Until I met the Captain, I was unaware of the Ealing Comedies. Thirty years later and I still only have a rudimentary knowledge. My ability to avoid education is startling. What I have gleaned has been largely picked up osmotically through living with a man who loves these films. The Ladykillers is his absolutely favourite, with the female lead becoming affectionately known as Mrs Lopsided, more due to structural subsidence in her house than to any breast disparity. I think. The day we were given the news of my breast cancer and impending mastectomy, the Captain sat in the consulting room with ‘she’ll become my very own Mrs Lopsided’ running through his head. This was quickly followed with ‘too soon to make this joke out loud??’ He need not have worried. Ten minutes later I cracked it for him.
Maybe I should be a tad concerned with his vision of me though? Six years ago, before we knew anything of metal allergies, an accident necessitated the rebuilding of my face. Much metal was involved. During that consultation the Captain beamed delightedly, ‘Seven of Nine‘ he sighed. From slightly scary borg gorgeousness to outdated OAP with starchy moral code. Oh dear.
Be that as it may, I am now out and proud. My very own ladykiller singular has been removed. My new shoubsicle is getting more diminutive by the day as the swelling goes down while my original right chesticle is continuing its headlong plummet south as gravity takes its toll. With more surgery in the planning to check its fall, I may never be able to achieve my ambition of tucking my boobs into my knickers in the winter for added warmth but I may yet have a perky, if patchwork, rack in my sixties. Something Mrs Lopsided would be secretly proud of.