Breast cancer lesson number 90: Life is short. There is no time to leave important words unsaid

I am grateful that last night was just a night of sweats, broken sleep and nasty nausea rather than a night wedded to the washing-up bowl (I must stress the bowl has been retired from active washing-up duty in case you were worried). And, looking at the faces of mum and Duncan in the morning, I think I wasn’t the only one who was grateful!

I made it through. But I had to dig deep. The nausea and night sweats were among the worst I have ever endured. The Aprepitant drug worked wonders on the sickness and the quick hat and sock changes helped with the hot flushes. But there is one other trick I’d like to share, which – in between the waves of nausea – made the whole experience memorable in a more positive way.

I have never been one for counting sheep or filling my mind with the colour blue in an attempt to drift off. So, last night I introduced a new technique. From the beginning, I listed out all the wonderful and kind messages and gestures people have sent through over the last four months. By this, I don’t just mean the obvious. By this, I mean the well-timed tips, the lucky pre-surgery safety pin, the comment from an old schoolfriend about what she thought of me back then and how I hadn’t changed, the thank you from a girl I once helped in a small way and never thought much of it. Just yesterday, a lady I had met a month ago and showered in cancer-related tips stopped me in reception to thank me for my kindness. Those words meant everything to me. Each one of these moments has made an indelible mark on my heart. And, yesterday, I used them to build a patchwork quilt of happiness to comfort me at my lowest ebb. The great thing is, when I got out of bed this morning I smiled knowing that I have just scratched the surface, with many more patches to add.

Being at the receiving end of a lifetime of kindness has got me thinking about just how much we really say to those that inspire us and make us smile. When was the last time you turned to a friend and thanked them for just being there? When was the last time you contacted an old acquaintance and told them just how big an impression they have made on your life? When was the last time you thanked someone and meant it from the bottom of your heart? People can’t guess you’re your thinking unless you tell them. When the business of life gets in the way, it is hard to step back, reflect and not take all those you love and admire for granted. But, I can tell you now, there is so much I want to say to people while they are still around to hear it! People come and go in life, tucked away in chapters. But, their kindness will live on through you. I’d love to think that if someone were to cut me open (in a nice, non-cancer-surgery kind of way), I would be made up all of the brilliant people who have touched my life.


So, I have chosen today, laced as it might be with a cocktail of drugs and a vat load of liquid, as the day to hand out my first pink hearts. The first is for my astonishing and truly wonderful mum who is one of the most beautiful people you’ll ever meet. She may weigh less than me currently (although we are having words), and she may not be able to take the pain of a cancer diagnosis away, but she has made living with it as comfortable and relaxing as possible. She has put her life on hold, so that I have the chance to get mine back. As a daughter, I have not always thanked my mother quite as often as I should. But she means everything to me and I plan to spend the rest of my days reminding her of that. While I won’t share the contents of my letter with you, I will share one line: ‘Life is no easy street, but you have made walking down it, so much more enjoyable.’

And, the second heart? You’ll just have to wait and see! I will also be posting more details of my pink heart plan (first mentioned in lesson number 30 – click here) in the weeks to some to inspire others to send ripples of kindness all across the world.


All I ask is that you take a moment of your day to thank someone who matters to you. What is it about them that makes you smile? What it is you should have told them years ago, but never thought to mention? How have they helped make you the person you are today? I guarantee you’ll feel good saying it – but not as good as the person hearing it (especially if it’s for the first time).

Make today the day you start following your heart. Trust me, there’s no time to lose.

NB: it will take years to deliver all these hearts, so do bear with me. The accompanying letters are all handwritten and contain a piece of my heart. Plus, I have to make sure I don’t get arm ache! 

Breast cancer lesson number 89: A chemo day can be a good day

Believe it or not, today was a good day. I should qualify this by saying that most good days do not come with a helping of toxic drugs on the side. But as days on active treatment go, it was a complete success.


I passed my blood test (yay!). My levels are good for someone on chemo (could be seen as a compliment). I had a lovely lunch with my lovely mum (that I could taste) and a walk along the river (in the sunshine). I met a friendly nurse who furnished me with a whole rucksack full of pills, mouthwashes and eye drops (including the mighty Emend/Aprepitant for vomiting). I got the chemo drugs (yay-ish because it wasn’t delayed) and actually waved goodbye to Epirubicin as the last red syringe was drained into my PICC line. I now know the name of the lovely lady who does my PICC line flushing every week (she doesn’t wear a name badge and after a few sessions, I felt it would be wrong to ask). I have sorted out my appointments for the next round (chemo is moving to a Friday). And, most importantly, the chemo unit LOVED the ginger cookies (although you could question whether or not a unit of patients with questionable taste buds is a robust test).

