Papa's got a brand new brag.

Apparently it's worth putting on a bit of slap and a nice top to visit your local mini-mart. Last night, on my way round to the corner shop, I got checked out. And I didn't imagine it either. A bloke I was walking past glanced over at me (less glanced, more looked me up and down) and gave me a smile. (And no, cynics, he wasn't smirking at my wig. I know this because the shopkeeper commented on how glowing my skin and hair were looking despite the chemo. Result!) Anyway, I was so happy to be looked at approvingly that I could have snogged the face off him but realised that (a) P might not approve and (b) snogging the face off a stranger in reaction to an innocent smile is a sure-fire way to get a bloke's hopes up for evermore. He'd tell his mates that the tactic worked, they'd tell theirs and before you know it there'd be an epidemic of men getting frustrated by women refusing to snog them in the street, sparking a huge battle-of-the-sexes debate that they write about in The Guardian, and it'd all be my fault. (Tragically, this is genuinely the kind of thing I think about as I'm walking along.) I smiled back though, and P won't mind about that – he knows I'm a terrible flirt (something I inherited from my Nan, so I feel it's my duty to carry on). 

It says a lot, I fear, that such an event has become the highlight of my day. Funny what normal life becomes. I keep going on about 'getting back to my normal life once The Bullshit is over' but actually, in a weird way, this kind of is 'normal life' now. Granted, it's probably a long way off most people's definition of normal but for me – sitting here in my pyjamas with a brew by my side and a head of short, fuzzy hair that makes me look like a newly hatched chick – this is normality. I get up, eat some prunes (yep, that old chestnut), write a bit, sleep a lot, reassure people on the other end of the phone that I'm okay, and constantly check my calendar to work out how many more days of normality I've got until the next chemo (you'd think I'd be able to remember, but the brain fog has seen to that). Normal life today is, at least, a bit more on the thrilling side – to match my new-look hairdo, I've now got a new-look blog (you like?), P's hidden my birthday presents somewhere in the flat, and later on I'm going to sample the ginger cake that Tills has baked for me. But usually, the most exciting part of my day is when the post arrives. And, to make yesterday that bit more exciting, I had a Topshop package to open.

At least I thought it would be exciting. It turns out my Topshop order revealed an awful lot about me, and not all of it good. I wonder whether, over in the Topshop warehouse, they conjure up an image of their customers as they're packing their goods. Because, if they do, I've gone from classic-chic London professional to sensible-jumper-wearing sad case. My order contained one cardigan, two jumpers and a long-sleeved white top. None of which says 'cool'. Neither does the Batman logo T-shirt I bought, but it tickled me in light of the whole me-as-Batgirl-versus-The-Oestrogen-Villainess shizzle. (Oh, give me a break. I'm barely seeing the light of day, I spend more time with my Mac than I do my husband and I regularly find myself talking to the TV – is it any wonder I'm entertained by this stuff?)

The trying-on was fun though. Especially with Rhymefest's Brand New as my dancing-in-front-of-the-mirror soundtrack. (What can I say? This is the kind of stuff you end up doing when you're spending so much time on your own. I'd love to tell you it was a strategy to knacker me out in preparation for a nap, but actually I'm pretty knackered anyway, and am apparently just a frustrated rapper.) I first made the mistake of trying on my new clobber sans-wig. And, while I have to admit that discovering what the shape of my head looks like has been a rather pleasant surprise, it's a look that unfortunately turns all my clothes from lovely to lesbian, so I reached for the rug to femme it up a bit. My skull shape has been one of a number of discoveries I've only happened upon as a result of losing my hair – I've got a longer neck than I realised, for starters. And my nose is much smaller than I thought. I'm starting to think I've lost a bit of weight off my bum, too (I'm hoping that's not a balding-head illusion). It's still more Beyoncé than Beckham, mind (actually, let's be honest, it's more Beth Ditto than Beyoncé) but I really do think there's ever so slightly less of it. And, believe me, there shouldn't be. I'm sitting or lying most of the time and practically crapping ginger biscuits. Perhaps it's all the sitting down that's squashed my bum flat. Either way, I like it more than I did two months ago.

Sheesh, when did this turn into such a boast-post? Get a load of me bragging about my long neck, cute nose and curvy bottom. That smile from a stranger has clearly gone to my (shapely) head. Don't for a second be getting envious though – after all, you can only be so jealous of a balding, breast-cancer-befallen bird with very questionable rapping skills, right homie? (God, I'm even embarrassed for myself.)