Even when enclosed in a polo neck, they still draw your eye. And, for six years, you've been gawping under a false pretence. I now know that my implant is full of a type of silicone that could cause harm. So now, rather than enjoying the attention, every glance reminds me I may be carrying something toxic in my body.

Does it matter what is inside my implant? I sought out what nature didn't give me, and paid someone to put it inside me. But now here is the problem: it has become me, like my leg or my arm; this has been my body for more than half a decade. It's a longer partnership than my marriage.

Remove or replace? Remove, I think. But will they just shrink back to what they were before, or will they leave me hanging? And, as much as I hate myself for thinking this, will people still look? I don't want to be anonymous, an unnoticeable part of the scenery of life. Maybe I'll have to dust off the chicken fillets and reinvest in a padded bra. I'm scared to "go back", but I'm more frightened of what might happen if I leave them in.

I take temazepam to sleep, otherwise the thought that I've brought this on myself upsets me too much. I feel so bad that I'll need the NHS to help me because my private clinic no longer exists – surely they have more important things to do than remove the symbols of my vanity and insecurity. Maybe this is an opportunity to change something more than my breasts.

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