I also discovered a few new things (and we all know how much I love learning things)! One, there is such a thing as a menopause clinic, because I’ve been referred to it in an attempt to help me get a convincing night of sleep! (watch this space). Two, baked goods (with ingredients listed) are welcome on the unit (I did wonder whether health and safety would get in the way). Three (not the best revelation), the next set of chemo cycles requires me to have around 24 injections to help keep my white blood cell count at a good level (nothing like a few sub-cut injections to remind me of those fertility days). And last but not least, according to my stats, somebody discovered my blog by searching ‘extraordinary boobs’. Whoever found my blog by searching for this, all I can say is: great search terms (I wimped out after Googling it and sizing up the main subject matter) and I am sorry that I really don’t have extraordinary boobs. They are certainly not ordinary, but I am not sure that is what you were after!

Here’s a piccie of me in the unit ‘copping a feel’ (albeit not exactly going for a full grab) to show my support for the wonderful charity Coppafeel (click here), which was set up by a wonderful women called Kris, who was diagnosed with Stage four (advanced breast cancer) at the age of 23. Her mission is to make sure young women are more aware of their boobs, completing those regular checks that could just save their lives. It’s a simple and powerful message, and one I am going to help her spread over the coming months and years.

I may be nibbling my ginger cookies at a rapid rate to tackle the nausea inside me, but I think, as days go, it was a goodie. Let’s just hope I don’t have to make friends with my old washing-up bowl again tonight!


I hope you’ve all had a good day!


Breast cancer lesson number 86: The secret to smooth summer legs

Ok, so I appreciate the title to this blog is a little misleading. While I do have the secret, it does involve a few rounds of toxic drugs, so it is a bit of a hardcore way to solve an everyday problem.

That said, if you’ve got to endure chemotherapy, you’ve got to celebrate those perks. One whole summer with beach-ready legs is a good side effect – just a shame I won’t leaving the country to find sandy beach on which to air them. Chemo, there aren’t many things I thank you for (especially not the ulcerated tongue that is currently making it difficult to talk). But, I thank you for this.

Interestingly, unlike the dramatic overnight hair loss I experienced with my hair, my legs have been a little quieter in their elimination of stumble. Imagine my surprise this morning then, when I discovered their silky smoothness. The great thing is, I tend to be a bit slack with my hair routine over the winter, and now I can be just as slack with amazing results. I have heard that chemo does wonders for the skin. I am now starting to believe it.

The secret to keeping your eyebrow hair and nostril hair while on chemo is one I would be keen to discover. While I have embraced by baby-like baldness and my hair-free thighs, my eyebrows have started to thin in a noticeable way and losing my nostril hair means I don’t need a hot meal to make my nose run!

Chemo, let’s make a deal. You can keep my leg hair and my armpit hair (and pretty much all my body hair), but in return would you please return my head and nostril hair and my eyebrows. If not, can you make sure we have a hot summer so I can make the most of the hair loss while it lasts. Thank you.

Breast cancer lesson number 84: You’re a person, not a hospital number

There are so many things I love about the NHS. There is, however, one thing I don’t. It’s the administration. Why do I have to be the one to join the dots? Why is it that when there are plenty of other things for me to worry about, is it the one thing filling up my thoughts by night and my mobile minutes by day. The NHS is made up of wonderful hard-working people who really care. It’s just such a shame the systems connecting those people together don’t.

Today’s administrative conundrum reduced me to tears. Here’s why:

1)    Three weeks ago, my oncologist in the Monday clinic took the decision that, having coped so well with the first round of chemo, I could be referred to a nurse-led programme for the remainder of my treatment. I happily agreed and was booked in for an appointment on Wednesday 7 May. Tick.

2)    At my second chemo session on 23 April, the receptionist informed me that I couldn’t attend the clinic on a Wednesday if I am to keep my three-week Wednesday cycles. Wednesday 7 May is a week before round three and therefore too early for blood tests. She suggested I call the breast care nurses to schedule an appointment at the Monday clinic again. Made sense to me!

