My friend D (who had his cancer diagnosis about six months before I had mine) sent me a email with an article attached. It was by Lucy Atkins and appeared in the Observer on October 7th and it definitely rang true for me.

It’s about the whole 'what happens after treatment has finished' thing, and the fact that a lot of us feel very low and also very anxious. What we all dread of course is that 'the cancer will come back'.

Yesterday afternoon I went for a nice Autumnal walk round our local cemetery with my friend, L.

I was about to write that she’s another breast cancer survivor when I was pulled up short… that is what we both are (hopefully) but I hadn’t actually used that term before about myself and it sounds rather dramatic.

Inevitably as we walked our jackets yo-yoed on and off as hot flushes, afternoon sunshine and a sharp wind meant we were either boiling or freezing... so entertaining!

Don’t you all just love a hot flush?

Today in the hospital dressings clinic the gorgeous smiley nurse tells me I’m “very funny” when I describe my battle with the cling film dressing and my horrified surprise at the size and shape of the new nipple.

Don’t feel very funny at all… just a bit zonked.

I’ve just hared around at home putting out one last wash on the line before dashing to have my hair cut by a neighbour (once Vidal Sassoon trained, apparently).

I am sitting typing this feeling rather as though two quietly omnipresent aliens are strapped to my chest.

Over a week on from the plastic surgery op and I'm healing well (I think) and feeling sort of normal.

At first the newly lifted, slightly reduced breast (i.e. the non-cancerous one) was an incredible sight, like something from the Early Learning Centre it was entertainingly bright yellow all over with deep blue bruising at the sides, topped off by a ludicrously bright red jelly baby like nipple.