The good, the bad and the oh-my-gawd

The roller coaster launched at 5.30am when I woke in pain. I share every other drama with you, soooooo: there was a lump in my breast.

The anxiety built as I waited in the darkness for the kids to wake, fretting quietly.

The moment the clock hit 8.30am I tried calling the doctor’s surgery for an appointment, but the phone just kept cutting straight out.

Finally, at 9.15am, I got through. The receptionist said their computers were out, so they had no idea who was due or when, but I could come and take my chances.

What she didn’t mention was that the computers were out because a truck had wiped out a power pole. It was a very loooooooong ride home from the cruise ship in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

When I arrived at the doctor’s surgery everything was in darkness and the waiting room was empty. The doctor had to find an examination room with frosted glass windows so he could poke and prod at my chest.

Verdict: a 3cm x 4cm mass, probably nothing, but best to get a mammogram – my first – and ultrasound. He informed me the ultrasound was going to be more painful than usual due to the tender mass in my boob. Hurrah. There’s something to look forward to …

I was feeling pretty sorry for myself as I shed a quick tear on the way home. I got slightly emotional again when the woman at the ultrasound centre asked if it was my first time … Nooooo, I was there less than six months ago for a mass in my uterus …

It’s not that I’m panicking and imagining the worst. I’m just freaking cross. I mean, SERIOUSLY? How about cutting me some slack, universe?

So she did. And things got really crazy.

I deposited the kids with electronic toys and pens and paper at my ex-husband’s work so I could duck to the glammy Langham Hotel to kick off a little thing I’m doing called the A-Lister’s Guide to Sydney.

As you do.

It’s to celebrate the AACTA Awards, which are being held at The Star next week, honouring “Australia’s top film and television.”

I rocked up to the hotel lobby, in The Rocks, handed the keys to my old rattler (complete with rusty totem tennis pole that I’d forgotten to remove after moving house) to the posh doorman, was greeted with French champagne by a very handsome bartender, then was whisked to a junior suite – celebrities don’t have their beauty treatments in the spa like ordinary folk – for a foot soak and scrub and aromatherapy massage by the most gorgeous Lilly, who now knows my whole life story. Actually, quite a few people at the hotel now know my whole life story, I was Miss Haveachat.

After carefully arranging a rolled towel so I could lie face down without my boob lump hurting, Lilly waved a few anonymous essential oil mixes under my nose and asking me to pick one … I picked “de-stress” …

After a long and extremely blissful massage, it was down to the pool to be greeted by Samanmali, the hotel’s celebrity wrangler, wearing a pink Chanelly suit and holding a tray with another champers for me.

As I sat by the pool sipping it, I started giggling. I mean, talk about a totally surreal day.

Then it was back home to feed and water the kids – Latina tortellini – before my next VIP experience: dinner at the celebrity hangout Iceberg’s Dining Room with DD.

We sipped pink champagne as the sun set over Bondi Beach and I supped on salt cod fritters, followed by orcheitte pasta with pork ragu and crackling.


Then it was home for a Voltaren for the boob swelling.

Sweet and sour, huh?

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