3)    The breast care nurses were lovely as ever and confirmed that a Monday clinic appointment was needed and, a few days later, a letter arrived through the post. They cancelled my nurse-led appointment. Tick.

4)    Yesterday (Wednesday 7 May) I received a call querying why I wasn’t at the hospital for my nurse-led appointment. I explained the situation and the fact that I was led to believe the appointment had been cancelled. The lady informed me that I no longer qualified for the Monday clinic (I guess because I am a relatively well sick person) and that this appointment would need to be cancelled. Instead I would need to attend the Wednesday 14 May clinic at 10am and then have my chemo at 11am the same day. I agreed.

5)    Once the call had ended, I felt a bit concerned about the timings. Usually a blood test should happen about two hours before chemo so that the results can be processed and the chemo drugs prepared. As a result, I decided to double-check the timings at my PICC line dressing change appointment this morning.

6)    The receptionist confirmed that my Monday appointment had been cancelled, but that the nurse-led appointment was 11am (not 10am) and therefore at the same time as chemo. She added that I am not supposed to have the two on the same day (had I not queried it, I imagine my chemo would have been cancelled when I turned up next week). Wednesday clinic means Friday chemo. She confirmed that my chemo would now have to be moved, at which point the tears started to flow.

7)    After a few more calls, the receptionist confirmed that I would need to come to hospital on Wednesday for blood tests and to see the nurse. I would then (providing the test results were positive) need to return on the Thursday for the drugs. From chemo four onwards, I would need to attend the Wednesday clinic with Friday chemo. Happy Friday to me!

In chemo land, two days is a long time. By nudging my chemo to the end of the week, three months of careful planning (weddings, parties, training, holidays, train trips) were thrown into question in the space of half an hour. I am determined to make every single event. I just wish I didn’t have to dig deep (and maybe even pack a my old washing-up bowl) to do so!

I get it. Put the well people on the Friday list so they won’t clog up A&E on a Saturday. I don’t mind being a well person (the alternative is not particularly attractive). It’s just not great to feel that no one really wants to see you and that I am being shuffled around the system to make room for everyone else. I need someone to help me control the vomiting. I want to discuss my ice-cream headaches and my taste problems. I need my next Zoladex prescription. Plus, my diary is just one big mess of scribbled out appointments and I like tidy pages. Even my appointment card has tip-ex on it!

I have a voicemail message on my phone. I think there’s an apology coming. I just wish I didn’t have to let the tears flow to get it – and a proper appointment.

This cancer stuff is hard enough without having to worry about getting a seat at the clinic (or a chemo chair). I’m a person (and a very accommodating one at that), not a hospital number in the system. Dear NHS, please don’t forget me.

NB: as an amusing aside, I met someone for lunch today who I hadn’t seen for years. I was out in Suzie (he didn’t know, so I thought it only fair to act normal). What was the first thing he said to me? ‘Wow, you’ve changed your hair since we last met.’ He will never know why this one sentence made me smile so much. Suzie is obviously pretty convincing! 

Breast cancer lesson number 83: Dare to bare!

Today I conducted an experiment on behalf of every woman currently grappling with the physical effects of cancer. I left my hats and my ‘fake’ hair at home, threw caution to wind and started out on my commute across the capital with my bald head in full view.

For me, it was bold (or bald). London, however, with its preoccupied commuters and eclectic fashion sense has a great way of looking in the opposite direction. With the exception of a few pitying stares and a couple of double takes, I was just another person navigating the crowds to get to my destination. I didn’t want a seat. I didn’t want a hand. I just wanted to blend in. And, that’s exactly what I did.

While I do think a ‘new boob on board’ badge may have helped me avoid the elbows of those fighting for a bit of personal space, it was a fairly pleasant experience (as much as a commute across London at rush hour will ever be). It also reminded me that most people have so much to think about, that the potential plight of a stranger across the carriage really doesn’t register.

So, my advice to all you lovely ladies currently without lovely locks is dare to bare! Bald can be beautiful and pretty liberating. I shall leave you with the words of Larry David (slightly amended in itals): “Anyone can be confident with a full head of hair. But a confident bald man (or woman fighting cancer) – there’s your diamond in the rough.”

