Vanilla Coke cures cancer.

Or at least so says my (non-medical) colleague, Vicki. Actually, she said “Vanilla coke cures everything,” which I took to include cancer.  This largely contradicts the stories that were going about the internet last week, regarding calls to ban Coca-Cola outside the U.S. because of a substance in the caramel colouring that has been linked to cancer. Still, I figure I have cancer already so I cracked open the can regardless. I am not a fan – it’s a bit like drinking liquidized caramel popcorn. No offence to cousin Nick, who sent me an incredible box of American goodies in the post today (I shall gladly eat all the rest) or to Vicki (I would send you the rest of the can in the post if I could) but I will be sticking to normal, full-fat Coke. Yum.

I am also considering volunteering for a second operation so that the surgeon has somewhere to re-inject all the fat I will be amassing after I finish off this little lot:

I would like to issue a public apology to the residents of Shepley, who have seen me not only walking about in my pyjamas in broad daylight, but who have also seen me walking like an invalid with a limp arm plastered to my left side. This is because I am seemingly unable to remove the adhesive from the dressings I took off yesterday morning and it is now sticking my armpit together, as well as sticking my top to my boob. No amount of gentle scrubbing with a soap and sponge seems to be work, and I can’t do too much in the armpit area due to the purple baby-shark-bite-like scar from the incision the surgeon made to do the sentinel lymph node biopsy. So, any tips on removing sticky adhesive stuff from sensitive areas and – while you’re at it – tips for removing blue dye from one’s nipple and seemingly permanent marker from one’s breast, will be very welcome posts from the medically inclined among you today. Thanks.

Also, a special mention to Danie A, who won the competition for the best card today. What, you didn’t know there was a competition?

Speaking of fanmail, I am getting to know the postman on a first-name basis and each delivery comes with a new quip from West Yorkshire’s most friendly postal delivery worker, who today claimed I’m single-handedly keeping him in a job with all my post. The delivery of a giant parcel yesterday came when both my parents were out and had locked me into the house without a key. I was unable to find the key to let the postman in, causing him to have to sign for the delivery himself and to remark that “You’d be buggered in a fire!” Quite.

Mum, on her return, said nonchalantly that I could easily have climbed out the conservatory window in the event of a fire. I’m sure that would have been very easy and wouldn’t have drawn any unnecessary attention with me in my pyjamas with my armpit stuck together.

I’ll be looking forward to getting back to living my independent life again. Last summer when I came back for a weekend to look after the house when my parents were on holiday, a young chap my own age came around to the house selling internet services.

Talk Talk man (in unintentional patronising tone): “Are your mum and dad in?”

Me: “No, they’ve gone on holiday.”

Talk Talk man: “What, they’ve gone off and left you on your own?”

Me: “I am 28 and I don’t live here…”

Oh dear.