My happy high continues – fed in no small part by each new boisterous comment from you, my indefatigable invisible friends; my rag-tag scrappy support crew; my beloved cross-section of the very finest stuff on earth! Last evening, in a room flooded with sunlight, my husband and parents and I drank champagne on my bed while Georgia clambered around excitedly, flailing limbs and causing repeated near-spills of the precious elixir. (Luckily the French have special Jedi reflexes when it comes to champagne spills: my husband’s hand would automatically and deftly stop the falling bottle from hitting the floor before any of us anglos even knew it was in danger. Mais, bien sur.) The colour returned to our faces, and it wasn’t just the bubbles at work. None of us had realized the extent of our dread. No one had wanted to admit just how much fear we were living in, so we just kept buggering on, as Churchill would say. And then this news! This gift! There was much laughter and shaking of heads in happy disbelief. Only four adults and one little whirlygig, but the bedroom seemed somehow more crowded – I surmise that there were a lot of people with us in spirit. Thank-you for sharing in our joy. I also have a sneaking suspicion there was a spike in the collective tippling of this bog community last night – and why not? It’s not often we get a chance to celebrate these days. And one must warm up from time to time in preparation for the big party at the end of all this (when the cancer is just gone.) But in the mean time I'm considering the wisdom of always keeping a bottle of champagne on-hand to encourage more reasons to celebrate to come my way. Can good karma be bribed with champagne? Worth a shot.