It’s the end of the evening and I walk into the bedroom as Lizzie’s in the process of putting on her baggy old pyjamas.
I make a Sid James-style suggestive noise.
‘Don’t look at my fatness!’ says Lizzie, as she tugs her top on.
‘You’re not looking fat!’ I say, then add brightly, ‘you’ve lost weight… since this whole business started!’
It’s meant to be a compliment. But even as I say it, I realise how wrong it sounds. Basically I’ve just complimented Lizzie on her cancer-caused weight loss. I mean, what the hell?
I’m about to continue speaking, to try and make things better, but Lizzie cuts me off –
‘Don’t say any more!’
‘But…’ I continue.
‘No… no more… don’t say anything else!’ she interjects.
‘I wanted to say…’
‘Don’t speak! Don’t speak!’
Lizzie’s sounding more and more like Diane Wiest – talking to John Cusack in Bullets Over Broadway.
‘You’ll only make it worse!’ she concludes.
I sigh and make one last attempt to excuse my crappy comment. ‘That didn’t come out right,’ I say.
‘You didn’t come out right,’ replies Lizzie.
P. D. Clifton 
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