Breast cancer lesson number 98: If you can’t stand the heat, find someone to help you cool down

With a trip to the menopause clinic on today’s agenda (in yet another part of the hospital – this time Women’s Services) I was planning to fill this post with practical tips to help those going through both an enforced chemically-induced ‘change of life’ and the real thing. Trouble is, you don’t learn much when you don’t get further than the waiting room!

I always like to be punctual, but while turning up two minutes before an appointment is fine, two months is a little on the eager side! Whether it was a glitch in the admin system or an attack of chemobrain (which I am still trying to convince myself won’t affect me), I will never really know. But, let’s just say, the date and time in my diary (agreed over the phone last week) didn’t match the system or, in fact, the letter they’d sent me following the call (that I had failed to scrutinise).

I had a good laugh with the receptionist (who thankfully saw the funny side too) and it wasn’t a wasted trip (I got a PICC line flush and a beautiful back and foot rub thrown in from a kind Dimbleby Cancer Care lady), but the problem I now have is, the appointment is so late in my chemo regime (more than a week after my last poisoning) it almost isn’t worth having. Plus I am now facing two more months of hot flush fuelled nights. Trust me, two nights is enough! I could, of course, go to discuss the fact I may get more sweats on Tamoxifen, but I’m not sure the NHS would appreciate a hypothetical discussion about side effects I might get.

Sadly, the cancer card does not work in all parts of the hospital and I left with little more than a red face – probably due to the hot flush that had appeared as if on cue in protest. So I did what any woman in need of a natural cure would do and I rejoined a beautiful friend and her daughter (who I’d enjoyed a 30-minute pizza trip with an hour earlier) for a consolatory ice cream. It certainly didn’t magic up a new more useful appointment, but it was a brilliant temporary fix.

Hopefully I will be able to ask the oncology nurse for some advice next week (can you really be examined for hot flushes anyway?). In the meantime, I have turned not to Dr Google, but to the Young Breast Cancer Network Facebook group. Within a matter of minutes I was inundated with tips. My favourite has to be a lady care magnet, which you attach to the front of your knickers! Sounds strange and a little heavy, but I am absolutely going to try it.

I’ll let you know how I get on. Just don’t ask me about it in polite company! And, if all else fails, at least there is ice cream!

Breast cancer lesson number 97: Reclaim your tastebuds!

The only things I am currently taking in extra strong helpings right now are my mints. That’s right. Trebor Extra Strong Mints are my not-so-secret weapon in the fight against chemo. They hit the spot in a way no other foodstuff knows how. And, for that, my tastebuds will be forever thankful.


The nice thing about developing a rather unhealthy obsession with these giant pill-like (yes the resemblance isn’t lost on me) sweeties, is that the extra strong mint and I go back a long way – to the school run in fact. The last time I remember popping a peppermint treat in my mouth was in the car with my mum on the way to lessons. No journey would be complete without a mint. Every time I crunch one now (I am too impatient to suck it for too long) I think of my mum and I smile at the thought that this small ritual from my childhood has made such a mark on my life.

I think it is only right I clarify that my diet does not now consist of mints, mints and more mints and I am not advocating you all rush out to the newsagents. But, it’s just so refreshing to find something that doesn’t taste of cardboard when I pop it in my mouth. Chemo has its own special way of turning the most delicious smelling (and looking) plate of food into something akin to gruel. And, gruel is something that belongs in a Dickens novel, not on my plate.

Of course, I can’t give mints all the credit. Blueberries and strawberries are putting in a good performance and pineapple chunks (the fruit pretty much everyone has on the list) are pretty special. And, let’s not forget eggs in purgatory from lesson 80 (to which I have added onion, sausage and all types of cheese in an attempt to vary it slightly). I even find that, the cheaper the wine, the better the taste (especially white wine). But, when I wake up and can’t face the sight (let alone the taste) of a glass of water, I know to what item my thoughts drift first.

I will be posting a more comprehensive guide to chemo when I think the side effects have all worn off after my last poisoning. At the moment, life is so unpredictable I fear a tip may be out of date before I press publish. For now, my advice to all those facing the toxic cocktail that is chemo is experiment. Find a way to get reclaim your tastebuds. You might not find them in a bunch of bananas or a slice of peanut butter on toast. But, they’re there and they want to tempt you once more.

