21 February 2002

It's awfully weird, working at a cancer charity. Cancer. Cannn-cerrrr. Can, sir? Can-can, sir? Yeah, look at me, I can say it. I can SAY IT. I can write it. Cancer! Cancer! CannnnnSAH! Breast cancer. BREAST CANCER. Primary cancer. Secondary cancer. Metastasis! Calcification! Apoptosis! D'you know, if you get it in your breast, and then it spreads to your liver, you don't have liver cancer? You have breast cancer in your LIVER! Little bastards! Running ramshackle riot through your blood and setting up home wherever they fucking fancy! D'you know, if you have to have a mastectomy and you want to keep your nipple, they can SEW your nipple onto your THIGH? D'you know, they can make you a new breast out of part of your BACK? S'amazing. Anyway, darn freakin' Christ, shouldn't there be some kind of law against FIT SCIENTISTS? Yesterday, I'm at the fucking breast cancer research centre, dictaphone in hand, interviewing the Microray Lab Manager who's researching into BRCA2 the inherited breast cancer gene, and I'm staring at the floor cuz to look at him is too much, and hey, what matter is it when he's SCOTTISH an everything, and I can sit and listen? He wasn't wearing a lab coat and black-framed glasses, sadly, and he wasn't holding a steaming test tube. But he did talk about over-expressed genes and well plates and micropipetting, and lemme tell you, my jeans were getting pretty over-expressed at the thought of his micro-pipette. Damn!

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