Breast cancer lesson number 81: The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the best of everything

Jogging (with a bit of walking) as I was around Greenwich Park this morning, I was reminded of a little bit of good that has come from the bad that is a cancer diagnosis.


I may be missing a few lymph nodes, but in extracting them all down my right side, they also did me a rather nice favour. They took my sweat glands too. That means no matter how hot I get (admittedly there wasn’t a huge amount of sweating going on this morning), I will always feel as fresh as a daisy – albeit only on the right. And, before you ask, the left side doesn’t compensate by giving me a good drenching!

Ok, so it might not be a fair trade when you think of the destruction caused by the cancer itself. But, you won’t hear me complaining. In fact, there are quite a few things I like about my post-cancer body. So much so that I feel part of me should feel quite grateful.

While I may have to live with a hip-to-hip scar across my stomach, the flat result really is the tummy of my dreams (and the scar is shaped like a smile rather than a straight line). Now I just have to keep it that way!

The hair loss may be temporarily (although if my armpit gets a blasting from the radiotherapy that could spell an end to right side armpit growth too), but it certainly is low maintenance. The thought of having no leg hair (the last to go I hear even though I wish it were the first) is actually quite exciting and the only bits I don’t want to part with (now the hair is a distant memory) are my eyebrows and my eyelashes.

And, dare I say it, my man-made boob is pretty realistic. The only problem is, it is already growing (even though the rest of my body isn’t particularly), so I may have to have weigh up my options with the surgeon if little becomes large over the coming months. The natural left one just can’t keep up.

Most importantly, however, I have a newfound respect for my body and the bits that do (and don’t) work. In the park today I jogged further than I have in a decade and it felt good. Even something as insignificant as painting your nails feels like a treat, now I set aside time for it (and don’t apply it while trying to multitask and end up taking it all off again).

This period has taught me that if you want to help others and give back to the world, you must first help yourself.

I know cancer has the power to challenge my life again in the future. That’s why I’m going to give my body the time it deserves now, so it will always have the energy to fight back. 

Breast cancer lesson number 80: How to make the ordinary feel extraordinary

It started with Friday night wine. As a tradition to mark the beginning of a weekend together, it has a special place in my heart. That is, until chemo wrestled in on the action and stole away my tastebuds. Chemo has a skill of turning even a beautiful Cotes du Rhone into the most vinegary plonk imaginable. Trust me, it is not a party trick of which I am particularly fond and it certainly doesn’t do much to give you that Friday feeling.

I am, however, thankful to chemo the comfort-stealer for one thing. By targeting and eliminating life’s pleasures, it has provided me with the opportunity to enjoy them all again as if for the first time. Chemo turned a normal night into one of the best Friday nights ever because it decided to hand back my tastebuds (albeit temporarily) and with them my love of red wine. Every sip of that full-bodied beauty is now wonderful wine memory tucked away for me to draw on whenever the palette goes wonky again.

In lesson number 47 (click here for more), I wrote about the joys of rediscovering your ‘normal’ and the way in which something you’ve taken for granted for years can suddenly become exciting and beautiful once more. I hope that everyone gets the chance to do this (without the chemo drugs in tow), because it really is a source of great happiness.

Yesterday I took a day away from blogging and from cancer to soak up every moment of a typical bank holiday Saturday. And, you know what? It felt wonderful. The contents of my Saturday are not particularly blogworthy, but that’s the point. A breakfast of eggs in purgatory (if you haven’t had this amazing recipe, click here to head to my lovely friend Rachel’s blog for inspiration). A trip to the garden centre. Three hours of sorting and clearing in the garden. A glass of wine in the evening sunshine. A walk in the park and a lovely curry at home. Each one an ordinary moment that made me feel extraordinary. When digging out the composter with a trowel makes you smile, you know that you’ve started to see the world through different eyes.

As proof of our hard work, here’s Duncan in the garden trying out his top for our 10k run (it arrived yesterday). Quite why he felt the need to raise awareness for breast cancer in our garden was beyond me, but it was really nice to be able to spend some quality time together in the mud! (As an aside thank you so much to everyone who has given so generously so far in sponsorship for the run. I will thank you all individually over the next few months.)