Breast cancer lesson number 96: Happiness is a journey, not a destination

The title of this blog post is actually one of my favourite quotations. Last year I organised for it to be printed onto a sign for the living room to remind me of that fact every day. The reason? I think we often spend too much time wishing our lives away and not enough time enjoying the moment. A lot of the time, the destination doesn’t quite live up to expectations or the excitement experienced on the journey. I believe that if you enjoy the journey, you’re less likely to demand as much of the destination – and are therefore more likely to enjoy it. That’s my logic and I’m sticking to it!

I can honestly say I enjoyed every moment of Friday (which included four separate journeys and a destination that was also a journey if you can get your head around that!). I enjoyed the leisurely lie-in, the tea in bed, laughing on the tube with Duncan, the band playing as we arrived at the Orient Express check-in in the Victoria and the best cup of tea in a paper cup I have ever had as we waited for our train. I enjoyed the Audrey carriage with its colourful past (it used to be part of the Brighton Belle train, was once damaged in a bombing raid and has stunning landscape scenes on its wooden panels). I loved the five-course meal (including enough cheese to feed a small nation), the banter with the team on board and actually being in photos. I even enjoyed the drive on the M25 to the Cotswolds for the weekend after it was all over. I enjoyed the details and nothing else mattered.







One of my favourite moments, however, is perhaps not what you’d expect. I will never forget the faces of the commuters on every platform we passed. The train, with its beauty and elegance was an unexpected element in their day. With wide-eyed children pointing, commuters staring in wonder and workmen stopping to wave, the train brought with it as many unexpected smiles as it did happy and well-fed passengers. I was happy to be on board, but happier seeing the mark it left on every platform.

In lesson 95, I challenged myself to get in front of the camera and take part in the memories as they are being frozen in time. I am delighted to report that I rose to the challenge, and dragged Duncan along for the ride too. I look back at each and every one of these and smile. It really was an amazing experience.




If you’re interested in the Orient Express, you’ll be interested to know that we went on the British Pullman on a four-hour round trip from London Victoria. Each of its 10 carriages, described as ‘palaces on wheels’ has a different personality. Audrey is one of the smaller carriages, meaning we were virtually guaranteed an intimate table for two and a big picture window. I can also confirm that the gooseberry trifle was delicious and Duncan did sample one of every cheese on the cheeseboard (and earned the respect of the waiter in doing so).

This memory wouldn’t have been possible without the kindness of the wonderful Willow Foundation and my lovely breast cancer nurse. The Willow Foundation was set up by former Arsenalgoalkeeper and TV presenter, Bob Wilson and his wife Megs, as a lasting memorial to their daughter, Anna, who died of cancer aged 31.They wanted to give 16- to 40-year-olds the chance to escape a serious illness by enjoying a special day out. And, since 1999, they’ve been doing just that. I, along with the many young women diagnosed with breast cancer every year, will be forever grateful.

My nurse recommended them to me and helped me with the application form and I couldn’t recommend them highly enough to you. If you are based in the UK and are eligible, I would encourage you to apply today! Click here for more details and to find out how you can support this amazing organisation. 

Thank you Willow and thank you Orient Express for gifting me a day when I enjoyed both the journey and the destination. It is a day I will never forget.

PS: A lovely lady called Tric reblogged one of my earlier posts: ‘what you lose I dignity, you gain in confidence’ at the weekend on her own blog My thoughts on a page. It remains one of my favourite posts, so click here if you want a second look. Thanks Tric.

Breast cancer lesson number 95: It’s time to put yourself in the picture

You may find this hard to believe if you’ve not met me before, but I have never liked having my picture taken. I was the child plagued with ‘red eye’. Not tilting my head in a weird way every time I see a camera takes a huge amount of effort. And, a selfie was, up until I started this blog, something everyone else did. They say the cameras never lie. In my case, I’m not sure they’ve ever told the truth!

Lying in bed after having spent the evening running round the Chelsea Flower Show last night, however, I started to realise that maybe a life always behind the camera isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I will never be a fan of the sea of phones that seem to accompany every single event nowadays. (I still wish people would spend more time enjoying the moment and the experience of being at an event and less time plotting their locations for Facebook and telling everyone else how much fun they’re having. They’d certainly have more fun if they put their phones down for a second.) But, I do believe a great photo is a powerful thing. It doesn’t just capture a moment, it captures the happiness and joy felt in that moment.

