I have finally – and even as I write this I realise I may be jinxing myself – stopped spotting. Only 39 days in a row for that session. An improvement on the last 58 day session, but, really, I am not feeling in any way fond of my womb and its total lack of grip on its own lining.
Apart from the underwear difficulties and general worrisome-ness, it plays hell with our sex-life. H is not quite the least squeamish man in the world when it comes to the red stuff, and I don’t exactly feel like Mata Hari myself under the circumstances. We are, of course, supposed, medically and officially, to be at it like knives in the hope of catching an egg should my singularly maladjusted satsuma accidentally forget its main role in life is to crush said eggs into cysts and let one slip away from itself, and the circumstances are Not Conducive. The one time in my life when even my mother thinks I should be having more sex.
I do so hate feeling so unattractive and self-conscious all the time. And it has seeped, like Dickensian fog, beyond the confines of the marriage bed. Not one single client, coffee-shop guy, passerby, friend-of-a-friend or indeed anyone at all, has flirted with me for months and months. I used to at least get the odd twinkly smile and occasional compliment on my exceptionally pretty hair. Recently, nada. Zip. I may as well be made entirely of cement.
Self-confidence – last seen hitch-hiking south, wearing a second-hand duffle-coat and Sensible Shoes.
Self-esteem – needs talking down from a ledge half-way up the façade of the British Library.
Need to eat chocolate until I boke – taking over my entire life.