It's a week after my operation, and I've finally plucked up the courage to have a peek at My Left Boob.
The surgeon was a genius. Lefty is very black and blue, but apart from that doesn't look terribly different (he was far from perfect to start with, to be honest).
I'm back on form, feeling perky, and I have ten days R&R before my meeting with my oncologist to discuss next steps.
So, I'm moving on from thinking about nothing but cancer. I've turned over the page in the dictionary of highly emotive c words, and now I've been thinking about class.
The British have always been obsessed by class. We may not like to admit to it these days, but it's still there, seeped into our bones.
Mr SM is deeply upper class. Properly coat-of-arms posh. He visibly flinches if the children ever use a word like toilet, or serviette or (God forbid) pardon. One of his favourite bon mots is "Bad manners: worse than adultery."
(I don't think, by the way, that Mr SM actually condones adultery. Even if his wife has a wonky boob and may soon be bald).
The last few weeks have been particularly tricky for Mr SM, as his upbringing makes showing any emotion anathema, and he can't say the word breast out loud. Plus the poor thing has to sit there while a conveyor belt of strangers cop a feel of his wife.
Anyhow, because of all of this, I find anything to do with class rather fascinating.
A month or so ago there was a flurry of articles in the press about research showing that mothers are drinking earlier and earlier in the day, often cracking open the vino mid afternoon, after the school run.
There were a number of interviews, with celebrities and regular Mums, who would readily and happily confess to sharing bottles of wine with friends over a Friday afternoon play date, or having a glass or two with lunch mid week.
I read through a number of the online comments under these articles. Frequently someone would point out that this behaviour was only seen as acceptable (normal even) because of class.
A group of nice, well dressed, middle class mums sharing bottles of wine at 3pm on a Friday was deemed to be okay, but a group of mums on benefits passing round extra strong cider would lead to a call to social services.
It's so true. I was able to justify my drinking habits because I only drank wine. And wine is sophisticated, up market, expensive. Hell, the majority of it is French.
But it's still the same poison. The same addiction. Whether it's called Chablis grand cru and is being sipped from crystal glasses by a connoisseur, or it's methylated spirits being drunk from a plastic bottle by a tramp.
The same is true of cocaine. It is - I kid you not - deemed totally acceptable at many Notting Hill or Kensington dinner parties for the host to offer round cocaine rather than coffee at the end of the meal. After all, cocaine is for the rich, the rebellious, the young at heart.
(You'd get a sharp intake of breath if you served non organic milk in Notting Hill. Were you not aware that Milo is lactose intolerant?!? But cocaine? Perfectly okay!)
Can you imagine anyone passing round a bag of heroin? Oh no! That's an entirely different thing.
But it's not really, is it? It's just about image. And class.
So next time you're battling with the wine witch, make sure you see it for what it is. Strip away the packaging, the sophisticated names, the rituals. It's just ethanol. And it's a poison.
Love SM x