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Written in the stars

Today is the 20th, and you know what that means: yep, my transplant will happen this week! At some point! Maybe!

I should start making plans. I need to pack a bag, as though I were an expectant mother, with some pyjamas, a toothbrush, my hair straightners, a change of outfit for Bear and the Tramadol I still have kicking around...all the essentials for my stay in hospital. I'll need some cash, too, for the taxi over there and all the M&S sandwiches.

Next, I shall need to tell all the important people in my life what is happening. In my family we favour a complex, La Resistance-type system of information sharing, so as long as I mention it in passing in a cryptic text to my cousin everyone is bound to find out sooner or later. I shall also need to inform my tutor on my Masters course, the mother of the baby I observe, my therapist, my line manager at work and the features desk at the Metro who will inevitably want to write an article chronicling my epic journey from beautiful-yet-brave kidney-less survivor to...regular person.

I'll need to make sure that my iphone is charged so that I can video the whole event as it unfolds - the tears! The laughter! The cannulation! - then I can post it on YouTube and wait for the offers of my own TV show/perfume/cat food range to come rolling in. This will also help to ensure I am able to receive the pivotal phone call in the first place - but its mainly the filming thing.

All that's left is to hide anything I don't want my parents finding when they come into my bedroom to collect changes of underwear and additional series of The West Wing, book myself in for a Hollywood and I'll be ready to get mad-surgical. Organisation is the key here, I feel. Nothing left to do now but sit back and wait for the phone to ring. What could possibly go wrong?

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