My lovely lady lumps.

I've just frightened the bejeezers out of a guy on my street by nonchalantly whipping off the wig in my front room, forgetting I was in full view of the world outside. The poor sod went white, standing there perplexed with his car keys falling out of his hand. Even as he drove off, he was still staring through my bay window, trying to figure out what the hell he'd just seen. What fun. I have got to do that again.

It's topped off a good day, actually. I've just spent a delightful half hour playing with my boobs. (Not in front of the living room window.) And not in the way you might be thinking, either. But that's not the point. The point is that I just said 'boobs'. Plural. As in, more than one. That's right, people, I've got my humps back. And there's nothing like a new tit to perk a girl up. (Not that I'm advocating a boob job as a cure for depression, you understand. And nor am I any happier with the term 'depression', even though so many of you lovely people have sent me messages to say that I needn't be embarrassed by it, considering the seriousness of The Bullshit and the effect of the drugs on my body. You make a fair point, too – hell, I get tearful on a hangover, so this was bound to hit me hard – but I'm still going to avoid that icky, awkward d-word and instead opt for 'exhaustion', if it's all the same.)

I'd been really nervous about turning up to see Smiley Surgeon today in case he said I was still too swollen to have my empty implant inflated – aside from anything else, I'd have had an odd-looking, baggy side to the strapless dress I'm wearing on Saturday. But thankfully, he gave me the go-ahead and pulled out the bike bump (disappointingly, it was more of a huge-needle-and-saline-drip combo) and now I can finally, FINALLY get rid of the Mastectomy Bra From Hell and my comedy false boob (honk honk). I feel like I should do something ceremonial with them. I could burn them, I suppose, but that's a bit too Germaine Greer. Maybe I could make a slingshot out of the bra and do some damage to those bastard squirrels in our back garden? Or thread some elastic through the prosthesis and use it to mask the fumes when I'm painting (ha, as if I ever paint). I could always raffle them off for charity, I guess. Yeah right – I'm sure my crappy, off-white bra and dodgy-looking falsie would be in huge demand. My designated charity would need one hell of an oversized cheque for the 50p I'd raise for them.

But again, I'm missing the point. Because, relieved as I am to be able to ditch the questionable lingerie, I'm even more chuffed to have my boob back. Not that it's my old boob, of course (you can shove that one) but, by heck, it looks every bit as good. It's round and soft and symmetrical and even a little bit bouncy and, were it not for the fact that I'm still singular in the nipple department, it'd be perfect. But I'm told that even that'll be rectified by the beginning of March (the process is fascinating – the existing nipple-circle gets cut out a bit and twisted around so it sticks out more and can be moulded into the right shape, then the tattooing can happen once it's healed up – cool eh?). But even without the nipple, I'm made up. I just tried on my favourite bikini top and, excruciating as it was from the soreness of the inflation, I was anaesthetised by the shock of the fabulous cleavage I saw in the mirror. 

Remember that bloke I told you about who said how sorry he was that I'd got The Bullshit because I had such 'magnificent breasts'? Well, like I promised him, they're well on their way to being magnificent again. It's push-up bras and low-cut tops all the way from here on in. Hello, boys.