I mean sheesh! I'd just about reasoned with the cancer, but the constipation? Those leaflets they hand over on diagnosis should read, 'Welcome to breast cancer. Leave your vanity at the door and let's crack on, shall we?'
Just as I'd got my head around the new way I look in a T-shirt and having to waddle about with a bag of drainage tubes on one side and a bag of piss on the other (Mulberry this ain't), today I've also put a nurse through the unenviable task of shoving a suppository up my jacksie (at the end of her shift, poor cow!) and watched P's best man wince as he was uncomfortably sandwiched in the middle of a conversation about the softness of my stools. Thank god he's no longer looking for speech ammunition.
But earlier this evening, to the televised sound of 15,000 tennis fans (and a coach-like husband willing me on from the other side of the door), I produced my own Murray-esque fightback. Thank you, Wimbledon – you were a wonderful crowd. I couldn't have done it without you.