Why Didn't I Shave My Legs?

After ten years of not having a period, I got a period. I know. Too much information. Even writing the word period feels excruciating. Blood seeping out of my vagina is easier, somehow. Hello everyone. I’ve been stuck in an editing wind tunnel and have emerged into the London heat, disoriented. Life has been going on outside my computer. Keir Starmer’s resignation, Taylor Swift’s wedding, the tragedy of the world cup, Missy, my dear dog is going deaf. Oh - and Rooster, my first novel, will be published by Firefinch in February 2027. I wrote a novel. It’s real. It’s now with the copy editor. Daughter Number Two is also reading it. She has notes. They are good ones.

Other writers have advised me that you never finish a book, you just abandon it. There are so many things I want to write or rewrite that I’m sure would make the book better. This is a particular kind of delusion I am very attached to. Be better. I like to think it is a mass delusion. Women must “always be optimising” the writer Jia Tolentino tells us in her brilliant book of essays “Trick Mirror”. But things don’t always end up better. Sometimes they are worse. I can’t always see clearly. I don’t have all the answers. My “instincts” can be wrong. Being wrong doesn’t just feel shameful, it feels catastrophic.

In the middle of this existential crisis of control my body decided it wasn’t playing anymore and went its own way. That’s when blood started to seep out of my vagina and I was thrown back onto what felt like a teenage hormonal rollercoaster. It wasn’t all bad. Honestly, it was kind of exhilarating. My feelings were raging. I was lit up like a Christmas tree. My breasts swelled to double their normal size, hot and sore. My belly rounded out again. I wanted to have lots of sex. I wanted to eat and drink and cry. The only problem was that none of this should have been happening. I’ve been on HRT for ten years. It’s been fantastic - I wish I could have been on it my whole life, and I intend to stay on it forever. But it suddenly stopped working.

I booked an appointment with the gynaecologist. The Actor has American insurance through SAG, the screen actors’ union, which means I can go private when I need to. I’m lucky. So lucky. It was a Thursday morning.

“You’ll need to come in tomorrow for an operation,” my gynaecologist said, after the scan.
“Can’t I wait until I get back from America?” I had plans to fly to New York to see Daughter Number Two.
“No. If we were in the NHS, I’d be putting you on a two-week cancer pathway.”

The next day I was at the hospital at seven am. With my computer. My friend Dixie called as I was checking in. “I can come,” she said. “I’m fine,” I said, thinking, “I must keep editing. No time to talk”. I was taken upstairs by a charming hospital porter and established in my room by an even more charming nurse. I sat in my bed. Very comfortable. Computer propped up on pillows.

A little while later a small, handsome anaesthetist came into the room. Twinkly eyes, warm, funny, Jewish. Oh no, I thought. Why didn’t I shave my legs? I had completely let go of all personal grooming at this point. I hardly washed, let alone waxed. He handed me a pair of surgical stockings. Thank god, I thought. He’ll never see my legs. They wheeled me down. There he was again, looking even more handsome in his scrubs. As the big drugs kicked in, I swooned. God knows what came out of my mouth. I’ll never know.

Next thing, I’m waking up in recovery. My gynaecologist says something reassuring, which I don’t remember. Back in my room I try to get back to work. The words are not behaving. I give up and fall asleep.

I’ll cut to the good bit. I did not have cancer.

Four days later I flew to New York. I wandered around town, periodically stopping to wonder why I felt so happy. Then I’d remember: I don’t have cancer. And I felt lucky, and sad. So many friends don’t get this feeling. They do have cancer, and I’m sure they walk around feeling anxious and sad, and stop to wonder why, and then they remember.

One more piece of news, chez moi, and it’s getting a drum roll: I have the proof of my first published piece of writing. Women Walking, Notes on Lives in Motion, edited by Zahra Ebrahim and Jane Farrow, published by Coach House Books, out in September in Canada, alongside so many incredible writers, including two of my favourite writers ever, Miriam Toews and Ann-Marie MacDonald. It’s a dream come true. I have officially stepped out. There will be a party, and I will not be anyone’s plus one.

Between now and February I’ll be posting every other week, counting down to Rooster, including some Rooster-adjacent dispatches: gay tarot, rooster facts, Joni Mitchell, the Real Housewives, Vaginas. Which would you like first? Reply and tell me - it will help me decide.

Meanwhile, in the rest of my life: saw the play 1536 with Margaret last night. If you’re in London, beg, borrow or steal a ticket. Devastating and electric, it shows us how little has changed for women since the day Anne Boleyn was murdered by her husband. In 2026 men still murder and rape women and get away with it. And we are all still deep in the madonna/whore story about women’s sexuality. This might sound hyperbolic. It’s not. Ava Pickett is a brilliant writer and I can’t wait to see everything she does. Listening to Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, read by her. It’s harrowing and deeply moving; I’m in awe of this woman’s honesty and courage, and am going straight on to her new book, Hunger. Watching Widows Bay on TV, it’s funny and dark and perfect for hot summer nights.

Thanks, as always, for reading. It means the world to me.