I love my tits. I really do. They have fed three children and amused men. My nipples are enormous. I blame my mother. I was mortified when the obstetrician at Hammersmith, when pregnant with Jamie Matthew George back in 1979 took one look and announced, ‘Well, I hope you’re not going to waste THOSE!’
And now, I have breast cancer. Fuck pink ribbons and midnight walks, badly cut T-shirts and collecting boxes. I really don’t need this. Am I angry? Hell, yeah.
I didn’t have a lump. I had a mammogram. A dodgy mammogram.
‘We have located calcium granules in your right breast.’
Which, apparently meant:
a] I had limescale in me old kettle
b] cells had gone awol cos of cancer
I like my tits and have a full summer planned. With both tits.
I really don’t have time for this.
‘I don’t want to be an orphan,’ says my daughter on Facetime from Greece.
I don’t want to die. Or have one tit. I’ll never get a boyf.
Of course I won’t die, mammogram diagnosis is shit hot and I’m lucky they caught it early. But suddenly, I don’t trust my body. No part of it. Have a got a swelling in my neck? What’s that funny feeling in my leg? Last night I extracted a piece of stitching from the site of a basel cell carcinoma biopsy I had in my arm in March.
I won’t even mention the lump on the back of my head where I fell over at a wedding in June. The heel on my gold stilettos broke, honest guv’.