We all have fears that preoccupy us. Some are justified, others not. For as long as I can remember in my adult life, mine has been cancer. Perhaps because I lost both parents, a brother-in-law and, most recently, a cousin, to it. When I have a symptom, unlike normal people, my reaction is: it's cancer. Whereas I suspect most people think of more minor conditions first, and only when these have been ruled out, might they consider it's something more serious. I also worry about my loved ones developing cancer. When my son was little, if he had a sore tummy or a bleeding gum, I imagined the worse and got myself in a real tizz. I'm calmer about him now, or maybe I've transferred my anxiety onto my partner.
So with this context in mind, it might be understandable that when yesterday I read in the BBC website, an article about men whose index fingers are shorter than their 'ring' fingers being more susceptible to cancer of the prostate, a flurry of emails passed between me and my partner.
Me: Is your index finger longer than your 'ring' finger? (Note, no gentle lead in...)
Him: I've never understood fingers! But I think so.
Me: I hope you're right - according to something on the BBC website, you have a lower risk of developing prostate cancer. I want you to start eating lots more fruit and veg, and make sure you have oily fish twice a week, or share my omega 3 supps.
(Slight deflection of topic to what we might eat for dinner, which, although connected with disease prevention, not as powerful an anxiety-deterrent as finger length)
Me: Your index finger is the one next to your thumb.
When I returned home, requiring further reassurance, I asked partner to find a measuring tape and check the length of his 'ring' and index fingers. This revealed that the latter was 1/2" longer than the former. I started to relax. Though at dinner I made a point of offering him one of my fish oil supplements and asked if he was still eating sardines regularly. To which he replied he would, if I didn't complain about the smell. He also offered to start buying in pink grapefruit in large quantities.
Later that evening, in line with other recent evenings, we discussed the weather. For years he has worried about climate change, more recently becoming convinced we are heading for a mini ice age. He reminded me that Scotland shares the same latitude as parts of Canada, and that it was likely the weather in Norway would become more in line with that of Siberia, and that the UK would become as cold as Norway.
My replies (based on ignorance) that this wouldn't happen in our lifetime were dismissed. He also has anxieties about supervolcanoes erupting and annihilating the world.
I am so busy worrying about cancer that I don't get steamed up about things I can't influence. There's nothing I can do about climate change. Even governmental policy changes, according to him, can only slow down what's happening to our weather.
Meanwhile, as well as enjoying trudging around in the snow, (fortunately I don't have to commute to the venue where I write), I am intrigued by overheard conversations. Middle aged man saying into mobile: 'This stuff is coming from Norway' - I presumed 'stuff' referred to snow. An elderly woman stopping an 18 year old girl to ask her where she got her leopard skin- patterned wellies. (Selfridges, if anyone is interested). Indeed I am fascinated by the footwear I've seen in the snow: high heels, pumps. My old walking boots - seldom worn in this country - have emerged from the bottom of the wardrobe, and are effective in stopping me slipping, even if there are signs they aren't quite as waterproof as they're meant to be. Being glamorous isn't a high priority.
On an obscenely trifling scale, my energies this week are taken up with how to stop our kittens attacking our beautiful houseplants. We purchased a cat-repellent product from B & Q which makes our sitting room smell like gone-off curry and doesn't stop Mischa and Sasha from climbing up the cheeseplants and yuccas. Arguably, the occasional poo they see fit to leave on the soil might be beneficial as plant compost, but the combined smell of warmed up poo and garlic powder - well, you can guess.
Horticulturally yours
Jane
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