I'm equally smiley. Not only is there the excitement of J's wedding day to keep me perma-grinned, but the added anticipation of finally being able to go to an actual social occasion. Better still, one where I'm not the centre of attention. That makes it sound like I've been in solitary confinement for four months which isn't exactly the case (she says crouched in the corner, rocking back and forth). But the closest I've got to a social event of late is five people staring at me in a living room. So being able to not only go to a big do (and not just any old big do), but be there as one of a crowd will be fan-bloody-tastic. (That said, I'll be wearing a hat the size of a small planet so maybe I won't be quite that camouflaged. Well, it'll give people something other than the wig to stare at.)
Fancy me having a social life again, eh? I'm starting to forget what it was like to be out among people, acting daft and putting the world to rights over a G&T. The other night I spent longer than I care to admit trying to remember every detail about my favourite London pub, wondering whether they've cranked up the log fire yet, if the flush in the toilet on the left has been fixed, and whether the colder weather has forced my drinking buddies to move from the benches outside to the rickety stools in the bar. Classic withdrawal symptoms, I imagine. I just can't shake the feeling that I'm being left out of a brilliant social scene and loads of gossip and good times that I'll never be able to catch up on.
Those very same drinking buddies met up at the pub in question on Friday night and, by heck, was I narked. My mate Lil sensed as much and, the moment she got back home, updated her Facebook status with: 'Lil had a great time at the pub but really missed Mac.' (That's me, by the way. Mac's my nickname, not some new blog character I've just invented.) But, much as I appreciated Lil's efforts to make me feel better, I'd had a whole evening of sofa-bound boredom to work myself up by then. I knew full well how ridiculous it was to get so wound up, and instead tried to console myself with thoughts that my mates weren't, in fact, having a blinding time without me but had instead been plotting to make and sell charity T-shirts with 'Save Mac' on them, and debating which bands they could get to play at Mac Aid. But of course they bloody weren't. They were drinking dodgy wine, slagging off X Factor contestants for their transparently insincere tears (I'm telling you, I could sob my way to the final of that thing next year) and eating endless bags of crisps, the carefree gits. It's not like I think the world should stop turning just because I've got breast cancer. But apparently I do think that everyone should put their social lives on hold until I'm better. So, in typical worked-up and overly-sarcastic fashion, I retaliated with my own Facebook update: 'L thinks you lot are a bunch of bastards for going to the pub without her. Can't you wait til she's beaten cancer, you impatient sods?' (Actually I've been getting increasingly sarky and smartarse-ish in my status updates of late. This week I got all excited about my new boob and updated with: 'L has got tits. That's right. Tits. Plural. Count 'em.')
It's time I had a word with myself, really. All this obsessing about what's going on in the world outside my cancer bubble isn't very productive. Much more useful would be to plan how I'm going to make up for all these months of staying in once all this shite (technical term) is out of the way. I've already bought my Glastonbury tickets, I've got Busby on hand to help me plan a kick-ass Super Sweet 30th and I'm considering a big karaoke-fest for the moment I get told I'm in remission. Add a few more weddings into the mix, a summer of Ashes-induced drinking and a pub visit whenever I get the chance, and you've got one hell of a fun-filled back half of 2009. Well, after all this enforced sobriety, God knows I'll be playing catch-up.