Yesterday I was lying in bed when my three year-old daughter, Lola (also known as The Rooster), came in to regale us with song and dance, as she does every morning. We spend giggly minutes together before we get up. Usually that means the Rooster singing nonsense songs, bouncing on the bed and trying to make us laugh. But sometimes she just wants a big cuddle, and while we were having one of those she asked: "What's that?"
I realised she was pointing down my pyjama top. She's very interested in the rehabilitation of my breasts (she still asks if she can have some milk.) And lo and behold, I looked down at myself and I saw: Cleavage. Today I'm getting my pink donut bandage and assorted dressings changed for the first time since I left hospital, so I will be able to see the progress much better for myself. I don't care what they say — I'm going to look in the mirror for a while before the dressings get put on again. The return of the cleavage! I didn't think I cared.
Oh yeah. And this post has no photograph for a reason.