Well, that last week-and-a-half was rather hard going. Sorry. I was very very busy, and then I was very very frantic, and then I went away. I was so touched to see people checking in and asking where I’d got to. Love you guys! Mwah! Mwah!
This is the quick version: First I had an essay to finish, and, what with having my period, and having a cold, and having to work, it all got a little drawn-out and whiney and I nobly sacrificed my evenings to it. Then work got out-of-hand, as now everyone else had the cold, and had it far worse than me, and I had to pack the labour of Titans into two days as I was going away on the Friday. And then H and I went off to spend four, no, wait, five (because of the hours and hours and hours of travelling) days with a dear friend who we hadn’t seen since our wedding. So no blog access. Also, rampant social phobia and my ‘singing in public thing’. Hence a bloody time, if, also, a lovely time.
Slower version, with notes on points I feel I ought to expand on:
My period. This is of endless fascination to me, and I apologise if it is of no interest to you, but hey, my blog! We do menstrual here! Where was I? Oh yes.
This, please remember, is one of the very first, very normal periods I have ever had. I don’t normally do ‘I am Woman, hear me roar.’ More, ‘I have two X chromosones, hear me whinge’. So, this period was, wait for it, not, I repeat, not, heavy. At all. It was medium. I used super tampons, I changed them every four or five hours. Also, not very clotty. Where the gushing horrors of yesterday? No idea, and was I chuffed? hooo, yes. Also, period lasted less than a week, the last two days being mere spotting.
On the other hand, cramps still an issue. But you can’t have everything.
I am now on day 12, and body is cheerfully not doing anything in particular.
As for going away, I am a social phobic. Yes, I am. I find people alarming. I find being introduced to new people alarming, I find staying in other people’s houses alarming. I am a little pallid creature that lives under rocks and scuttles away when someone tries to let the daylight in. This is all grotesquely unfair on our friend, who is the sweetest, kindest, friendliest, bubbliest woman in England (also, still single. Men of England! What is your freaking problem already? She’s lovely! Date her! Date her in hordes! Buy her flowers!). She was lovely. Her friends were also lovely, and welcoming, and did I mention lovely?
I behaved beautifully, I’ll have you know, I chatted appropriately, and smiled nicely, and neither did I fall over nor say ‘fuck’ too often nor babble inanely. I think it all went very well indeed. But, oy very, the strain of not panicking or bursting into tears or running madly away. And yes, there were several babies and a pregnant lady. And I still did not run away. In fact, these lovely people very politely talked about their babies in an appropriate, amusing, pertinent and restrained way, and not once, not so much as a tiny hinty bit, did they enquire as to my putative babies. Hurrah! And Rest of Universe, take lessons! Thank you!
As for the singing in public thing. Ah yes. Very traumatic. H is very musical. Our friend is very (very very) musical. There was a Choral Workshop she wanted to go to, and as it was being run by a dear old friend of hers, we didn’t want her not to go to it, so it was Somehow Arranged that H and I would go too, and sing. In. Public.
(And breathe. And breathe).
I used to sing in choir as a school-girl. I was even quite good. I think. Not in a soloist way, but in a reliable, can do descants way. I was then completely and repeatedly traumatised by being thrown out of choir for not being able to read music (yes, I know, and neither could Pavarotti, but the choir-mistress was mysteriously immune to this argument), then being teased and scolded relentlessly by my sister, my father, one aunt, and my step-father for singing around the house, and then I developed severe stage-fright on having to sing solo in a school play, and then it got out of hand, and with the odd slightly drunk-on-adrenaline lapse I was unable to sing in public for years, and most certainly not when surrounded by very talented musical people who sing all day every day and get paid to do so.
Dear Readers, I was crapping myself.
Dear Readers, I did go to the workshop, and I sang, and I sang in tune, and no one so much as noticed I was a freaked and skeeved and shivering nervous wreck. Because I am British, and we Do Not Make A Fuss In Public. Oh, Stiff Upper Lip, how very much I owe thee.
I still owe myself a victory Snoopy dance, by the way. I thought any further bizarre behaviour regarding the Choir Thing was pushing my luck, and also would startle dear friend considerably, so I behaved sedately thereafter.
Anyway, fears conquered, onwards and upwards. H and I have decided we will do Proper Baby-Making Sex next time I ovulate. Thereby practically guaranteeing I shall never ever ovulate again, but at least I won’t be sitting about at some unspecified future time being ferociously resentful that we missed a chance.