Since an unfortunate misdiagnosis of bronchitis (whereas, actually, if you spend the winter in a house full of smokers, you will cough) and resultant utterly unnecessary antibiotic prescription in my early twenties, I have had the unfortunate tendency to develop thrush at random intervals. Luckily only every few years or so. This appears to be one of the random intervals.
Curses curses curses.
And yes, indeed, H and I are supposed to be on Shagging Duty indefinitely. But under the circumstances, there will be No Shagging. Even the softest, most squeezable toilet-paper feels like wire-wool. Even if I could bring myself to lie there with utterly clenched teeth, H, being a gentleman, is congenitally incapable of carrying on with a person who is having to clench her teeth.
Naturally, now that there is no chance whatsoever of any such thing as a living sperm remaining anywhere in my entire reproductive tract, I think I ovulated today. On day 57 of this cycle.
Like I said, curses, curses, curses.