Isha Upanishad

    That is perfect.  This is perfect.  Perfect comes from perfect.  Take perfect from perfect, the remainder is perfect.  

    May peace and peace and peace be everywhere.

I don't need a mastectomy. After all.  Mr Trustworthy Surgeon all smiles.  Yes, it was ductal carcinoma in situ, but they've done (even more) lab work, and it was safely contained within the area removed 2 weeks ago.  And though there may be more out there, somewhere, why go digging for it.

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An estimated 10 weeks of daily, then increasingly infrequent dressings, until the wound heals.   Come back in a fortnight to check progress on healing, and then for a mammogram in 6 months.   Review hormone treatment in October.  Otherwise, ce'est tout.  C'est tout.  C'est tout.  Breathe.

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Meanwhile, for the abdomen: ultrasound next Tuesday (GG2, it could be you), followed by Mr Trustworthy Surgeon to interpret results. 

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And so to lunch.  And did we lunch.  Turns out the chef at Il Sorriso worked at the Carlton Towers not so long before I chambermaided there, and lovely Leo, all largesse, whose girth spreads magnificently over the chi chi tables out front, published the Hyatt's in-house magazines.  Today, prix fixe of bruschetta, heaven-sent pastas, glass of house, then a dessert wine, oh go on then, another, and that's so kind of you, a limoncello!  I say!  Taxi!  Neal Street, please.  The call of the shoe shop is so very strong.

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Love the brown ones best:  bastard child of Miss Marple and an Eames office chair.  Mies van der Rohe, you are the very architect of genius.  At first, I wavered, but, sensing that they'd have a remarkable effect on the opposite sex, I summonsed the attention of a passing heterosexual (these shoe shops never employ them, do they?) who, smiled, and the more he looked at them, the warmer he became.  Good reaction.  Bought shoes.  Also bought stripey shoes - S~S, they reminded me of the patchwork pixie boots last worn raving with a black unitard and Mr Chalmers in about, ooh, 1992.   

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And look, my lovely companion could double for Charlie Chaplin.  GG1 carried my bags to the very platform before staggering gamely off to teach a yoga class.  Brave she.  

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It's scarcely worth putting my notebook away any more;  I just have to get it back out a minute later.  This evening, a passing Italian writer, fascinated by the speed?  enthusiasm? with which I scribbled, switched seats to talk to me.  You deserve a more appreciative agent, AC Milano, and give writing in English a shot, your command of language was just great.

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And as for you, Ms Housicle, the skilled but strangely client-free life coach, I begin to wonder if self-employment is right for you:  it's your nature to give so much for free.  And you won't change that without a struggle.

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A very good night to you all.