All that said, this morning I managed the mean feat of not crying in the taxi to the hospital, as I normally do on Chemo Friday (London cabbies, you can relax again now). I had a little sniffle when I got to the waiting room, mind, but managing to keep dry-eyed on the journey there was an achievement I'd not yet mastered. I still yelled at P this morning, though. It's shit for him, but this irrational shouting has unfortunately – and unexpectedly – become my Chemo Friday coping strategy. Of course, there's nothing I can actually have a go at him about, so I have to come up with really pathetic reasons instead. 'You're seriously wearing that T-shirt?' 'What do you mean you're going to buy a paper? You're supposed to talk to me, not gen up on the US Open.' 'I left that light on for a reason – now just fucking leave everything alone will you?' 'Look, are you walking two steps behind me or with me?' I know, I'm a total cow. By the time we've reached the waiting room, though, I've apologised. (And anyway, I want the chemo nurses to think I'm cheery and impossibly lovely, not some tetchy bitch who shouts at her husband.) But back to my point. On my planet, not crying in the cab to chemo is a Big Deal.
I think it's because I was still feeling a teensy bit smug after yesterday actually. What with the blog being in Glamour magazine, and the subsequent bombardment of loveliness I've had, I walked around with my head held slightly higher this morning. (Apologies for the blatant agenda-pushing there, by the way. Apparently I'm not just a Wig Slag but a Media Whore too.) Don't worry, though, it won't last – give me an hour or so and I'll be hobbling back and forth from the loo with puke on my pyjamas. Nothing like a dose of toxic drugs to bring a girl back down to earth. Speaking of better outfits, I've since bought that pink dress I wore in the mag shoot, by the way. And when I get a chance to wear it, I'll be sure to tie the belt a bit tighter – I took one look at those photos and, after checking to see whether my boobs looked wonky, I immediately chastised myself for my shoddy bow-tying. (Oh balls, now I've encouraged you to look at my boobs too, haven't I? Well don't get excited, one of them's pure pad. No prizes for guessing which.)
Anyway, this new attention isn't without its drawbacks: I'm suddenly feeling the pressure to perform. (Is there such a thing as blog Viagra?) Which, I guess, makes this post my equivalent of the 'difficult second album'. The Second Coming of Alright Tit, if you will. You'd think I'd have some brilliant, space-filling cancer stories up my sleeve for such an occasion, but sadly not. I'm ill prepared for blogger's block. I wonder if this is the point at which I should wheel out the emergency joke I've been sitting on about using my cancer sob story to win next year's X Factor, but worrying that I'll become another one-tit wonder? (Erm, no – apparently there's never a good time to use that line. Apologies.)
But, just for the record, thanks for the aforementioned loveliness. If nothing else, it freaks the hell out of people when you walk into the chemo room with a massive grin on your face. But anyway, enough of that. All this talk of blog-love is making me sound like Darius (can you feel the love in this post?) and I'm feeling sick enough as it is, so I'll pack it in right now with the soppy stuff. Any more of that and I'll be forced to tell you more Sudocrem stories. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some serious barfing to attend to (I suspect hoummous will be next on my foods-to-avoid list).