Neither Benedict Ambrose nor I emerged physically unscathed from his little cancer experience. B.A. has a long-term (if not permanent) bump on his head and I have two juicy rolls of belly fat, thanks to the stress and anxiety that B.A.’s tumour brought in its basket for little me. I have to say, though, that it’s only fair that if he had to suffer damage, then I had to suffer damage, too, for we are married and therefore one flesh, etc.

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