Looking back through my catalogue of show garden pictures this morning, there was something missing. I had photos of my favourite flowers, the wonderful potting shed artisan garden with its beautiful back story and some of the stunning details I spotted along the way. But there was no sign of Duncan and I enjoying ourselves. I will always remember that we did, but I don’t have a face smiling back at me confirming that fact.


Not any more!

With a weekend of Bank Holiday adventures in front of me, starting with a day on the Orient Express, I am determined to change my perspective – and I encourage you to do the same!

Stand out from behind the camera and be part of the memory making. Time is precious and photos are the perfect way to remind us of that fact every day (especially when we’re in them). Some of us may be afraid of life in front of the lens. However, I think we should be more afraid of not having it pointed in our direction, even just once in while.

May you all enjoy your lovely long weekends – if you’re lucky enough to live in the right country to have one!

PS: I had my first photo bombing experience on Wednesday night at the wonderful ZSL safari gala dinner! Here’s me and my lovely colleague. I won’t forget that 🙂 


Breast cancer lesson number 94: How to get more from active treatment

Cancer treatment is like being signed up to run a marathon race with no training. In short, it hurts. But, just sometimes, days like today are sent along to remind us that there are plenty of pit stops along the way that are actually rather enjoyable. As long as you know how to find them that is – and make the most of them when you do!

On annual leave, you’ll usually find me tucked up in front of a log fire with a glass of wine or strolling along the Dorset Coast path. The UK is our oyster and we do our best to enjoy it. Today, however, I spent the day with my arms in the air for a really good cause.

While most of you were commuting to your desks, I was on my way to the wonderful Haven charity in Fulham to take part in an exercise video. By exercise video, I don’t mean raising a sweat (although I did have a few too many hot flushes). By exercise video, I mean a series of exercises designed to help those who have had lymph node surgery manage the risk of developing lymphoedema (or arm swelling). Ok, so it might be the world’s most sedentary exercise class and I am not about to give Nell McAndrew a run for her money. But that didn’t make it any less important.


Although I don’t think I am destined for life in front of the camera (I dread to think what my exercise face looks like and I waffled a bit on my vox pop at the end), it was a really wonderful day. I met a fantastic team dedicated to getting the medical side just right and also informing people about the latest thinking surrounding lymphoedema. No longer are we supposed to rest our affected arms and wear preventative compression sleeves. Exercise (within your limits) is the answer to ensuring we all have a really good base from which to get on with daily life. Managing the risk of lymphoedema isn’t about focusing on what you shouldn’t do, it’s about making a few adjustments to life so that you can keep doing everything you love. Saunas may not be top of the list, but everything else is pretty much up for grabs.

I also met some pretty special ladies, all at different stages of their treatment. With their positive spirits and colourful characters they were great film buddies. It will certainly be interesting to see the final cut, that’s for sure. Don’t expect a screening!

Never did I think that three rounds into chemo, I would be described as the fit one. It’s also strange to think that my hairless self (albeit in a hat) will now be immortalised, a DVD reminder of the fact that even when chemo piles on the side effects, you can still come out smiling.

Amusingly, I got a few odd looks on the tube. It seems a cancer patient with a hair loss cap, jeans and a t-shirt presents no challenge to onlookers. Dress her in leggings, trainers and yoga tops and suddenly she becomes an enigma. An active sick person. Does she deserve a seat or a round of applause? After what feels like about a thousand arm raises, I think I’ll take the seat thanks.

The great thing about today is it doesn’t end there. I am just doing a quick dress change before making my way to ZSL London Zoo for a safari gala dinner.

Take that cancer!

Breast cancer lesson number 93: How to face cancer with confidence

I think it would be fair to say that my make-up routine is less of a routine and more of a lifelong period of experimentation. I have the creams, the mascara, the eyebrow pencils and the obligatory make-up bag, but it seems that no matter how much stuff I apply to my face, I never look like I have any on. Some may call this skillful. Sadly, there is nothing skillful about it.

Whether or not you know your primer from your restorative lash treatment, when you’re undergoing treatment that dries your skin and steals away your eyelashes in the night, make-up does have its uses. For me, it’s not so much about hiding what’s happening to me, but more about giving me back the bits that make me smile. A hat can hide the lack of hairdo, but I do quite like to see some eyebrow when I look in the mirror.

