then polishing with the smoother surface. Soon my nails are glowing.

Mum inspects her handiwork. “I think it works better if you do it yourself,” she says, “you can get into all the little bends.” “Probably,” I agree, “but it feels so lovely to have you do it for me.”

Oh My God, It’s Nearly Christmas!

I have been consumed with the anticipation of finishing radiotherapy treatment today and then jetting off to the sunshine. I depart from Heathrow on Christmas Eve and arrive in Sydney on Boxing Day. Thus Christmas Day, for me, has been vaporised.

But not for you... I receive an email from Eleanor asking what she might give her breast cancer afflicted friend for Christmas.

Here are my top tips.

If your friend is having or is about to have chemotherapy she will probably lose her hair. A soft cotton or silk sleeping cap is a necessity both for catching falling hairs and for keeping her bald little head warm in the cold winter nights. Similarly, a cotton beanie is great for wearing around the house. If it’s freezing outside, she can don a cashmere hat over the top of the beanie.

Just because your friend has cancer doesn’t mean she can’t be drop-dead glamorous. Get her a velvet turban for topping off dramatic evening looks. If you want to splash out, an Hermès scarf is a gift that will be fabulous for a lifetime and then be handed down to her daughter.

Cancer treatments can be very drying to the skin. Here are three products that she will thank you for: Spiezia organic rose and vanilla face oil; enriched hand cream by Absolute Organics and organic foot softening balm by Saaf. I found myself keeping tubes of lip balm everywhere that I went - in my handbag, in the car and by the bed. Burt’s Bees do a three-pack of their lovely beeswax balms.

Your friend will be spending a lot of time lying on the couch. A pair of cashmere socks or a luxurious cashmere throw will make her feel more like a reclining princess that a languishing invalid. A subscription to Lovefilm is like giving a present every week.

There’s not much that you can do about the fact that everything she eats will taste revolting. But even at my most ill I could always manage to force down a bar of Green & Black’s Mint Chocolate. Alternatively, if your friend is of the 'all sugar is poisonous' camp then Sanchi Furikake Japanese Seasoning and Clearspring Ume Plum Seasoning are a couple of condiments that will lively up her brown rice.

What with feeling sick all the time and the thought of food being enough to turn one's stomach there are few pleasures left in life. Things that smell nice will give her a lift. Either a divine scented candle or a bottle of gorgeous Weleda bath milk is a sensory treat.

Reading trolley loads of cancer memoirs, cancer cures and cancer diets can be overwhelming, not to mention tedious. If your friend is the kind of person who likes to help herself there is one book that I would recommend: Your Life in Your Hands by Professor Jane Plant.

When your friend finally does haul her backside off the sofa, encourage her to go out dancing. To distract from the fact that she is bald a really bright lipstick and a pair of drop-dead chandelier earrings are in order.

If you're feeling super-indulgent, here are the most outstanding anti-cancer gifts that I have received. First, a Champion Juice Extractor (thank you Flossie). With this you friend will have life-giving, energising juice of the highest quality every day to keep her going. Add in a weekly organic fruit and veg box for good measure. And an aeroplane ticket (thank you Mr P), dated for two weeks after the end of her treatment will give her something to look forward to throughout her darkest days.

Finally, the best gift you can give is your friendship at a lonely and frightening time in her life. Make a commitment to visit once a week. Whilst you’re there make her a cup of anti-nausea ginger tea, cook her dinner, water the plants and take out the rubbish.

Barcelona - Keys to the City

It’s 4 a.m. and someone is sounding an alarm. Probably the same person who has put my head in a vice and is turning the screw.

I’ve woken up with a headache and temperature, again. I can’t bear it. My first thought is that I probably should not go to Barcelona. But the ramifications of cancelling now are ghastly. My travel insurance probably will not pay out. My mum will be heartbroken and will probably insist on flying to London to see me. That will be exhausting for Mum, who has already flown from Tasmania to Moscow and then via Prague to Barcelona. And it will be expensive not to mention very inconvenient for my sister Miranda, who not only will have to pay for Mum’s trip but will also be deprived of free babysitting services.

A bath and a cup of tea lift my spirits a little. But not much. I don’t know how to make this decision on my own. Anxiety takes hold. What if it’s Swine Flu? What if I give it to everyone on the plane and then to Eloise? What if I have to be hospitalised? It will ruin my friends’ holiday. I haven’t got the European Health Card.

I’ve been through all this a couple of weeks ago so I know that it probably isn’t Swine Flu. It’s just a cold. My immune system is depressed. One minute it has the cold on the run. Then the cold turns around and fights. They skirmish back and forth. This morning the cold has the upper hand. I reach for the thermometer. 38º. The nurses told me to report if my temperature goes above 38º. Well it’s not above. It’s exactly 38º.