Duncan used a lovely gardening analogy when talking about the year so far over a very normal drink in Greenwich.  He likened cancer treatment to pruning a rose. Pruning is often brutal and can make a flower look messy and sad for a while. But, when pruned, a flower can come back stronger and more beautiful than ever before. He said there is no time to feel sad. Just time to take action and grow stronger. For a maths graduate, I thought that was pretty special. Will certainly make me remember that drink!

I know this feeling won’t last forever. But it is a feeling I want you to experience too. I want you to linger longer over those bluebells in the park. I want you to drink in the scent of spring on freshly-laundered clothes. I want you to read the back of a label of wine and try and find the delicate spices and vanilla (or have fun trying) in every sip. I want you to rediscover every normal aspect of your life and give it centre stage for just a moment. If the normal bits of life can bring you more happiness, just imagine what the surprises and special moments will bring?

May today be an ordinary day that makes you feel extraordinary.

Breast cancer lesson number 79: In search of the ultimate chemo-friendly ginger cookie

Anyone who knows me well will know that there’s nothing like a 250g slab of butter, a plastic spatula and a kitchen lightly dusted with icing sugar to make me smile. From grannie’s special shortbread and melted stilton and ham rolls to chocolate orange cake and even the odd hand-rolled fondant rose, if it involves a lot of measuring, plenty of bowl licking (oh, raw sponge how I love you) and a little bit of icing, I’m there.

As you might have guessed, I love to bake. The emphasis is usually on taste not presentation (although Duncan was stunned when I once produced a cake that actually ressembled Thomas the Tank Engine for my lovely godson), and there have been more than a few disasters (the less said about the collapsed Quiche Lorraine, the broken brandy baskets and the misshapen macaroons the better), but for me, there is no better smell than the smell of freshly baked goodies!

The trouble is, I love to bake with a purpose. And, when you’re tucked at home with a surgically-flattened stomach and no desire to enlarge it, that purpose is not so easy to find. I will certainly be doing another of my annual charity bake sales in the not-to-distant future, but for now, I am just keen to get creative while filling someone else’s tummy as well as my own. Plus, I have also started to notice that my new right breast is taking a rather larger shape than my left. With tummy fat all over the place (including in the new boob), I have more than just a bulging belly to worry about.


Last night, however, I went to bed with a dream and I woke up with that purpose. Yes, after discovering that opening the bedroom door can do wonders for night sweats, I had a comfortable night. It also reminded me that I am stronger than the chemotherapy drugs dancing away inside me and now is the time to start fighting back. With chemotherapy cycle three just 12 days away, I am determined to triumph over every single side effect thrown in my direction. That means Difflam on tap (mouthwash for mouth ulcers), ice lollies and frozen grapes (yes, still focusing on the mouth) and a lot of ginger (for the sickness).

For FEC chemo cycle one, having discovered the medicinal benefits of ginger, my beautiful and thoughtful mum arrived on the doorstep with not one, but three bags of homemade ginger biscuits (plus a box of tasty cookies from a friend). I dutifully polished of the lot (with a little help, but not much) and the experience has got me thinking. What is the tastiest, most nausea-relieving and chemo-friendly ginger cookie in the world? Does it exist? Does someone have the recipe lurking in their family history? Is gingerbread better than a ginger cookie? And, could I make some to deliver to my chemo unit to help other chemo patients (and inspire others to do the same)? Why simply take on my nausea, when I can try to help everyone else too?

Of course, I am not ruling out bought ginger biscuits (or ginger bread for that matter). But, there is something about a lovingly-prepared homemade bake that I think might just have the edge. I have heard great things about the Fortnum and Mason stem ginger biscuits and do love a good Ginger Nut. Question is, do they have what it takes to banish waves of nausea from the chemo suite?

So here’s where you come in. Can you help me find the perfect ginger-flavoured treat? In return, I promise to bake every recipe and share my favourites with chemo patients (and maybe a few friends, family members and neighbours too) J. Plus I thought the whole exercise might be quite useful to my wonderful and kind sister-in-law-to-be, who just so happens to have a ‘slight’ addiction to biscuits of a gingery kind! Please post here or send me an email via the ‘Get in touch’ page and I will get cracking.

Spatulas at the ready, it’s time to turn on the oven and turn off those chemo side effects!

Breast cancer lesson number 78: The best way to see what tomorrow brings is to sleep through the night

Zoladex may be looking after my ovaries during chemotherapy, but in so doing, it seems to have waged a rather cruel war on my sleep patterns. Would I trade in my much-loved slumber for a little bundle of joy? Of course I would. But, given that that little bundle of joy is currently sitting it out in the hospital freezer, I think the sleep deprivation is a bit premature!