In an attempt to help me reclaim my face, friends, family and medical professionals have been quick to send me top tips, hints and product recommendations. In the creams department, for example, I am sorted – so much so I’m surprised I don’t just slip right out of my clothes! Having diligently filled the bathroom with everything from Gimme Brow to Brow Zings on the make-up front, however, I do feel like in danger of looking more like a pantomime act than a publishing professional. Painting on eyebrows? I’d rather have a PICC line flush thanks.


Enter Look Good, Feel Better (LGFB). This amazing international charity offers free skincare and make-up workshops for those coming to terms with the visible side effects of cancer treatment. With volunteers from the beauty industry (who better to teach you about wig care than a film make-up artist?), each session is a masterclass packed with trade secrets and handy tips. In two hours, you get a 12-step make-up routine and all the branded goodies to match (designed around your skin tone). And, even though you do have to sit in front of a mirror for an extended period, you do get an awful lot of laughing to go with your lipstick and eyeliner.

There are many things in life I never thought I’d have to worry about. Matching my foundation so that it blends in with my bald head is one of them. Now, however, I don’t just have the concealer, I know where (and most importantly when) to apply it. I can use green primer without looking like Kermit the frog and can advise you on which eye cream will make your bags glow in certain lights (not a great look for a wedding). I will also never use my eyeliner in the same way again. While ‘looking good’ may be pushing it, I left the session looking a whole lot better and, it felt great. To ease you in, I am only posting a photo of the goodie bag today. I need a bit more practice before I share my new eyebrow-shaping skills with the world and I’d rather not scare you off.

For the first time in my life, I have three amazing beauty secrets to share! First, book on a Look Good, Feel Better event today (they are extremely popular so click here to find your nearest location). Second, Macmillan Cancer Support does a really useful guide called Feel More Like You, which provides expert advice on skin, nail and hair care during treatment. And, lastly, only put green primer on the red bits, otherwise you might end up looking a lot worse than you feel! 

Of course, the one thing that a wonderful workshop such as this can’t do is account for nature. And, by nature, I mean the fact that I currently have a rather fetching mosquito bite plonk in the centre of my forehead. Perfectly timed for the filming of an exercise video tomorrow (oh yes, more on that soon)! That’s something no amount of make-up is going to sort.

Breast cancer lesson number 92: Embrace the change of pace

Yesterday, I was defeated by the vacuum cleaner. Strange as it may sound, a piece of plastic (albeit a well-crafted one) with multiple arm extensions brought a dust cloud to my otherwise bright and sunny day.

It could have waited a little while longer (even though the moths are getting a little friendly). I really didn’t need to clean the whole house. But, never one to leave a job unfinished, I dug out the vacuum after a lovely day with friends and had a good go at the carpet. And, you know what? I really wish I hadn’t.

Now before you think I’ve lost the plot, this is not a blog post about vacuuming (fun as I know that would be). This is the post about just how hard it is to go from the active, always-on-the-go Jackie with her ultimate to-do list to the chemo Jackie who often needs a bit of a sit down. Satisfaction comes from a to-do list that goes down not up. And, currently it feels like the list is getting longer by the day.

The trouble is, I wasn’t exactly overdoing it. A drive to see good friends, a short walk and a few household chores does not a packed day make. Admittedly, I probably should have saved the hob cleaning for another day, and didn’t need to do that second load of laundry. But, when chemo gifts you a window of energy, it’s really hard not to grab it.

Chemo fatigue is something about which I haven’t written so far. That’s not because I didn’t know about it or hadn’t experienced it. It’s because I thought that by not mentioning it, it might just go away. No one wants to feel like they’ve run the marathon when they’ve only just climbed the stairs – especially not at the age of 32. I spent my 20s watching friends have fun on the dance floor while I battled hip pain. I thought I’d be the one to set the pace in my 30s. Maybe next year…

The truth is, I have no choice but to slow it down. And, if I’m honest, that’s probably no bad thing. Nobody needs to watch TV while simultaneously tidying the coffee table, sorting papers and writing a shopping list. The dust can wait for another day (along with the wonky doorstop and the half-painted wall). Fighting cancer drugs is enough for most agendas and, for now, it has to be enough for me too.

