I don’t know what to say to you, Gentle Readers, honestly I don’t.
I was going to tell you all about how H and I went to stay in the mountains for the weekend and about cake and dog-borrowing and cathedrals and I was going to tell you about the pregnant landlady of the B&B who restored my faith in pregnant ladies simply because she did not go on and on and on about being pregnant, and actually found herself perfectly capable and willing to discuss pretty much anything else. I was going to mention the buzzards, and how rural one-horse-towns in the middle of nowhere are the new Hoxton (ahh, recession). Oh, and book-shops that sell cake and Annie Lennox making me cry in the car on the way down (sorry about the advert at the beginning).
I was especially going to tell you how I climbed an entire muthafeckin’ mountain, actually, yes I did, weeping with catharsis the whole way up because it’s pretty much my due-date for the December pregnancy that face-planted so brutally swiftly despite all the expensive blood-tests we threw at it. This was all about my crappy fat body that can’t do a thing right. Well, it can do something. It may be fat and slow, but it can climb a mountain. One of the tallest in Britain, it was. Oh, OK, so you don’t need ropes and crampons, just good boots and a slightly bloody-minded attitude, but still. I climbed it. I stood on the very top, among all the smug people in expensive kit talking about which peak they were going to do next, and thought, yes, but I can climb this one. And then I also thought, it’s feckin’ freezing up here, so I scrambled back down.
Anyway, all this gung-ho I Am Woman Hear Me Roar With A Side Of British Whimsey has been prorogated by the fact that my period should’ve started yesterday evening or this morning. And hasn’t. I don’t even have cramps. I usually have cramps for a good 24 to 48 hours before my period starts. Nor have my temperatures dropped (they should have two days ago), though that may be because I have been hauling ass up mountains. And my breasts are not not achey, though any poor gland would feel tender if you crushed it into your ribs every seven minutes, so I am ignoring them for the moment, and I would suggest you do the same.
I peed on a stick this evening, when we’d got back from Outer Britannia. It was a Boots own. It said ‘negative’. I googled the living crap out of it anyway, and found that a) the blue-dye, ‘+/-’ tests are the least reliable kind, and b) the Boots one allegedly has a sensitivity of 50mIU. Oh, for the sake of fuck. Look, it says on the box you can test up to four days early. For that I expect at least a sensitivity of 25mIU. 50mIU is, like, a day after your period is late, isn’t it? Four days early, indeed. What are they testing for four days early at that sensitivity? Triplets?
So then H and I both lost our everlovin’ minds and H put his trousers back on (no, not that. Just, after driving all day, a chap wants to liberate his waist-area) and went out into the night to find a late-opening Tescos and buy some of their tests, based mostly on the fact that HFF swears by them.
So now we have three tests, the left-over pointless Boots one, and two Tesco ones, awaiting Madame’s morning micturations.
What are the odds I’ll be bleeding by dawn? Quite high, eh?
Madame has a headache.
PS – I have started taking the 150mg of aspirin as recommended by The Professor. JUST IN CASE.
PPS – I have no fingernails left at all. I want a large glass of whiskey.
PPPS – All this limbo and uncertainty can eat my shorts. Again.