I used to have a line in my stand-up where I described my breasts as having let me down so much that I now referred to them as ‘Brutus and Judus’. The truth is a lot more mundane. They are sturdy and workman-like and mostly fairly reliable. They are not the kind of bosoms that fall out of a bikini top at the sight of a third-division footballer; they are pretty sensible and I kennel them in a Sloggi non-wired 34A cup bra.
If anything my breasts are slightly Nordic. I know this for a fact because the only time I’ve seen breasts like mine, en masse, was when I went swimming in Finland – all the women there had identical breasts to mine. I like to think there is something of the Viking about them – or maybe I mean troll?
Anyway, as I say, they’ve never given me much grief, until last year when at the age of fifty-one I was called for my first mammogram. To be honest it wasn’t a big deal, we trotted down the road, me and the tits, got them squashed against a screen for scanning and came home.
It was mid-January, I’d finished panto, was doing shifts on the Loose Women panel and had just booked a week in Miami. Everything was tickety boob, Loose Women had even been nominated for an NTA – a National Television Award, no less! All I had to do was sort out some kind of ensemble/frock for the bash, but I had a week to shop. There was no rush.
Then the letter came. The mammogram result was suspect, and I needed further investigation. They gave me a date to come back and get checked out. It was scheduled for when we were in Miami.
I phoned the hospital to explain, expecting them to say that when I got back from the States would be cool. They didn’t – they said I should be seen before I went; in fact I should be seen by the end of the week, Then they said that if further ‘exploration’ found something more sinister then Miami could possibly be off the agenda as I might require immediate treatment.
Some things make you go cold, they make you go clumsy, they make your head feel like it’s underwater and you can’t hear properly. I felt sick all the way down to my knees.
I told my partner and I told my daughter and I told my sister. I didn’t tell anyone else and I couldn’t be bothered to buy a new frock for the NTAs which were being held at the O2 arena the night before I was due to be thoroughly X-rayed. I did however decide that going to the awards would be a welcome distraction and cobbled together a last-minute outfit from the back of my wardrobe. It wasn’t great – it involved a silver dress and a vintage coat and some snot-green tights, which I thought gave the outfit a Tilda Swinton twist but just looked a bit mad. I went to the O2 with all the other Loose Women (we didn’t win) and at the end of the night when I couldn’t find my cab to come home, I may have done some swearing and foot stamping in the car park – but really I was just very frightened of the morning.
My sister came to King’s College Hospital with me. She made me walk – I’d have got the bus but she was right, it is only three stops from my house.
An hour later we were walking home – correction, I was skipping. The lump was a collection of tiny water-filled cysts – very common, we were told. Huzzah! Never has south London looked more beautiful, never have my nearest and dearest been more relieved, never have I looked forward to a holiday more … Miami we were on our way.
A week or so later, we were at Heathrow. Browsing through the magazines in WHSmith I spotted a headline which screamed, ‘Worst Dressed Celebs at the NTAs’! And there I was, lumpy in my vintage coat, non-matching scarf and saggy snot-green tights. All I needed to complete the mad bag woman look was a pram full of cats and some rubbish.
As I looked at that photo and I remembered the worry and the upset and the gut-wrenching fear, I realized I couldn’t give a shit about these bitchy magazines with their horrible stupid lists. Me and my tits were off to Miami, and I laughed all the way to the plane.