I am pointing the finger firmly at my ovarian suppression implant – designed to send me into a fake early menopause – but I don’t think it is the only culprit. We now have the comfiest bed ever thanks to our wonderful university friends who clubbed together to buy us a mattress. So why do the drugs have to make things so uncomfortable?

For anyone wondering what has been going on in our bedroom for the last five nights it is this. First, I dress for bed in a rather fetching outfit made up of a bra (yes I was a bit naked without it, so it’s back), a vest (pink of course), some pyjamas (navy of course), a pair of matching bed socks (complete with pom poms) and a sleep cap. I look pretty coordinated, but I also look like I am prepared for an ice cave rather than a comfy comfy bed.

Once in my battle dress, I drift off to sleep without a care in the world, but only for about 45 minutes. Then (and you really could set your clock by it), I am jolted awake by the first of many night sweat/hot flush episodes. It’s like I’m in a spa wandering between the ice cave and the steam room, except there is no attractive ice cave, steam room, soothing music or aromatherapy oils to keep me company. It’s just me – and a whole lot of sweat. Off come the socks, off comes the bed cap and half an hour later I am back in the ice cave searching for the socks and the bed cap once more. Hot then strip then cold. Cold then wrap up then hot. Repeat, sigh, repeat. The bed, once a source of real comfort, now feels like an instrument of torture.

Maybe I should be thanking Zoladex for giving me such a wonderful insight into the sleep deprivation that comes with the early days of parenthood. Given there’s no way of knowing whether it’s working, however, I think it’s not something you should be made to endure unless you have a rather lovely reason to get out of bed (retrieving a sleep cap doesn’t really cut it).

Sleep, if you’re out there, please come back. Whatever I have done to offend you, please let me make amends. Sweet dreams are certainly not make of this. 

Breast cancer lesson number 77: What happened when the wig went to town (with me in tow)

Today, I introduced Suzie to the world (for anyone not familiar with my furry wiggy friend, you can find out all about her in lesson number 57).


Suzie did well. I am not sure we will make the best of friends (although I am trying) and I doubt very much that she will be accompanying me on many adventures over the coming months, but for her ability to make me blend in and mask the fact I have toxic drugs flowing through my bloodstream, she does deserve a gold star (or maybe just a nice brush!).

It’s amazing what a bit of acrylic can do to make you feel quite self-conscious. Strangely, while you could argue she makes me look more ‘like myself’ than I have done in weeks, I have never felt less so. I guess ‘like myself’ is now what lies beneath, not the pixie cut I left behind on the salon floor a fortnight ago.

When I’m in my wig, I feel like I am pretending to be someone I’m not and I am afraid of being found out. This is not helped by the fact Suzie doesn’t actually move naturally and makes me look a bit like a Wallace and Gromit extra than a real well-coiffed person. I feel like the hair is an act, when the hats and the baldness are now part of who I am. Suzie is also like a hot hairy shower cap (although I am told she’s pretty convincing) and, quite frankly, who wants to walk about town in one of those?!

To try and get used to Suzie, I tested her out on the nurses at the cancer day unit first thing (I had planned to put back-up hats in my bag, but left them on the sofa, so it was hair or no hair). It felt like a safe environment given 80% of the hair in there is probably acrylic. The nurse flushing my PICC line didn’t even blink, but I am not sure she recognised me, even though we laughed all the way through my blood test last week (when I was sporting a blue hat).

I am delighted to report I kept my hair on throughout the dressing change and the following journey into town (although at one point I had a burning desire to whip it off). I did nearly dislodge her once when taking off my scarf and I looked a bit like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards by the time I got to my front door (thanks wind), but she did hold her own. And, for that, I will be forever grateful to the lovely Suzie.

Back home and back to bald and I couldn’t be happier (never thought I’d ever say that)! Even Duncan is starting to come round to the idea of me having less hair than him. They say blondes have more fun. I am starting to disagree.

While writing this post, I typed ‘bald quotes’ into Google (as you do!) and just have to share the quote that popped up when I did: ‘experience is the comb we receive after we’ve lost our hair’. I say bring on the comb, because my hair’s coming back…