Not coping very well at the moment.
Probably best if I just stay away.

Last time I saw you, I was lying in a hospital bed, back in March.

You really chose your moment, didn't you? I had to have my biopsy that morning. Whilst the biopsy itself wasn't so bad, afterwards I had to stay motionless on my back for six hours - possibly, the longest six hours of my life, although the time I spent on the back of that motorbike on my way from Lyon to Brussels came pretty close.

After a while, all I could think about was the pain in my back, tears leaking out of my eyes, sipping water with a straw because I could only raise my head a little.

I remember them announcing my diagnosis and the proposed treatment while I was flat on my back. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but I wasn't allowed to move. I let those fat tears just run down my cheeks - they were still there when Big turned up. Between sobs, I told him what they'd told me. His own tears joined mine as he held me.

So when you came, it wasn't a great time. I wasn't at my best, wasn't prepared for your visit, even though your arrival heralded a kind of relief. You stayed for a few days - a breath of normality when everything else was alien and scary.

Then you were gone.

For six months, I didn't see you. I wondered if I would see you ever again. Sometimes I would wake up in the night in a cold sweat and would convince myself that you were gone forever. I'd kind of resigned myself to it, and was okay with that.

But is that you I can see? Is that you I can feel? Your presence is as comforting as it is irritating. What you represent is not what I want or need. And yet.

What you do is contribute to my feeling normal again.

You.
My period.

A detached National Trust holiday home in the shadow of Skiddaw seems an unlikely venue for a masterful performance of "Papa don't preach", but with the help of a PS2 and this, I was able to fulfil a long held ambition to do Karaoke in the non-intimidating atmosphere of a group of close friends.

I was tentative at first: not a fan of being the centre of attention (one of the reasons why I won't be getting married), I chose to start with a duet of "Everybody's changing" (Keane), which bolstered me with more confidence than I thought I had to take to the floor for some further tunes.

My Madonna was, without question, the performance of the night, although my renditions of "Careless Whisper" (George Michael), "The Bucket" (Kings of Leon) and "Take me out" (Franz Ferdinand) were pretty damn good too, if I say so myself. And all of these were performed stone cold sober, I might add.

Whilst I'm not particularly interested in the Madonna of the noughties, as a teenager, I was captivated by the Madonna of the "Desperately Seeking Susan" era. I wanted to be her - that gum-chewing, smoking, slovenly-yet-unutterably-stylish, slightly grubby, dangerous character portrayed in the movie, instead of the spoddish young girl in a school uniform who always handed her homework in on time. I loved that huge hat box which "Susan" put in the locker, later to be discovered by the other Susan. I coveted that weird jacket with the pyramid on the back. I even wanted those stupid sparkly boots.

So, twenty odd years later, just for those few minutes in that large living room, with a wood fire burning and my friends around me, despite the fact that I was wearing a fleece and some trackie bottoms and I looked utterly horrendous, I *was* Madonna.

Damn - I still want to be a pop star!