New balls, please.

I've spent much of today staring at Rafael Nadal's bum from the front row of number 1 court. And what a view. Round, honed, perfectly peachy. You could sink your teeth into it. 

If you spotted me on the telly, you'd have noticed that mine was the only transfixed head not following the ball from one side of court to the other. I became almost as obsessed with Rafa's arse as I have recently with other people's boobs. I'm not ogling them, mind you – it's research. (And girls, that's the one time in your life when you can believe that line.) It was bound to happen. With all the chest-talk of late, I've quickly become the mammary meister. ('Next contestant on Mastermind, please take your seat. And what is your specialist subject?'  'Tits.') It's a jugs jungle out there, with so much to consider: the shape, hang, size, colour... and what the hell mine are going to look like after tomorrow's mid-op melon-twisting. (I'm really going to have to come up with some new boob synonyms, aren't I?)

During your Wimbledon viewing, you might also have noticed the eejit sweltering in the high-neck black dress. You'd think that on my left boob's Last Day Out, I'd have worn something overtly low-cut and inappropriate. Well, trust me, that was the plan. But it turns out I'm so bloody bruised and misshapen in that area (yep, already) that I'm falling out of the left side of every low-cut garment I own (which accounts for a fair old few), plus I suspect Wimbledon streakers are a phenomenon best left in the past. Not to mention the issue of who'd honestly want to gawp at my 'assets' right now. 

I wondered about that yesterday, while P & I snogged our way round London on an open-top bus. Will he still fancy me after the mastectomy (eew, I said it), when I'm all stitched and swollen and unnatural-feeling and sans nipple? And, more to the bleedin' point, will he still fancy me when I'm pale and hairless, and bloated from the steroids? So incredible is P that he's offered to shave his head when my hair falls out. But I've told him not to – he's so bloody handsome, it'll ruin his looks and I like him the way he is. And how ridiculous is that, eh? (I once made the decision to ditch an ex-boyfriend when he shaved his head because I stopped fancying him. That's how shallow I am.)

But back to the tennis (ish). If you continued watching Wimbledon into the afternoon, you might also have seen me knocking back a fair few drinks. What can I say? I'm getting my booze in while I can, plus I'm hoping it'll help tomorrow's anaesthetic along by keeping me well under.

My head went back to the usual left-to-right ball-following motion during Sharapova's game, by the way. Neither her arse nor boobs were that interesting to me.