Alright Tit: The Movie

Despite yesterday's comment about any poor sod living with cancer being 'bloody unlucky' (and I stand by it – in fact, consider it another mahoosive understatement), I still think of myself as an inherently lucky person.

I can remember the first time I considered the fact that I might have been born with the lucky gene. It was back in infant school, when I won a 'name the teddy' competition and went home at the end of term the proud owner of a big blue Care Bear. While it's hardly the same as discovering that you're due a huge tax rebate or winning a Topshop trolley dash (now that's what I call a windfall), I felt equally grateful to have won that stuffed toy. And, from that day on, I've always wondered whether good fortune is simply innate in me. (I've sometimes wondered whether I have a superhuman threshold for pain, too, but the yelp when I sat on my hair straighteners this morning may have confirmed otherwise. As if my arse weren't in enough trouble.)

While my competition-winning streak was pretty much limited to childhood (a Postman Pat colouring-in prize was another trophy-cupboard highlight) and I've barely won a tenner on the lottery since, I still believe that my seven-year-old self was onto something. Only these days, it's more people than prizes that ignites the same what-a-lucky-cow-I-am feeling. And specifically, it's those brilliant buggers with the ability to make me forget about The Bullshit that make me so pleased to be me.

Take my husband (and no, you needn't flee for fear of another vomit-inducing story). The night before last, when I was all red-eyed and knackered after an afternoon's crying, P found the perfect way to put a smile back on my face (oi, not like that – well, actually, that may have perked me up a bit, but that's not my point). Rather than opting for a deep conversation about my emotional state or doing his head-tilting best to sympathise, he chose instead to dance around the bedroom like Dizzee Rascal. And how many wives are lucky enough to have that kind of entertainment on tap, eh?

I even felt fortunate to be on the receiving end of abuse from my brother earlier this evening. Despite not having seen me since super-sick weekend, J rolled up after work, did away with the cancer niceties and promptly had a go at me for the lack of mentions he's been getting in my posts. (You should know that such a bollocking represents an infringement on The First Rule Of The Blog: 'By accepting this URL, I, the undersigned family member, agree to make no comment on the contents of my daughter/sister's blog, no matter how much I may want to pass judgement on her foul language/social smoking/sex life/toilet habits or, indeed, the way I am portrayed herein.')

J's beef, by the way, was that, in the event of my blog being turned into a film (hell, I'm lucky, but not that lucky) there's no way Macaulay Culkin would agree to playing him unless the role became much more significant. J, don't be so bloody stupid. You're my homeboy. But if you think I'm going to let you have all the witty dialogue in the film as well as real life, you're more deluded than I am in hoping Reese Witherspoon will agree to play your big sis.