Item: Korechronicles and HFF wanted to know what tablet ice-cream is. Tablet (mmmm, tablet…) is a Scottish hard-ass version of fudge. It is sweeter. It is hard and crumbly rather than squishy. It comes in trays and is cut into squares and the corners of the squares are sharp and almost brittle. If you chop some up and mix it into vanilla ice-cream, you get tablet ice-cream, and also diabetes.
Item: Geohde’s advice on either inducing a new cycle ASAP with provera or, dammit, lying madly about dates, in order to schedule the HSG this side of Thanksgiving whether Satsuma likes it or not, was deemed good advice. We have some provera to kick-start things off with in case Satsuma was going to play hookey this cycle in any case. We are not afraid to use it. We decided against lying about dates, because I always seem to build a veritable feather-duvet of a uterine lining whether I am ovulatory or not, and one would like a reasonably good view of the contours of the uterus to see if any damage has been done there at all. *Small pause while Positive Thinking Fairy wrestles Bitter McTwisted to the ground and gags her*.
Item: H and I spent a gung-ho evening planning on taking the provera right now this minute. And then I bailed. I wanted a small pause. I wanted to take a deep breath. I wanted, dammit, to get over the mild anaemia that seems to banjax me every time Cute Ute gets over-excited (And she does get over-excited. And I feel dizzy for days after a period. Grr). I wanted to not be quite this curvacious (blows kiss to HFF for outrageous flattery) because Miss Consultant has however unintentionally left me feeling guilty and nervous. A few weeks of regular exercise should hopefully balance my blood-sugar, if not actually loosen my clothing (which is probably too much to hope for (oy! I thought we’d gagged you)). So we’re giving Satsuma four weeks (this being day 8 ) to do something interesting, and if she can’t be bothered, we shall wallop her with the provera and then irradiate her. She’ll like that.
Item: So I spent Sunday cooking, and stuffing the freezer with the fruits thereof, as if planning for an earthquake, blizzard and sudden cessation of supermarkets all at once. The word ‘diet’ has a bizarre effect on me.
Item: The way I successfully lose weight, and the only way I can manage it at all, is to refuse all second helpings, lay off the white bread and sweets, and walk briskly for at least 40 minutes a day, every day, whether I like it or not. Following particular diets, exercise regimes, and the like, inevitably pisses me so very much off I can’t stick to it. If I’m feeling very clever, I do a little light yoga or go for a brief, red-faced, sweaty, wheezing run. So. Much whinging will no doubt ensue. But no advice, please. I have to work with the poor-quality, weak-willed sponge of a body I have, and all the kind, thoughtful, sensitive and understanding advice in the world won’t suddenly snap me into being Kelly Holmes, and will only make me eat chocolate excessively. Which is counterproductive. I am the Advice Resistance Movement.
Item: Oh, and eating vegetables. Must eat vegetables.
Item: I just feel too manky, just right now, to want to try to get pregnant. Despite the holiday. And yes, I am spending hours and hours arguing with myself about time, passing of, ditto youth and elasticity of skin, and why I shouldn’t waste any more of either. But I still, when it boils down to it, feel manky. So a few weeks in Healthy Bootcamp With Less Stress And More Footrubs (I haven’t told H about the last bit yet. Shhhh). I can afford to take a few weeks. With added vitamins.