- Day eight. May has a humungous essay to hand in the next Tuesday. May retires to bed with a vast pile of journal articles and her precious lap-top, and loses herself in a maze of procrastination and faffling about with initial formatting of the essay headings.
- Day nine. May retires to bed again. In a flat this size, the bed is the best place to spread notebooks and biros and stray knitting about, and what with the sore neck and shoulder, the best place to flollop in an allegedly productive manner. May feels this essay is starting to kick her arse.
- Day ten. May has to get up today, and go to work and then go to lectures, and the essay is totally not even beginning to be anywhere near the end of the beginning, let alone the end of the end, or even the end of the middle bit. But it has a bibliography. While visiting the bathroom, May notices traces of blood on the toilet paper. May says a very rude word indeed. May even spends a delusional ten minutes interrogating her husband as to whether he was, you know, not so careful, maybe, last night, when, ohhhh… never mind. For the rest of the day, May’s undercarriage amuses itself by presenting varieties of paint samples from Hint of Unsulphured Apricot through Rosy Dawn on a Snow-bank. May stays up until four in the morning, feeling increasingly tired and weird and valiantly ignoring any and all sensations of cramp, to work on the sodding essay, which has totally kicked her arse.
- Day eleven. May gets up after three hours sleep, feeling increasingly crampy, and ends up missing her morning lectures in a desperate life-and-death wrestle to snatch the essay back from the Slough of Despond, and succeeds by the skin, not of her teeth, but of the smallest plaque bacterium on her teeth. Before she brushes them all off, of course. And she attends her afternoon lectures, with all her clothes on and a washed face. Victory! Meanwhile, the undercarriage presents a few samples of Suggestion of Blush Rose and Whisper of Sugarmouse for her contemplation. May spends evening sat crampily at home, gazing vaguely at the television, cramping, but undercarriage has no further offerings to make and another day of luteal phase is declared to have been completed, if not entirely successfully.
- Day twelve? Who the hell knows. Day period is due based on previous evidence. Day period is due based on Carryings On in the Nethers. Whether period can be arsed to show up is neither here nor there. Also, after three whole months without, will it be very gory, do you suppose?