Carol has a necklace of numbers. The concept reminds her of the sweet necklaces she wore as a child, sucking them off slowly one by one. Only, of course, she isn't losing sweets but gaining days.

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Today's number on her necklace calendar is 26; mentally it hangs just above her missing breast. It's 26 days since the consultant told her she didn't have long. But how long is not long? She isn't sure whether to expect a tiered necklace of months, stretching the metaphor but it feels apt, or a choker of weeks.

Still, it's already longer and heavier than she first expected. Not only has she lived more days than she feared, but many are also full days; filled with doing and people. But, of course, they say it's best to fit that sort of thing in while one can.

Carol tries to pretend the vagueness of time doesn't matter, focus instead on the numbers' significances. So 16 was the number of days before her daughter Leah's A levels, while 24 was her own bent back and weak knees. That was also the day Carol nearly started screaming in the middle of the supermarket: Why me? What have I done? It's not fair!

Invert 24 and she gets her next birthday: 42, assuming she makes it that far. The number 80 is her figure before chemotherapy and surgery and, if she doesn't lose count by then, 119 is the number of pounds she spent on a silly, frivolous scarf simply because it was pretty and the cost didn't seem to matter any more.

But how long will it be before pain stops her being able to count? And how long before the numbers cease to exist? It feels like some sick game of fortune. Pick a number, any number...