Read The Baking Life of Amelie Day for Free Online Page B

my chest. Two years ago he taught me how to do something called autogenic drainage which I can do on my own at home so that Mum doesn’t need to get so involved with my physio any more. For this I have to lie on my back on my bed and do three special sorts of breathing: unsticking, collecting and evacuating the mucus out of my battered lungs. The noises I make while I am doing it are not pretty. I’m supposed to do it twice a day but I always fall out with Mum because I tend to, erm, forget. Or life gets in the way. Or I don’t really want Gemma coming round in the middle of it, even though she’s really good about the whole CF thing.
    Or worst of all, I might have a batch of muffins to take out of the oven.
    Flour Power!
    ***
    So I’m at hospital having my portacath flushed through. I have to have this done every month to make sure that it doesn’t get clogged or else my antibiotics can’t get into my system. It feels a bit uncomfortable but the main issue is that I just get so bored waiting for it all to be finished.
    I’m in a room of my own. People with CF have to be very careful not to infect one another. That sucks. It’s bad enough being in hospital so often without being able to speak to people your own age who might just understand what you’re going through.
    I’ve got a pile of food magazines on my lap and I’m leafing through the latest recipes by Jamie, Nigella and Gordon, whilst trying not to notice what’s going on in my chest.
    ‘She’s been more poorly this month than she’s been for years,’ Mum is saying to the consultant who’s just come into the room. I’ve known Mr Rogers for years, ever since I was about six. I still don’t really understand why the consultants here are called ‘Mr’ and not ‘Doctor’ even though they ARE doctors, but I’ve got used to it now.
    ‘Hi, Mr R,’ I say, flicking the glossy pages of a BBC food magazine. ‘How’s it hanging?’
    Mum sighs.
    ‘Not a great question to ask a doctor,’ says Mr Rogers. ‘I’m likely to give you a long, medical and potentially boring answer.’
    I smile. I like Mr Rogers and his weird sense of humour. Somehow he always manages to make me feel like Amelie-The-Person rather than just Amelie-The-Patient.
    ‘Your Mum tells me you want to go to London,’ he says. ‘Some big competition, I hear. That does sound very exciting.’
    ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but has she also told you she’s not allowing me to go?’
    Mum flushes pale pink when I say that. Her face clashes with her red jacket. I think of the pink slices from a tub of Neapolitan ice cream and the red of the strawberry sauce I like to pour over them.
    ‘I was just about to get round to that,’ she says, all defensive and huffy. ‘Mr Rogers is a very busy man.’
    He perches on the edge of the bed where I’m lying.
    ‘Not too busy to discuss your health,’ he says. ‘So I take it you still want to go to London?’
    I put down the magazines with a sigh. I’ve just found a glorious twist on a traditional baked cheesecake recipe which involves major use of chocolate.
    ‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘It’s only like the biggest baking competition in the country. And I don’t see why I can’t still go, so long as I’m careful and look after myself.’
    Mum stands up and folds her arm. She looks tired, wary and wired up all at the same time.
    ‘I’m getting a bit fed up of this stuck record,’ she says in a voice I hardly ever hear. ‘I’ve told you you’re not going, and that’s that. Don’t try to swing me by dragging Mr Rogers into it all.’
    Mr Rogers stands up and clears his throat.
    ‘It’s your annual review next week, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Perhaps if I might suggest, Mrs Day, we could make a final decision based upon the results of that?’
    Mum flushes again. I can tell that she’s angry that Mr Rogers hasn’t entirely backed her up.
    ‘Oh, alright,’ she says. ‘But I can’t see Amelie being much better than she is now and