I was writing an essay. This took far longer than necessary because I am feeling rather burned out and sick to the back teeth of libraries and everything in them. And this is partly because I always get burned out after Christmas – I have done it every school term and university term and in every job and in every damn thing ever. January and February, I am mere wreckage on the railroad of life. I will perk up in March, or when I get to see some more flowering trees. Either. Both.
But it is also because A Big Thing is happening at work – did I mention a dear colleague is retiring and I want her job, but am being danced through the many many hoops of dickheadery bureaucracy, also, have degree to finish, oh, and now my beloved line manager is moving away and argh argh argh argh argh? So sick of library. So sick of office politics. I only go to work now on the off-chance someone has brought cake. Ah hah hah hah.
And then, of course, I am hiding. Shhh. Who am I hiding from? Oh, Hope, of course. I am so not on speaking terms with that bitch.
For example, I may have ovulated (again! It’ll be a habit at this rate) either yesterday afternoon or this morning. And H and I have been so very, very, text-book good about the horizontal folk-dancing this week. Of course, there will be no proof for another few days, charting-wise, so Hope is acting like a demented spaniel on a leash, haring off, dragging me after her, haring back, tripping me up, stopping dead by a hedge and trying to dig under it to escape into new fields of wild conjecture, finding fox-shit to roll in… No, wait, scratch the last one.
I am being jumped up at and drooled on by Hope because there seems to be a Distinct Pattern, that distinguishes me actually ovulating from Queen Satsuma mucking about. That goes like this:
- Start producing EWCM.
- Stop producing anything at all.
- Start producing EWCM.
- Do this on and off for weeks, while cervix is on her grand tour of the upper torso.
- Randomly ache, ping, twinge and cramp in the lower right-hand abdominal area, just about where logic would dictate Queen Satsuma has her throne.
- Rinse. Repeat.
The ‘good’ version goes exactly like that, until suddenly, one day, it goes:
- Feel sick all day. Feel dizzy on and off, sometimes very (occasionally, liven it all up by fainting in a coffee shop). Develop splitting headache, decide you are having a migraine, go home.
- Day two, feel sick, feel dizzy, have headache. Also, feel very irritable and unreasonable and pick fights with husband. Note sudden and wolvish increase in sex drive on top of everything else.
- Day three, and again, if rather less sicky. Alternate bewilderingly between attempts to jump husband’s bones and attempts to rip his head off. Ovary is increasingly subject to bouts of stabbing pain and colicky aches. Basal temperature drops so low it’s a medical mystery you don’t need wrapping in a tin-foil blanket and intravenous warm saline. EWCM, cervix so high you wonder if it actually has migrated to your brain and turned you into a genuine hysteric.
- Day four, by now the ovary very sore, sex painful as a result, sex-drive still voracious, desire to bloody murder every annoying person in South-East England acute. Temperature back up. A bit. Cervix back down.
- Body settles down into no EWCM, or indeed anything much, and plans its sore nipples campaign for next week.
- After three days, the charting software draws a big red cross on day 4.
I am now on day 4, exactly as described above, and this would be the third time in a row my body has done exactly this before ovulating – the three days of feeling wretched, that is, though luckily I am nowhere near as dizzy as last time, and the headache was probably worse because of the bloody buggering essay from hell thing.
Anyway, as I said, we are Not Speaking to Hope. Thing with feathers my arse. She only has feathers because she mugged a passing duck.