Of course, the physios and occupational therapists do have a few tricks up their sleeves to help us make the most of every day. The secret? Pacing! The aim is to avoid getting into an overactivity-rest cycle. That means doing little and often every day to build up strength rather than trying to cram in a whole week’s worth of activity into one day just because you feel well (and then needing a few days to recover). That does mean planning in tasks (and sticking to the plan), but the plan has to be realistic! The motto is ‘do what you planned – not what you feel like’. It sounds simple. But, when running before you can walk is your default position, it takes a bit of getting used to.

So, for now, I shall try my best to sit back and enjoy this change of pace. And, if you are currently in the middle of a chemo cycle (or about to start), I hope you can too.

Just don’t expect a fluff-free floor on your next visit!

Breast cancer lesson number 91: Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle

Bearing my soul to all who know me – and quite a few who don’t – has brought with it some rather unexpected and surprising moments. Fellow sufferers have found comfort in a friendly face. Strangers have become friends. Old friends have become new friends. Distant friends have become closer friends. Family have become more like friends.

Every comment, post and email has meant the world to me. But there are a few that have shown me just how little we really know about those around us – and the challenges we all face. From miscarriages, grief, illness and tumours to difficult pregnancies, IVF, house issues and family troubles. You name it, they’re all there, on a doorstep near you (and maybe even on your own).


I feel so privileged and moved that people have been able to reach out to me at this time and share the sadness that occupies their waking hours and disturbs their sleep. But, I also feel sad that had I known about some of them earlier, I might have been able to make a difference at a time when they needed me perhaps more than they do right now (a hairless cancer fighter is probably not first in line for the trenches!).

People often describe cancer as the invisible illness. And, in many ways it is (especially when it grows silently inside you at a time when you are feeling really well). But, the thing about cancer is that you don’t need to understand the complexities of a diagnosis to know that someone is fighting for their life. Cancer comes with its own support network. People get it. And that makes it so much easier to share with the world. Sadly, other challenges (each one difficult and hard in their own right) cannot be softened by such a public airing. 

So this is my little way of saying spare a thought today for all of life’s fighters. I can guarantee they are closer than you think.

Quick PS: As a rather more light-hearted aside, I confess to having bought some shorts. Apologies now if the weather takes a turn for the worse. But, if it is any consolation, they are really nice shorts and Duncan will permit me to wear them further than the garden, which is a first!

Breast cancer lesson number 90: Life is short. There is no time to leave important words unsaid

I am grateful that last night was just a night of sweats, broken sleep and nasty nausea rather than a night wedded to the washing-up bowl (I must stress the bowl has been retired from active washing-up duty in case you were worried). And, looking at the faces of mum and Duncan in the morning, I think I wasn’t the only one who was grateful!

I made it through. But I had to dig deep. The nausea and night sweats were among the worst I have ever endured. The Aprepitant drug worked wonders on the sickness and the quick hat and sock changes helped with the hot flushes. But there is one other trick I’d like to share, which – in between the waves of nausea – made the whole experience memorable in a more positive way.

I have never been one for counting sheep or filling my mind with the colour blue in an attempt to drift off. So, last night I introduced a new technique. From the beginning, I listed out all the wonderful and kind messages and gestures people have sent through over the last four months. By this, I don’t just mean the obvious. By this, I mean the well-timed tips, the lucky pre-surgery safety pin, the comment from an old schoolfriend about what she thought of me back then and how I hadn’t changed, the thank you from a girl I once helped in a small way and never thought much of it. Just yesterday, a lady I had met a month ago and showered in cancer-related tips stopped me in reception to thank me for my kindness. Those words meant everything to me. Each one of these moments has made an indelible mark on my heart. And, yesterday, I used them to build a patchwork quilt of happiness to comfort me at my lowest ebb. The great thing is, when I got out of bed this morning I smiled knowing that I have just scratched the surface, with many more patches to add.

Being at the receiving end of a lifetime of kindness has got me thinking about just how much we really say to those that inspire us and make us smile. When was the last time you turned to a friend and thanked them for just being there? When was the last time you contacted an old acquaintance and told them just how big an impression they have made on your life? When was the last time you thanked someone and meant it from the bottom of your heart? People can’t guess you’re your thinking unless you tell them. When the business of life gets in the way, it is hard to step back, reflect and not take all those you love and admire for granted. But, I can tell you now, there is so much I want to say to people while they are still around to hear it! People come and go in life, tucked away in chapters. But, their kindness will live on through you. I’d love to think that if someone were to cut me open (in a nice, non-cancer-surgery kind of way), I would be made up all of the brilliant people who have touched my life.