The taxi arrives. It’s make your mind up time. I’ve looked forward to this for so long. If I don’t go I feel that I might just fall down the dank plughole of depression. I’m going. I’m in the minicab. “Where to?” asks the driver. “Paddington” I reply. “I’ll take you to Heathrow for £30” he offers. “Heathrow then.” Off we go.

***

Forget going in business class and all that malarky. I have discovered the secret of luxury travel. Special Assistance. A kindly old lady bundles me into a wheelchair. I feel that this is all wrong. I should be pushing her. With surprising vigour she spins me to the front of every queue. Bag drop. Security. Priority boarding at the gate. It’s the same in Barcelona. A very energetic young man wheels me along miles of concourse. Then we reach the tail of the passport queue. “Excuse me,” he says. And then “excuse me,” again, and again, and again. We swiftly work our way to the front of this monster queue and straight through. I resist the urge to give my fellow travellers a little wave as we waft by. The young man collects my bag and takes me all the way to a taxi. He wishes me a cheery goodbye but does not hesitate in expectation of a tip.

***

The taxi pulls up at Estacio de França right where Mum and Eloise are standing, waiting for me. Eloise rushes up to the window. “Guess what aunty Lily?” she says excitedly. “What!?” I reply with indulgent expectation. “Somebody stole our bag!” I look at Mum with incomprehension and notice that she is limp. She looks like a deflated balloon, if a deflated balloon could stand on the steps of a Spanish railway station. I also notice that she has put on her best dress and shoes to meet me. My heart just breaks. After I’ve decanted from the taxi Mum apprises me of the situation. She was sitting at a café, waiting for me to arrive. She put her handbag by her foot. Eloise dropped an ice-cream in her lap and started to carry on. Mum leaned over to wipe up the ice cream and in that moment the bag was whipped. What kind of verminous, scumbag lowlifes would steal from an old lady and a child? Not only were Mum’s money, phone and camera in the bag but also the keys to my sister’s husband’s apartment along with the address of the apartment. Eloise pulls a pink wallet out of her pink rucksack. “I’ve got five Euros” she exclaims.

Miranda and Jean-Claude left yesterday for a holiday north of Barcelona, up near the French border. The spare set of keys is in the apartment. The neighbours are all away. “The first thing we should do,” I say, “is have a cup of tea.”

We sit down at a café (not the bag snitcher’s place) and shortly Mum’s face turns grey and she breaks into a sweat. It seems that she is so distressed that she is about to lose consciousness. Mum puts her head on the table whilst I consider the situation. There’s my elderly mother, six-year-old Eloise, who will not stop talking, me and a suitcase. It’s 35º. None of us speak Spanish. I’m starting to feel decidedly ill.

I don’t even want to record the details of the day. It’s too tedious. There are numerous calls to Miranda on my mobile phone from Spain via Moscow and London back to Spain. The thought of the bill makes me dizzy. The apartment is rented. The landlord is on holiday. The cleaning lady has a key. They don’t have her phone number. She’s not coming again until next week.

We visit three different police stations. The last one is like a zoo but we finally get to talk to someone who speaks English. Yes, we want to make a report. Yes, there was money in the bag and a camera but please, please can he help us with our most pressing concern? That is that we are locked out. We are desperately worried that the thieves will rob the apartment. “Oh, they hardly ever do that. They’re too stupid” he states breezily and hands us three cards with locksmith’s phone numbers on them. But we don’t speak Spanish. Back at the café I beg the owner to call the locksmith on our behalf. He seems dubious. How does he know that it’s our apartment? Good point. I try to convince him of our upstanding nature by ordering lunch for three. Finally he agrees.

The locksmith arrives. He is very kind but he cannot get through the street door. We ring all the bells. As feared, there is no reply. We go to the Hotel Banys Orientals where I am booked to stay from Thursday. They are incredibly kind but they do not have a room. They offer us chairs and put my suitcase in their storeroom. They ring around and book us a room at a nearby hotel.

At least at last we have a home to go. Eloise puts the telly on full blast and demands to play Rag Doll Blaster on my iPhone. I find this irritating because I can't get past level 4 and Eloise has cracked it. She is six years old. I crash on the bed. Mum insists on returning to loiter outside the apartment in case anyone comes in or out. She feels responsible for the whole mess. “Mum, you didn’t steal the handbag. It was the bastards. It’s not your fault.” I try to reassure her but she is inconsolable and won’t be dissuaded from going. Very soon, however, Mum is back – with Miranda.

It seems that Miranda has returned from her holiday. It seems that Jean-Claude is not with her. One could surmise that there have been words. Miranda is keeping schtum on that point.

Crisis management is Miranda’s stock in trade. She immediately swings in to action, operating on two mobile phones, one Russian, one French. She manages to rent an apartment in the building directly opposite Jean-Claude’s.

I opt to stay in the hotel. It’s a dump but it’s my dump and it’s nice and quiet.