H and I seem to have reached the grieving stage where we fight, cry, and have make-up sex. Don’t ask me what we’re fighting about, I don’t know either, and in any case it inevitably turns into a fight about how we fight within approximately seventeen seconds (or two turns, for the gamers out there).
In the cold, well, mild and clammy, this being a British Summer, light of day I find I have entirely forgiven H for the Astonishingly Stupid Remark, but am now fuming about the Accidental False Accusation – which I had barely noticed at the time. We have to have another row. We have this one incoherently in the middle of the night, with pitiful sobbing on my part and the realisation on H’s part that I am not, oops, quite as rational and ’emotionally intelligent’ as usual right now, and therefore he can’t rely on me to know why we are rowing or where the row is heading or what, if any, was the point of anything I’ve said in the past half-hour (this is my usual role in rows. Especially as I usually start them). Neither of us has a clue next morning what in holy hell the other 97% of the row had been about. But it must have been good, because we both definitely remember the make-up sex.
The next morning (next morning, note, and not at midnight when there would have been a point to my remembering) I also remember that the make-up sex was not, as it were, conducive to this cycle being a rest cycle from attempted reproduction. We were encouraged, after all, to lie fallow until after my next period to allow my battered uterus a chance to sit in the corner with a dunce-cap on and meditate on her stubbornness and when and when not to apply it in future. And in any case, the premises need a thorough scrub-down and redecorating, especially after the endometritis. A rinse cycle, if you will.
Therefore my cervix starts acting all slutty and fertile.
I mention this to H.
H, well, H had been given the impression that the Satsuma was in a bit of a coma at present and therefore a non-issue. And he didn’t want to ruin the moment as we clearly both so desperately needed said moment before we both either died of stress or disembowelled each other.
Well, Satsuma was in a bit of coma until Saturday morning.
This is exactly the sort of half-assed tom-foolery that gets seventeen-year-olds knocked up in pub car-parks.