Boobs and beer.

Man, cancer keeps you busy; I've barely had time to fart this week (apologies, I fear my Dad's jokes are rubbing off). The hospital visits, the haircut, the pub debut of the haircut, the getting-ready-for-chemo business, and all those daytime property shows I'm supposed to be watching. (I'm pleased to report, however, that I haven't seen a second of The Jeremy Kyle Show since I've been off work. Yet.) As though all of that weren't keeping me occupied enough, my increasingly-parallel-universe life has just stepped up a notch: this afternoon I'm off to be photographed by a women's glossy magazine for a breast cancer awareness feature. Shiiit! I am, of course, in a huge panic about what clothes to take along. What goes with a flat left boob? I've been told to take my favourite pair of jeans, which doesn't narrow it down much since I only have one (I'm a dresses girl) and fear I look like a wannabe cowboy in those. The request to bring a flesh-coloured bra might also be a problem: as you are aware, I am currently limited of lingerie. But hey, at least my hair isn't an issue.

The barnet went down pretty well with my mates in the pub last night actually. By 'pretty well', I mean that I walked out of there with an ego the size of Texas. And by 'walked' I mean stumbled – apparently my two-glass limit was more than enough to see me tipsy. I drunkenly waxed lyrical to P all the way home about what brilliant mates I've got, how I want my normal life back so I can carry on pissing about in pubs with them, how fortunate I am to be going through The Bullshit with such an amazing support network (sheesh, I must have been drunk – I said 'support network'), and how, despite The Bullshit, I still consider myself the luckiest lass in the world. It might have sounded more impressive and heartfelt had I not followed it up with a range of impressions. Apparently I think I'm Ronni Ancona after a couple of Pinot Grigios.

Speaking of which, we had a great sketch-show moment last night. Consider why me and my mates were gathered in the pub in the first place, and picture the scene. We're all sitting around a table, talking about my boobs (as you do) when a charity collector comes over, shaking her tin. 'Money for breast cancer, anyone?' I'm sure the last thing that poor girl was expecting was for 10 people to laugh in her face, spitting out beer in hilarity, so we were understandably met with a stern, breast-cancer-is-no-laughing-matter look. When we explained our reasons for finding her request so funny, she obviously thought it was a further piss-take as she looked at me and said, in an accusatory tone, 'Well you look all right though.' Cue more laughter and beer-spitting. Forget Comic Relief – whichever charity she was collecting for did bloody well out of us lot last night.