So, I have chosen today, laced as it might be with a cocktail of drugs and a vat load of liquid, as the day to hand out my first pink hearts. The first is for my astonishing and truly wonderful mum who is one of the most beautiful people you’ll ever meet. She may weigh less than me currently (although we are having words), and she may not be able to take the pain of a cancer diagnosis away, but she has made living with it as comfortable and relaxing as possible. She has put her life on hold, so that I have the chance to get mine back. As a daughter, I have not always thanked my mother quite as often as I should. But she means everything to me and I plan to spend the rest of my days reminding her of that. While I won’t share the contents of my letter with you, I will share one line: ‘Life is no easy street, but you have made walking down it, so much more enjoyable.’

And, the second heart? You’ll just have to wait and see! I will also be posting more details of my pink heart plan (first mentioned in lesson number 30 – click here) in the weeks to some to inspire others to send ripples of kindness all across the world.


All I ask is that you take a moment of your day to thank someone who matters to you. What is it about them that makes you smile? What it is you should have told them years ago, but never thought to mention? How have they helped make you the person you are today? I guarantee you’ll feel good saying it – but not as good as the person hearing it (especially if it’s for the first time).

Make today the day you start following your heart. Trust me, there’s no time to lose.

NB: it will take years to deliver all these hearts, so do bear with me. The accompanying letters are all handwritten and contain a piece of my heart. Plus, I have to make sure I don’t get arm ache! 

Breast cancer lesson number 89: A chemo day can be a good day

Believe it or not, today was a good day. I should qualify this by saying that most good days do not come with a helping of toxic drugs on the side. But as days on active treatment go, it was a complete success.


I passed my blood test (yay!). My levels are good for someone on chemo (could be seen as a compliment). I had a lovely lunch with my lovely mum (that I could taste) and a walk along the river (in the sunshine). I met a friendly nurse who furnished me with a whole rucksack full of pills, mouthwashes and eye drops (including the mighty Emend/Aprepitant for vomiting). I got the chemo drugs (yay-ish because it wasn’t delayed) and actually waved goodbye to Epirubicin as the last red syringe was drained into my PICC line. I now know the name of the lovely lady who does my PICC line flushing every week (she doesn’t wear a name badge and after a few sessions, I felt it would be wrong to ask). I have sorted out my appointments for the next round (chemo is moving to a Friday). And, most importantly, the chemo unit LOVED the ginger cookies (although you could question whether or not a unit of patients with questionable taste buds is a robust test).

I also discovered a few new things (and we all know how much I love learning things)! One, there is such a thing as a menopause clinic, because I’ve been referred to it in an attempt to help me get a convincing night of sleep! (watch this space). Two, baked goods (with ingredients listed) are welcome on the unit (I did wonder whether health and safety would get in the way). Three (not the best revelation), the next set of chemo cycles requires me to have around 24 injections to help keep my white blood cell count at a good level (nothing like a few sub-cut injections to remind me of those fertility days). And last but not least, according to my stats, somebody discovered my blog by searching ‘extraordinary boobs’. Whoever found my blog by searching for this, all I can say is: great search terms (I wimped out after Googling it and sizing up the main subject matter) and I am sorry that I really don’t have extraordinary boobs. They are certainly not ordinary, but I am not sure that is what you were after!

Here’s a piccie of me in the unit ‘copping a feel’ (albeit not exactly going for a full grab) to show my support for the wonderful charity Coppafeel (click here), which was set up by a wonderful women called Kris, who was diagnosed with Stage four (advanced breast cancer) at the age of 23. Her mission is to make sure young women are more aware of their boobs, completing those regular checks that could just save their lives. It’s a simple and powerful message, and one I am going to help her spread over the coming months and years.

I may be nibbling my ginger cookies at a rapid rate to tackle the nausea inside me, but I think, as days go, it was a goodie. Let’s just hope I don’t have to make friends with my old washing-up bowl again tonight!


I hope you’ve all had a good day!