Love is...

...finding the following sent text on your husband's phone: 'I know this is a strange message to send to my mother-in-law, but I've just seen your daughter's left breast and it looks amazing.'

And I thought the morphine was good. I might have an odd-looking, wonky mound of flesh for a left tit, a strapless-top-restricting scar on my back and a catheter full of green wee (it's the dye, not the broccoli) but after reading that text, you can stick your morphine. Now I really am flying.

Ding dong, the lump is dead! So are my lymph nodes, as it goes. The big bad bitch of a tumour had crept up into my underarm, but thankfully my smiley, sent-from-heaven surgeon whipped it all out in one go. And so I reckon I can justifiably report that, in this match, I've just scored a wonder-goal of an equaliser. (Smiley surgeon with the blinding assist.)

I'd do a celebratory Klinsmann dive, but I fear it might smart a bit.

But anyway, back to the morphine - is that what's making me feel so loved-up today, or is it the sheer good-humoured brilliance of everyone around me? I've had the World's Greatest Compliment from my husband, visits and kisses from two of my best boy mates (one of whom I delighted in freaking out with tales of my soon-to-be-tattooed nipple, ha) and day-long enthusiastic encouragement from family, friends, nurses, doctors and cuddly toys (told you the drugs were working).

And speaking of which... I might not be at Glastonbury this year but let's just say that, thanks to the morphine, I'm getting the full 'experience' just watching it on TV.