7 am. Wake up. Take temperature in desultory way. Have coughing fit and nearly spit thermometer across bedroom. Give up and doze back off.
7:12 am. Wake up again, give cup of tea that has magically appeared by bedside bleary but grateful look. Doze off.
8:15 am. Wake up with start. Blow nose, and realise Saturday’s cold has not magically vanished after all. Drink luke-warm tea. Get out of bed and potter about until a sneeze reminds one the Bladder is Full. Of course, one has to take a pregnancy test this morning. Realise blessed husband has put pee-mug ready in the bathroom. Pee, dip, leave test to mature, go and say goodbye to husband.
8:30 am. Throw lily-pure negative test in bin.
8:47 am. Take test out again for another quick check. Still negative, obviously. Not so much as an evaporation line. Feel stupid. Blow nose. Cold clearly still rampaging.
9:30 am. Drink another cup of (hot) tea. Re-read instructions on antibiotic suppository. Feel one ought not introduce it until after one has visited lavatory, for obvious reasons. Bowel hibernating, clearly just to wind me right up. Note part about avoiding alcohol, feel cross. Make toast. Eat toast. Take oral antibiotic tablet and Provera. Wonder what time it is. Jump up and down on spot to get bowel moving. Suprisingly effective.
10 am. Finally a good time for suppository. Insert said greasy (urgh) object, unsurprisingly need loo again, visions of the ‘toilet-diving scene’ from Trainspotting dance through mind. Clench firmly. Make grumpy comments to self about indignities visited on woman-kind, and experience general desire to smack any and all men who complain about SAs firmly in the teeth.
10:10 am. Getting dressed, realise one’s personals are ungroomed. Decide in feminist, anti-media-pressure way one doesn’t care at all. So there. Memory of last smear test surfaces at this point. Wince at memory of private hair getting caught in speculum screw. Take clothes back off and retreat to bathroom for prolonged grooming session. Note in a pleased way that at least I’m keeping my mind off the HSG.
11 am. Pretend to work on novel.
Lunchtime: Decide I can’t face lunch. Decide I can’t face flat. Decide I need a walk right now this minute. Pack book, iPod, knitting, wallet, keys, travel-card, cough-sweets, tissues, sanitary towels and spare knickers in small handbag. Handbag declines to contain all the above. Find secondary bag. Leave house at last and go to cafe. Today, of all days, I need someone else to make the coffee. Drink coffee. Feel better. Woman at next table is complaining to friend about being pregnant again. Another woman is trying to force howling toddler into push-chair, while two men make sneering remarks about her parenting abilities. Am glad she can’t hear them. Wonder why in heck I’m doing this, and wonder whether I should go home and watch DVDs instead.
Eventually, meander along to station to meet husband. Trains running late. Fretting about being late for appointment preferable to fretting about appointment. Try to notice beautiful Spring sunshine and trees in flower. Take painkillers.
Realise I have an unwarrantable bad feeling about this.
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