The woman two tables from me at a branch of Pret in the City was talking about her chemotherapy. Her male companion asked her how her treatment was going, and she replied that it was gruelling. She was on a short break and was dreading the next round.
I have leukaemia, and know the pattern of these conversations. What usually follows is sympathy, or empathy if someone has been through it themselves or knows someone who has. But there was no sympathy or empathy offered. Instead, the man launched into a diatribe. A diatribe of all the most idiotic and dangerous health conspiracies rolled into one. To paraphrase, he told her: ‘They are putting poison in you.
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