Item – I’d comment more, but the Blogosphere has ejected me. Ejected me, I tell you! I visit some delightful and meaningful blog or other, spend hours, well, minutes typing the cutest, coolest, funniest comments ever, and I hit ‘post’ and the blog goes — nah. I’m looking at you, mu, typepad, blogspot. I hate you all. I am not spam. I am offended.
Item – I am falling back into No Sleep Land. I entirely blame the counselling. Oh yes, we’re still going to that, every fortnight. We spent the last session discussing the way we discuss purchases and money, and I spent the entire hour wanting to hurl myself through the window, screaming ‘Shut up about the fucking speakers! I refuse to talk about how I talk about the fucking new speakers! I do not care how we decide what fucking speakers we buy!’ And yet the conversation ground relentlessly on, me being polite and cooperative and wondering why H had his head so far up his arse – this is the INFERTILITY counsellor, not sodding John Lewis, so why in the name of Christ aren’t we talking about Clomid 5, or the fact I’m to fat to do IVF, or bloody buggering Mothering Sunday, for that matter?
Item – Went home after that and lost my temper good and proper. With myself, as much as anyone. But also with H, because he was there. And, as it turned out, also slightly bewildered at how the conversation ran so relentlessly on and unstoppably on about the, ohhh, damn it, speakers. Wish I had flung myself about and said sweary-words now. Rather wonder why on earth I want the counsellor to think I am a nice sensible calm and normal woman. I’m paying her £65 an hour because I’m not.
Item – I am seriously abusing the italics button in this post, aren’t I?
Item – I have an appointment with Nice Lady Wand Monkey on Monday, in which we look through the round window and see what Satsuma is doing. Please let the little slacker be cheerfully growing a fat juicy follicle. Please. Please.
Item – I was accosted by Alpha Line Manager yesterday afternoon, wanting to know what the hospital appointment was for – was it for migraines? Alpha seems to have got hold of the impression somewhere that one migraine every four to twelve weeks is somehow serious, whereas any fule kno that real migraine sufferers get them weekly, or even daily, and no neurologist is going to waste his or her precious time on me unless I start having convulsions or grow antlers. Anyway, I bravely answered that I was seeking *ahem* ‘treatment’, what with the ghastly miscarriage thing last year. Alpha replied that it all sounded very stressful and she hoped they would be kind and helpful. I said thank you, and went away feeling pleased with Alpha, for saying exactly the right thing. So this was good.
Item – I am a chilly mortal with pale blue feet, most of the time. For the past week, every few hours I suddenly get terribly hot and pink and sweaty and tear my sweaters off. Whatever I am doing. I could be sitting by an open window thinking crikey, it’s draughty, I’ll put my cardigan on, and wooosh, hotness. FFS. I was only taking 50 mg of Clomid and I have never had hot flushes on that dose before. Harrumph.