I can’t feel exited, too tired.

Dear Period,

Do you think that you could, just the once, come and go without knocking me to the floor and dancing on my belly with enormous spiked boots on? Because being in so much pain I am apparantly sheet white, and being sent home from work by terrified line managers before I can even mention that I feel dreadful and I’d like to go, is getting old. Also, I could do with a good night’s sleep not interrupted by my thrashing about and rocking helplessly back and forth in a desperate attempt to get the devil cramp to ease up a little. And, frankly, so could H. Having to take opiate-based drugs to just be able to breathe normally, not appreciated, and those things make me woozy. If this is going to happen once a month or so, and not once a season or so, it will play merry bloody hell with work and work is quite complicated enough without merry bloody hell being played with it.

But thank you for reducing the bleeding to sensible (if disturbingly clotty) proportions.

Yours not exactly affectionately,



Dear Clomid,

Hello! Yes! I have picked the little white box up, and put the little white box down, approximately ninety-seven times this evening. I even opened it twice and had a look at you. I’m nervous of you. Very nervous. And tomorrow, thanks to you, I have a gory ooky still-avec-period-thank-you appointment with a dildo-cam, and have had to explain that to work at short notice too. Only day they could fit me in before day 8 of my cycle, apparantly. Hah. Dear old NHS.

I suppose I had better swallow one of you.

Please work.



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