Knickers of doom

It’s because they are pink. I am not naturally a pink person, and have not owned pink knickers since I was forcibly inserted into pairs of them by my thrifty mother when I was four. I only got this pink pair because they came in a set with an adorable turquoise pair. Nevertheless, they have wormed their way into my heart. It helps that they are bright shocking pink, and not in the least bit frilly, and very comfortable. My second favourite pair (after the blue lace ones I wore at my wedding, and tend to save for days when I, ahem, need to feel special).

And every time I put on these cute pink knickers, I get blood-stains on them.


Will it stop in a minute, thus proving itself to be extreme spotting (again, because my body is ra-ra-fun-time like that)? Or is this an actual period? Or break-through bleeding, because this lining is so fed up of hanging about for nada? In any case, should I start a new chart yet? Oh the questions.

In up-date-land, my beloved husband is attempting to get a doctor’s appointment which won’t interfere with his entire working day and involve him in any blushing explanations to line managers involving lying like billy-oh because he so doesn’t want his line manager to have a mental image of his wanking happily into a cup, but he is suspiciously without any symptoms which might otherwise warrant any kind of doctoring… I am a bit out of breath after that sentence, talk amongst yourselves, I’ll be with you in a minute… Where was I? Yes. Husband. I have reminded him politely a mere half-dozen times to get an appointment to see the doctor to get an appointment to masturbate to order. Today he tried. There were no appointments that were not also at a time when he was supposed to be chairing a meeting or some-such. I shall try and get the next half-dozen reminders in this evening, so I don’t have to wait another month before he has to wait another month to do his thing… Is it me or is the NHS practicing a form of avant-garde dramatisation of Kafka via the medium of appointment booking?

And I have finally emerged gasping and triumphant with a gynaecologist appointment from said theatrical Happening. I go on the 13th of December. He Who Insists on Being ‘Reminded’ has booked the time off work so he can come with me. So. Good. I hope.

Current project: deciding whether Metformin, as offered by Doc Tashless, is For Me, or whether I should just suck it up and eat less.

2 responses to “Knickers of doom

  • Watson

    It sounds like your body is doing its damndest to utterly confuse you — what is up with that?!?

    And oh the joys of getting the husband tested…lord, isn’t dealing with our own lady parts torture enough?!?

  • May

    My body has succeeded admirably, I am utterly confused.

    As for the husband, he seems remarkably unbothered by the whole concept. Which is a little sad, because it is depriving me of perfect opportunities to mock him mercilessly and point out just how much I’d like the sum total of medical interference in my body to be a doctor handing me a leaflet and sending me home to thoroughly enjoy myself in the privacy of my own bedroom.

    I keep telling him he’s not being very good blog material. Heigh ho.

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