When not crying so hard I forget what lungs are for, I get on with my life. I go to work. I hold conversations with colleagues. About tennis. And cataloguing. And the weather. My mother and I went to a knitting craft show on Saturday, and we both spent Far Too Much Money on yumminy scrumminy yarn ( I am now knitting a scarf in colours so festively lurid you could spot the wearer from the Moon). We even had a calm, civilised discussion about my ongoing pregnancy quest. And Christmas. Obviously.
And I feel a little empty.
I know this is very much to do with Finishing The MA, and not being allowed to take my dissertation back for a good going-over with the perfectionist stick, and having nothing to do of an evening beyond cook dinner and watch University Challenge. Oh, and screw, of course. There’s always that.
So. On Sunday, H and I are hiring a car and wandering off across Blighty for a week or so. That should be taking my mind off things quite nicely, despite the Duty Visit to my dad plonked in the middle of it all. Relaxation. Fun. Staring at castles in the rain in a contentedly soggy way. National Trust coffee shops. Sex in strange beds. Heh heh.
Aaaaaaannndddd… Satsuma has scuppered that. She produced a positive OPK this morning, and then spent the early evening doing her trade-mark John-Hurt-in-Alien whingeathon (I always think her pinging away might be ovulation pain right up until she does that, and oh, so that’s actual ovulation pain. Ah. OW.). So we shall be spending the two week wait on holiday. We are considering leaving pee-sticks at home. This will no doubt end in embarrassing and farcical attempts to find a chemist in Bog-End, Middle-Wilderness at ten-to-midnight. Will on no account forget the sticky-back duvets. Am packing them right now. By the cubic foot.