Update: April 2024

This is a painting of, erm, the cancerous tumour that I found in my breast in 2021.

It's gone now.

I felt much better after the painting was completed, sort of serene. Despite the brutal treatment that is chemotherapy, I have depicted the cancer as drifting away, parts of you do drift away while going through treatment, and some parts return while others do not. That's how I feel anyway.

I moved house last year. My rented house was too big with just me in it. It was fine when occupied with my daughters, a grand-daughter, a grand-daughter's dad and my lovely dog, but people grow and need to move on. My dog reached the end of his road. The day I lost him was the saddest day of my life. I know I probably shouldn't say that but he was deep in my heart and I loved him unconditionally. I won't ever get another dog, that 'going to sleep' business is a train wreck, one that you are watching and also feel responsible for, even though you are not.

I am now living with my dad who is soon to be 88 years old. If I mention, say: baby-boomer, Brexiteer, Daily Mail reader, you would probably be correct in your suppostition of him. He tried to tell me the other day that, 'we read the same things,' my coffee spurt forth onto the opposite wall of the kitchen. I'm afraid that was a comment too far, I read The Guardian for chrissakes, sometimes The Times, he reads The Field, I read Vogue, I read Irvin D Yalom, he reads The Mail Online. He recommends 'romantic' films, romance is anathema to me. He has forgotten that I am a sixty year old woman who has looked after and nurtured people, and homes, since I was a teenager, cooked more than a million meals, held up countless bundles of hair over basins, driven enough miles as a taxi service to practically, 'have the knowledge' , diced with death more times than a bloody cat and who can also write and paint. He must sometimes really wonder who this creature is who appears opposite him at mealtimes. (Meals cooked by me, I might add)

Still, it's not too bad, I am into mindfulness, yoga, and psychotherapy, thank god. I calmly breathe, stretch like a cat and tell myself that it's because he lost his dad in the war that he is like he is.

I had to tie his shoelaces up for him in Morrison's the other day, that was a bit sad, shopping in Morrison's (his choice, definitely not mine) I mean, not tying his shoelaces.

He is in a ginornous sulk at the moment as the weather is not playing the game. It's bloody April and it's bloody cold, he's had to put the bloody fire on, bloody Sunak. (?!)

Over the winter (has it gone yet?) I've read so many books. Amazon must love me. My favourite author at the moment is Hanya Yanagihara. Her book, 'A Little Life', oh god, so moving, I wanted to climb into it and get Jude out, has stayed with me, Jude became a real person to me and in a weird way I feel as if I am in mourning. 

'To Paradise' is just a masterpiece, how anyone could have written that book when she did is beyond my comprehension, so chilling.

I also really like books by Andrew Sean Greer, most especially, 'Less' and ' Less is Lost.'

I am on my fifth Irvin D Yalom, all tales of psychotherapy, and although I have more up to date 'therapy' books, I feel an affinity with Irv.

But, I must remember that this is an update, not a book review.

I am missing my music. Dad listens to Radio 5 Live, sheer torture.

When I am in my studio (too bloody cold at the moment) I can whack on what I like, a cross section from Oasis to Ella, and when I'm in the car it's Radio X, not Chris Moyles though.

My hair has grown back, dad has actually said to me, " What the bloody hell is wrong with your hair? " Or, has simply laughed at my tufty barnet. " Chemo " has happened to my hair, I reply before stretching and breathing and blaming WW11.

celia.turner@hotmail.co.uk