An apology.

From a lack of decent conversation and a curious tendency, my first (unsuitable) boyfriend and I fell into a routine of rarely speaking and instead using each other for experimentation. It didn't always feel good and wasn't always done right, but we were 15 and fed up and keen to impress our mates. One over-enthusiastic afternoon in an otherwise empty house, I somehow ended up with a hurt right nipple. How? God knows. But the subsequent few weeks were experimentation-free, while the far-from-attractive scab healed and, I suspect, my unsuitable boyfriend found someone else to experiment with.

13 years on, and I still silently blame this episode for my right boob being my least favourite. Not by a long chalk, mind – I've always been happy with my lot boobs-wise, and reckon that the few people who've seen them have been bloody lucky to do so – but we all play favourites, right? (Or left?)

And so today, I'd like to make an apology to my right breast. First off, for calling it a 'breast' just then. 'Breast' is just one of those words that I inexplicably hate, hence the inverted commas. (While we were engaged, I wouldn't let P call me his 'fiancee' for precisely the same reason.)

But mostly, I'd like to apologise to my right boob (ah, infinitely better) for always preferring the left, when that's the one that's gone and got cancer. 

Is it too late to switch sides?