My husband’s mission in life at the moment is to make sure I have abolutely nothing incriminating to blog about so far as he is concerned. He went to the GP, he got his referral for a sperm analysis, he came home proudly bearing a poorly photocopied A4 sheet of instructions and a small clear plastic tub, with a lid, which he, with the nervousness of someone who can’t shake the horrible inkling he might be required to fill it to the brim, referred to as ‘large’. Though we eventually agreed that the size was more to do with compensating for a gentleman’s aim at a time when his aim might quite rightly be inferred to be not at its steadiest.
What is giving me a violent case of the WTF? is the instruction sheet. Oh, I completely understand the bit about abstaining for 3 to 7 days beforehand (before hand. Ah ha ha ha, I just kill myself, really I do). I am au fait with thoroughly washing and drying the equipment (though it did give me shuddersome moment of wondering what sort of state they imagine the average penis to be in, that it should need a careful wash AND dry). I certainly understand the need to keep the container warm until it reaches the clinic – at body heat, it says, though it coyly doesn’t tell one how exactly. I hear tucked into the wife’s armpit is one favoured method, which in our case might be stupid as I am still surfing at least a degree centigrade below ‘normal’ body temperature. Possibly I have given all my husband’s sperm frost-bite in their time. But I digress.
So, we are to keep the poor little darlings warm until we reach the clinic. And where is said clinic? In the next county (and absolutely in the exact opposite direction to the hospital where I am taking my parts in three weeks time). And at what time is the clinic open for deliveries? 9 am to 10:45 am. And at what time is the traffic in London at its bonkermost? Oh, go on, guess. And how unbelievably poor is public transport in that direction? Have I answered that with the question already? And how long can we keep the poor little darlings shivering to their death in the small (‘Large! It’s large, I say!’) plastic tub before there’s no point handing it over any more? One hour.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.