I am fine. So shush. Just, shush. Especially you with the bad back that flares up when and only when I’m loading boxes onto trolleys. I believe you. I don’t care if I don’t believe you. I am built like a Manningtree ox. I can manage the damn boxes.
Also, Dear Line Manager, please don’t make me email you every single bloody morning to prove to you what time I got into work. I know I am still ‘on probation’ for the new job, but I’ve been working here for two and a half years and if my time-keeping needed slapping about a bit, someone would have noticed by now. Can we stick to probating me on relevant things, like talking about football, self-restraint, and ability to spot stray semi-colons at fifteen feet.
Best wishes, your very very fine, no really, fine, dammit, colleague May.
I am sure you are doing your very very best to ovulate, at some point. In fact, you’re probably getting into your track-suit and doing push-ups and stretching exercises and so on right this very minute. I’m sure you are. Indeedy. Nevertheless, please let me have a distinct update on the situation by this time next week, or I shall call the ACU and together we shall cosh you into oblivion with provera and start again. OK? OK. Great.
Your very grateful, no, really, host body.
Dear Inside of May’s Head,
Please let me go to sleep. Please. I can’t be answerable for the resulting mayhem if I don’t get a full night’s sleep soon. I haven’t slept through the night since the end of May. I am tired and stupid and headachey and black under the eyes and everyone at work thinks I’m in the final stages of galloping consumption. One more dawn from the wrong side and I will rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with the soggy end. No, I don’t know who. Anyone.
Best wishes, the rest of May.
I am happy to cook and wash up and everything. Even when I’m tired and flustered and developing heart-burn. Really. Let me cook. And let me get the plates from last night. And sit down. I can manage. All I want is to be told I’m marvellous for managing. You’re making me feel guilty, shuffling about the kitchen trying to help. I said sit down.
See? Now you’ve stubbed your broken toe. Owie owie owie. Quite.
With all my very deep and loving love, your adoring wife.
P.S. And kindly take note of the bit about sleep deprivation, side-effects of, above.