There are some people who make the world a better place just by being in it. Most of them work in cancer wards.

Everything changes, everything you do from the day of diagnosis onwards, has cancer lurking somewhere in the background.

Once you accept that you have cancer, the word ‘cancer’ itself becomes less frightening. I use it a lot, I say it out loud.

Cancer, although most definitely a wanker, certainly seems to be an equal opportunity wanker.

Oncologists appear to be the potions masters of the cancer wizarding world and being me, I thought it wise to check him out.

It’s what I need right now, it’s where I feel comfortable. So it looks like maybe I am that cancer woman after all.

Thursday has arrived with a pretty bad attitude, spoiling for a fight. Well bring that on, sweetheart, because I’m ready for you.

Breast cancer surgeons are expert burrowers, and they tunnel along from one site to the next like tiny badgers.

I also subscribe to the Gruffalo theory that even the smallest mouse can be the scariest thing in the forest, given the right marketing.

Fucktard is my tumour. Fucktard, meet the peeps. Peeps, meet Fucktard.

I reflect on how lucky I am. Yes, seriously. Because for every one of those questions that I ticked 'no' to, someone else ticked yes.

After 2 days of being lost in a deep, dark forest of despair and rage, I reach out to someone I know who is a breast cancer survivor

What I am not, is the woman you see on the cancer adverts. I do not go to coffee mornings, I do not run marathons

Getting cancer is really shit. Getting cancer during a global pandemic is really a whole other level of awful.

Cancer, in a pandemic. Shitting Nora.